Detailing journeys on the Camino de Santiago and the Via Francigena. This blog is about learning how to walk far enough to find one's self while still laughing.
Snow fell on Chicago early this year and not a pretty, dreamy snow, but rather, a wet, bone chilling sideways-falling kind of snow. Chicago's tall buildings had disappeared, swallowed at the halfway point by a heavy grey sky while Lake Michigan churned a wild, foamy white. I sat behind the wheel of my tiny car on Lake Shore Drive, cursing the heavens as my normal 15 minutes of commute stretched to an agonizing hour. Due the dark sky and the endless compartmentalizing of my life, I was tired and frustrated and woefully late. My life had become defined by a simple race to be on time and despite my best efforts, I was failing. I missed sunshine and heat and long dusty roads lined with sunflowers and wheat. But even as my car inched painfully forward and I lost myself in overly heavy thoughts, I was jolted back into the moment. After all, I was not the frantic woman on the side of the road, holding her phone and gesturing manically towards her smashed car. Nor was I in the boat being tossed about near the shore of Lake Michigan. The rescue trucks and boats were not racing to get to me. There was nothing wrong with me... I was simply a little bit late.
The next day, I found myself driving in the opposite direction, heading north of the city on a beautiful sunny fall day. I was on time but I had not felt right all day. I felt detached and mentally tired but there was much to be done. However, as I drove north, past bold, red and orange painted trees, my eyes felt extra sensitive to the sunlight and a headache began to set in. I felt my breath shorten and my heart rate speed as I broke into a cold sweat. I lost track of time, unable to tell if I had felt strange for ten seconds or ten minutes. My hands felt heavy and numb against the steering wheel and I began to doubt myself and my ability to drive safely as it seemed I was losing control. As wave after wave of fear poured over me, I pulled off the road, stopped the car and put my head in my hands. I counted my breaths purposefully elongating each intake of air and in my mind I drew a picture of the golden endless horizon of the Spanish meseta. After a few moments, I lifted my head and discovered the world to be exactly the same as it had been before... Only, I was different.
Shakily, I pointed my car back towards home, afraid to see anyone in my current state. I felt horrified and weak. All of the strength that I had had such pride in was stripped away and I was left to feel like a broken toy. I had been having small moments for a little while, preceding this incident, but I had always been able to maintain control. Again and again I kept coming back to the thought that I was weak, that I was inept, unable to cope with the simplicity of daily life.. weak, weak, weak..
"But Jen, you are NOT weak.."
"PETER!!! I have missed you, I thought I left you behind at the Vatican!"
"Jen, I am always here but you are racing too fast to notice."
"Peter, look at me.. I am a shaky mess."
"Jen, do you remember crossing the Pyrenees on foot or climbing your way across the Italian coast? Weak may not be the right adjective for you.."
"Then what??"
My Saint Peter smiled and patted my hand.
"Human... My dear, you are human."
"In the depth of winter I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer."
A man who dares to waste one hour of time has not discovered the value of life.
Charles Darwin
I am back in the land of deadlines, time constraints, responsibilities, traffic and exhaustion and I miss my saints, Peter and James. The Chicago days are growing shorter, the sun weaker and the leaves are beginning to show signs of autumn. The richness of Tuscany seems a galaxy away, but I wonder.. Did I truly appreciated the rolling Tuscan hills as I trudged up and down them, swearing and sweating all the way?
A beautiful, fat, harvest moon has been hanging low over my city these past few evenings. A couple of nights ago, I had finished teaching in the north shore and was driving home alongside Lake Michigan. I rolled my window down and stretched my hand out into the sweet, humid, night air and I drank in the sight of a rotund moon lazily rising and reflecting brilliantly off of the gentle lake waters. "I should stop," I thought. "I should park my car, put my feet in the water and admire the same beautiful moon that rose above St. Peters Square only 7 hours ago."
But I didn't stop... I was tired, and so that moment slipped by me.
*****
(a continuation of the previous post unconditional..)
