And the next Pope is...

A couple thousand years ago, Jesus gathered his apostles together for a passover meal. Feeling the crushing inevitability of fate, he lifted the bread, broke it into pieces and passed it around. "Take this bread and eat for this is my body given up for you." I imagine his hand shook as he reached for the cup of wine, sweat beading on his brow as the weight of the world settled upon his very human shoulders. "Take this cup and drink for this is my blood which is poured out for you.  Do this in memory of me."  I wonder if his eyes watered with sadness as he watched Judas slip from the room or if his face was lined with weariness as he looked upon Peter. For that very night, Judas would betray Jesus, handing him over to the Romans and before the next morning Peter would deny he knew Jesus three times.  And as for Jesus.. "He suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died and was buried; he descended into hell; on the third day he rose again from the dead; he ascended into heaven, and is seated at the right hand of God the Father almighty.." (Apostles Creed)  In the physical absence of Jesus, Peter would become the head of a baby Christian church, our first pope.

For countless generations, stories, descriptions, and artistic renderings of the last supper have been handed down, the most famous being the da Vinci painting above. As the catholic church splintered into countless branches during the reformation, the ceremony of wine and bread took on different forms. My first encounter with "communion" took place in a tiny Baptist church one Sunday every month. Each person would take a broken bit of a cracker from a plate being passed down every pew. Then everyone would receive a dainty shotglass-like plastic cup halfway full of grape juice. Together everyone would chew and sip the body and blood of Christ.  A few years later in a Pentecostal church I watched as a loaf of bread was torn into small pieces while contemporary hymns were played on amped instruments and people loudly praised Jesus with raised hands. Shortly after this, I went to a catholic mass with my best friend's family, only to discover that the grape juice was actually wine (at this point, I should have known that I was destined for catholicism..) In college, I was a hired musician for a United Congregational Church of Christ. One Sunday, as I clumsily stood in front of a slightly horrified congregation with the crimson blood of Christ liberally soaked into my powder blue choir robe, I realized that perhaps I should acknowledge the clear sign from God to abstain from communion. 

After university, I took a leap of faith, left my little town and moved to Chicago. I rented a tiny garden apartment, moving to a neighborhood in which I knew nothing and no one. One Saturday, out of boredom and loneliness, I wandered around the corner for an evening mass at the local catholic church.... and I never left. I became a choir member, a cantor, director of the youth choir, and a wedding and funeral singer, but more importantly, I became part of a warm community, I became a friend, I became loved.  

Sister Barb, a nun out of habit, is a tiny old woman with a stubborn biting humor and a slight leaning towards irreverence. Sister Barb heads up St Gregory's social care ministry, taking gifts and meals to the area poor and sick. She runs the Friendship Club, a group of retirees who meet for friendship and camaraderie, She organizes an annual golf outing, helps with weekly bingo, offers quiet comfort at funerals and likely does a thousand other things of which I am unaware. She appreciates a good wine, enjoys card games and has a slight issue with foul language. (My husband and I had joked about hiding the reading she was to give at our wedding in order to prompt a quiet "Oh, Shit.." to cross her lips from the pulpit.) Upon receiving a gift, she feels the need to immediately reciprocate.  And she gives tiny unexpected gifts, telling exactly what they are as she hands them over.  She can't stand the hymn 'Amazing Grace,' and has frequently threatened to haunt us if we dare to sing it for her funeral and when I finally decided to convert after 8 years in the church, Sister Barb stood in as my sponsor.  On a weekday afternoon in a empty peaceful church with sunlight streaming through the stained glass, I was baptized, with Sister Barb next to me. Absentmindedly blowing out the candle representing my eternal soul, Sister Barb was horrified upon hearing Father Paul's dry "Well, so much for symbolism.."   

Months later, my husband and I stood in the parish center, making copies for the youth choir, when Sister Barb walked in preparing to visit a sick parishioner. "All I have to take with is frozen breadsticks and whiskey.. Do you think that is ok?" she asked.  My husband came back with a smile and a quick, "would you like to visit us?" Sister Barb takes communion to those in the community who, for any number of reasons, can't get to mass and it was with her that I received communion for the first time as a catholic and since my college, stained choir robe debacle. And each week as I am pulled in for a powder scented kiss on the cheek, I come to understand that thousands of years of faith rests not on the grandiose gestures of cardinals and popes, but on the quiet humble shoulders of Sister Barb and those like her who came before, those who see what needs to be done and simply get to work.  In her imperfect perfection lies divine grace.

Countless pilgrims have descending on Italy in recent days, including our very own St Gregory Choir, scheduled to sing at the Vatican on St Patty's Sunday. (Don't ask why I am not with them... I refuse to answer gracefully as it was my own foolish choice..) The eyes of the world are currently on Rome as our Pope Benedict steps aside and preparations begin for the next Pope. People pause in their daily lives to observe history in motion; tiny generous nuns, mothers and grandmothers, teachers and lovers, all with the hopes of two thousand years in their hearts.   The world waits as 115 cardinals gather behind closed doors to elect the next leader from among themselves... 

But wouldn't it be truly miraculous if the very breath of God engulfed all in its wake, whispering softly into closed off hearts and ears. Chaos would ensue within the conclave, shouts would be heard, fists would shake, men would rail against God's true design while others in shock would simply stare off incredulously. Days of bitter struggle would pass while those involved would fight desperately against the inevitability of the Beloved's desire. But eventually stubbornness would give way to bemusement and snow white smoke would billow free. Crowds would press near, drawn by Peter's wildly pealing bells and a charged silence would follow. 

"Our next Pope is...    

(the world collectively inhales..) 

 ..Sister Barb!!" 

Who are we to set parameters around the Divine?

Well.. next time, perhaps..

I have many miles to walk till I reach Peter and our new Pope Francis, but with each step I am able to take, I feel the blessing of a beautiful earth beneath my feet.

http://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/1000milesorbust/hiketosaintpeter1000milesorbust

Chocolate Caca

Oloron-Sainte-Marie is a little town of approximately 11,000 inhabitants tucked up against the Pyrenees of southwestern France. Situated on one of the timeless routes of the Camino de Santiago, Oloron-Sainte-Marie’s 10th century cathedral has achieved World Heritage status and a pilgrim’s evening summer stroll through the city, along the river would be accompanied by the heavenly scent of warm chocolate mixing with the humid night air. 

After a day of meandering through the busy streets of Lourdes and stumbling over an abundance of sellers peddling miracle working wares such as Mary shaped holy water bottles and glow in the dark rosaries, Ola, her mom and I happily found ourselves in Oloron-Sainte-Marie, sniffing our way to the Lindt chocolate factory. Ola, a tall, pretty Polish girl with an unshakably sunny disposition and her smiling mother filled a small shopping cart with truffles and bars boasting 90% coco while I became enthralled by a pile of plain sealed boxes, each titled “Kilo Surprise.”  

A half hour later, our little car bounced along the quiet french country roads and while Ola and her mom chattered away in the front seats, I sat quietly in the back, mentally wishing goodbye to a childhood of Nestle and Hershey as I reverently opened my first bar of Lindt double milk chocolate.  I placed one tiny square of smooth chocolate on my tongue and closed my eyes in pure bliss. 

After that day and due to the obscene quantities of chocolate that I had bought, Lindt became a treasured part of my daily routine and a reward for tasks accomplished.  Surely clean dishes were worth at least one square of decadence!