My fingers has turned to white prunes and I had begun to shiver. I had left the affectionate cheese-eating kittens a few miles behind, while the previously raging storm had become a steady, gentle rain. I walked through quiet, empty fields, rain drops bouncing off my nose, and I smiled to myself as I purposefully and childishly stomped in each puddle. Though my spirits were high, my teeth were beginning to chatter and I was soaked to the bone by the time I stumbled into Abbadia-a-Isola. As I wandered into the empty, tiny town, a thin, older woman with frizzy, strawberry-blonde hair peeked her head out of a door and asked if I was a pilgrim. I said yes and asked if she had seen any others before me that day and as I was asking her about Gilles and Nicoline, I heard their voices shout my name from inside. I happily followed the woman, Elena, inside and up a flight of stairs, warmth and delicious smells luring me onward.
An hour later, after I had lingered under a hot shower, Gilles, Nicoline, Serge, Angela, our newly acquired Lorenzo, and I sat in chairs in a semicircle as Elena and Ana kneeled, washing and kissing our feet. Exuberant Elena and her shorter, more tranquil, dark-haired friend, Ana, explained that as members of the Confraternita of Saint James, their job is to welcome and care for the weary pilgrim as they would welcome and care for Christ. After eating two large bowls of Elena's Christ worthy, heavenly flavored minestrone for dinner, I slept deeply and peacefully through the night.
As a result of the quirks of the Confraternita's scheduling rotation, the six of us happily found ourselves once again as guests of the gentile Elena and Ana in the majestic, hilltop town of Radicofani. Due to the addition of Ana's affable and slightly irreverent husband, Gaspare, dinner was a loud, warm and hilarious event. Throughout the evening, I watched as Elena told stories vivaciously, her joie de vivre showing in every line of her body. I observed as Ana leaned her head towards Elena and Gaspare protectively covered Elena's hand with his and I saw in those small gestures, years of friendship and love. When I learned later that Elena had been very sick, nearly to the point of dying, I understood better the light in her eyes and the attentive love radiating from her friends. Towards the end of the evening, after eating ridiculous amounts of delicious minestrone and arancini, Gaspare introduced us all to the spicy warmth of Grappa. He placed dainty cups in front of each of us and a much larger glass in front of himself and proceeded to fill our cups multiple times as we toasted friendship, love, and God. And as we raised our glasses, my heart took a photograph. I have brought home a bottle of Grappa. Perhaps this weekend I will steal back my missed moment with the moon. Perhaps I will take my Grappa to the lakefront and raise a glass towards my Peter. "Jen, make sure it's a small glass though.. That stuff is strong and we don't want you drowning or getting arrested for public intoxication..." "Gee thanks Peter. I'll keep that in mind..."
At first we all assumed that Lorenzo was the way he was because of the fact that he was Italian, but eventually we came to the conclusion that Lorenzo was the way he was because he was only being Lorenzo. Each morning as we began walking, he would call ahead to reserve our next night's sleep, talking loudly with much animation to whichever unsuspecting soul answered his ring. He always ended his phone conversations with rapid fire repetition "Ciao, Ciao. ciao....ciao," the last ciao echoing into thin air as he had already pulled the phone away from his ear. He would then look up to the five of us and say simply "Va bene." (vah baaayyy nay) And onward we all would walk towards our night's accommodations.
A pilgrim has a very specific routine.. he begins walking early in the morning to avoid the scorching afternoon Italian sun. He arrives at his destination between 1pm and 3pm, showers, washes and hangs the clothes that he walked in that day, explores the village he is staying in, has dinner, sleeps and starts over the next morning. Lorenzo though, added post shower stretching to his routine, which of course, was something we all should have been doing to ease our tight muscles. However, Lorenzo would strip down to a tiny pair of fire engine red underwear before enthusiastically commencing to stretch. I alternated between staring openly with a dropped jaw, snickering behind my hand while sneaking random peeks, and completely averting my eyes while trying to block out the flash of red from my peripheral vision. I strongly suspect that for years to come, the image of Lorenzo leaning to touch his toes while the sides of his bright underwear inch up his butt cheek will pop unexpectedly into my mind yanking me out of whatever moment I am in and taking me back to one scorching Italian summer.
Lorenzo also introduced me to the wonderful italian tradition of 'Aperitivo.' Rather than just going out to a large dinner, Italians first head to a bar for pre-dinner drinks and snacks such as cheese, prosciutto and olives, before heading elsewhere for a sit-down meal. Each day after thorough stretching, Lorenzo would search our current village for the central piazza, select an acceptable bar, purchase a Spritz for himself and me, and argue with me about why he feels as the man, he has to pay. After adamantly refusing my money, we would sit sipping our delicious drinks while watching life happen in front of us in the town square. Thanks to Lorenzo writing out the recipe for a spritz and Rome airport's Duty Free Prosecco and Aperol, I have happily brought home the tradition of Aperitivo.
Lorenzo gave horrible advice though. As we walked, we talked about many things and he watched me struggle with feelings I wasn't sure how to handle. His sage advice came in the form of an italian proverb "Occhio che non vede, core che non duole," or "what the eye doesn't see, doesn't hurt the heart." Lorenzo then explained that despite there being no romantic feelings between him and me, he still didn't feel the need to tell his wife that we had shared sleeping areas. "Why worry her with nothing?" he said. Well...hmm.
On the last full day of walking, I had wanted to walk alone with my thoughts and I became increasingly annoyed with Lorenzo for not leaving me so. I would stop to eat a peach, telling him to go on, only for him to reply with an "it's ok, I will wait." At one point I even sat down on a rock in the middle of the river telling him to walk ahead only to receive his usual response. After a few minutes he would hurry me along with his "Okaaayuh... Shall we go?... okaaayuh..." But even through my desire to lose him and my frustration with his tenacity, I knew that he was just trying to watch out for me and protect me. And maybe perhaps... he wasn't prepared to walk alone.
Dinner for Gilles... I worry about him..
A couple days before reaching Rome, Lorenzo, Nicoline, Gilles and I walked while discussing what we look forward to once we arrive home. Lorenzo described having a white fish with lemon, garlic and wine, Gilles anticipated going for a run without the burden of a 15 kilo backpack, I mentioned mini pilgrimages to my neighborhood bakeries and Nicoline lost herself while expounding on the virtues of pancakes and the many possible toppings.. After an embarrassingly long discussion about pancake toppings.. our conversation merged seamlessly into soccer/football and our upcoming hopes for our respective leagues and teams. Gilles talked about the surprising strength of the Belgian team and I mentioned the scandals that have plagued the Italian national team and league. Lorenzo, of course, piped in with a "Scandal? What scandal...I don't know of any scandals?"
*****
Here in Chicago, summer is heading dangerously to it's demise. Children are buying school clothes and sharpening pencils at alarming rates and hectic fall schedules are beginning to take shape. Adding to the depression of a dying summer, The English premier league has begun with a characteristic Arsenal loss to a team much weaker... However, this season, I have new teams to watch. I will cheer loudly as Belgium plays their smattering of world cup qualifying games and I will smile with each win that Napoli is able to lay hold of. Because I will know that in the moment of each win, someone I care greatly about will also be smiling. As for Arsenal... Well, I will not be holding my breath...
I have attached below a very bad recording of a song I wrote and recorded during the South Korea/Japan world cup. At that time I had made a pledge to watch every match despite the fact that they were on Korean time. This, of course, had an adverse effect on my life. But I still laugh each time I stumble across this recording :)
While I always have my camera with me, there are certain times that I keep it down, fully knowing that I can't do justice to what I am seeing... a full moon through the trees, a laughing child, a candle being lit... My heart remembers more accurately than my camera lens...
As daylight began to dim, we rounded the corner entering the Piazza di Trevi. I dropped my camera, letting the strap anchor it uselessly at my back and I absorbed the scene before me. The smell of water-soaked change mingled with the mustiness of old buildings and the aroma of a thousand dinners being cooked. The sounds of street musicians competed with the conversations of a hundred voices, flowing water and the clicking of high heels on the stone square. The Trevi Fountain, in all of it's beautiful 17th century grandeur, filled my vision as my walking companion slipped a coin into my hand. We stood for a few moments quietly observing the crush of people surrounding the 85 foot fountain before I made my way down the stone steps to the water's edge. As tradition required, I turned my back to the water, raised the coin to my lips, made a wish in my heart and flicked the coin over my shoulder. I don't remember if I used the right hand or if I tossed the coin over the proper shoulder. I don't even know if my borrowed coin landed in the water.. perhaps I flicked it badly and it ricochetted off of one of Neptune's incredibly chiseled stone pecks. Perhaps my borrowed coin tangled with my fingers before landing uselessly at my feet, thus negating my wish. I don't know.. I will never know as my eyes were occupied elsewhere. ***** The Earth is currently passing through the Perseids and the night sky is fancifully lit by multitudes of shooting stars... or as those less romantically inclined souls like to call them.. Meteors.. Life back in Chicago has been difficult since leaving my Saint Peter behind. Yesterday was rough, today is no picnic and unfortunately, tomorrow has the capacity to be even worse. There are choices to make and changes to survive but for tonight, there are stars to see. The other side of the world is already presently tucked into the night and as tradition requires, millions of wishes are being heaped on hapless stars burning at the edge of the atmosphere. By the time night falls in Chicago, the stars will be burdened by the heaviness of the wishes of the world. However, I will look for one star, a single star, perhaps lightly carrying Italian wishes. I will place my wish on top like a blanket and I will watch diligently as this star streaks through the night sky into oblivion..
"Jen, what will you be wishing for?" Peters asks. "Oh, I don't know.. maybe for enough skill to finally stop overcooking my pasta..?"
"It seems to me we can never give up longing and wishing while we are still alive. There are certain things we feel to be beautiful and good, and we must hunger for them."
I know I will add to this list as memories touch me..
1. Wash her socks in the sea
2. Camp within earshot of the waves
3. Climb a mountain and at the top raise her hands to the heaven in triumph
4. Eat fruit stolen from someone's garden
5. Kiss a Sunflower
6. Spot a hummingbird
7. Eat the award winning "Best Gelato in the World" in San Giminiano
8. Eat it again two hours later...
9. Make a wish of love before tossing a coin over her shoulder
10. Hide from the rain with stacks of hay and affectionate kittens
11. Feed a horse a banana
12. Feed a donkey crackers
13. Kayak the Cinque Terre without a life jacket
14. Touch the feet of God in a church
15. Hug a haystack
16. Sip wine.. always wine..
17. Light a candle...or a hundred
18. Ride a bus without paying
19. Ride a streetcar without paying
20. Incur the wrath of an Italian mother... and survive..
21. Cross the River Arno while singing Puccini arias
22. Accidentally kiss someone's lips because of wrongly anticipating which cheek to kiss first 23. Walk with butterflies 24. Drink from a river 25. Play in a fountain 26. See Rome at night from the back of a scooter driven by a beautiful man
27. See Rome in the day from the back of a scooter driven by a beautiful man
28. See Rome pretty much anytime at all from the back of a scooter driven by a beautiful man..
29. Sit in a piazza in the same place for at least two hours and watch the world go by
30. Learn to cook arancini
31. Drink Grappa with an old man
32. See herself in the eyes of one who desires her
33. Watch the sun set so intently that the actual movement can be seen 34. Crash a wedding
35. Chase a saint
36. Build dreams late at night in Saint Peter's Square
Today I hate Peter. I went for a walk, looking at all the sloppily dressed people and I thought "don't you people have pride in yourselves??" I thought this.. me.. the person who wears makeup only for recitals and who brushes her hair every other day. I missed the beautiful Italian women in their flowery dresses and the gorgeous men in their Ray Bans. As I walked, I felt Peter behind me, pulling me backwards. "Jen, why are you walking away from me?" he said. "Because the grocery store is not in the same direction as you!!"I shouted. Peter is now Mecca. I am always aware of what direction to face in order to look towards him. Yesterday it was 97 degrees in Rome and 85 degrees in Chicago. Yet in Chicago, I froze my ass off while waiting hours to renew my drivers license in an overpopulated and overly air conditioned government building. But since I was there, I took a simple test and in addition to a renewed license, I received a learners permit to one day drive a Vespa. But while Chicago is not Rome, here I know how to cross a street, I know that I never get lost, I know what people around me are saying, I know I have respect, I know who I am.... most of the time. ***** There are worse places to hide from the rain than in a shed full of hay and kittens. Earlier in the day I had gotten distracted by a street market in San Gimignano causing me to start my day's walk at 10am. Five kilometers later, I managed to get lost in an olive grove, unnecessarily climbing a very large hill... twice. Throughout the day I watched nervously as thick dark clouds gathered on the horizon directly ahead of me. I raced, thinking to reach my destination before the heavens opened. As lighting flashed across the sky, I walked low through exposed fields, aware of the foolish metal walking stick in my hand. Finally, after a couple of hours of anticipation, and just 3 miles outside of Abbidia-a-Isola, the storm raged. I walked, letting the rain drench my skin, my eyelashes sprinkled with water. I spotted a tiny three walled shed just off the path and quickly changed my direction. I took off my backpack, and climbed onto a dry haystack as the rain picked up in intensity. While I waited quietly huddled, eating a cheese sandwich, I was joined by two cheese loving kittens. An hour later with cheese as a fond memory, I sat with a kitten on my lap and another perched on a haystack at my shoulder, sweetly head butting my neck. As the rain softened, I thought to stay there forever, warm and unconditionally cherished. But, as always, the next destination awaited... "Peter, I could really use an arrow right now." "Oh, Jen.."
As an adult, I have gleefully read Dante's Inferno and frequently reference his circles of hell, generally causing people to give me blank or concerned stares. I reveled in Dante's creative means of punishment in his Purgatorio, but I never had any interest whatsoever in reading his Paradiso. After all, What could possibly be interesting about perfection?
As a child, I sat in church, rebelliously listening to stories of heaven and I questioned.. "Really? you just praise God all day? That sounds boring!" After church, I would race outside to play, savoring the freedom of the dirt beneath my fingernails.
While waiting in the busy basilica to take a photo with Saint Peter, I listened in on a conversation between a young girl, her parents, and a humorless priest. "Why is everyone touching his feet?" The girl questioned while looking at Peter's feet rubbed smooth by the hands of millions of pilgrims. "Well," the priest began haughtily. "It's actually a pagan ritual that I think is wrong because that statue is not saint Peter. It's just a statue and touching the feet is a form of idol worship. Saints are not God and worshiping them is wrong.." As the priest continued his sermon, the little girl interrupted, "but I just want to touch his feet!" She looked my direction with confusion in her eyes.
I shrugged sympathetically. "I think that the saints are my friends." I said. "And I am going to touch his feet!"
The priest glanced darkly my way and said dismissively to the girl, "Well, I'm not, but you can if YOU want." I watched them walk away without approaching Peter, and I laughed as I saw the little girl glance frequently back at him, a little pilgrim shining from her eyes.
Later, hours after leaving the basilica, I had lost my humor. "Peter, you are such an asshole!!!" I said while cleaning my dropped gelato off of all my money and passport. I had spent the intervening hours wandering Rome lost and disoriented after my phone died, taking all my maps with it, and my sense of direction had fled like a pigeon hoarding a cracker. Peter laughed though, "Jen, you didn't think the lessons would end upon touching my feet, did you..."
My last night in Rome, Daniele, a friend of mine from last year's camino, and I shared beers and confidences in Campo De Fiori. I had just bought a pretty little dress in one of the stores in the piazza and I was trying to soak in every last weak ray of sunshine and every voice echoing off the cobblestones. Daniele and I sat, our heads together as we talked of life, love and God and my heart felt sick at just the thought of leaving beautiful Rome in mere hours. As we chatted facing the piazza, a loud street performer approached and set up in front of us. I sent an annoyed glance his way as he noisily began his "magic" routine, cutting off my conversation with Daniele. I watched the man grudgingly, mentally scoffing at his silly tricks as he swallowed a sword. "Pfft, Any fool can see that the sword is collapsible," I thought. "Oh Come on Jen, I have taken you across this entire country and still you don't see???" "Peter, I only see a loud man with tired tricks! I don't know what I am supposed to see?!" "Look again."
I looked up, staring at the man and glancing at the people around me. My gaze landed on a beautiful young girl, dancing on the edge of becoming a stunning young woman, her face shining with innocence and amazement as she eagerly watched the magician.
"Do you see her joy, Jen?" Peter said. " Stop looking for the trick and instead fill yourself with the same wonder she has in the beautiful creation around you!"
*****
"Peter!!!! I have to leave today and yet you put a giant street market right outside my door??? You know I love markets!!! WTF???" "Don't worry Jen, you'll have plenty of chances in your future to buy 3 euro skirts and cheap knockoff soccer jerseys...But why don't you console yourself now with some duty free Grappa."
I put on my backpack, blew a kiss Saint Peter's way, and headed to the airport.
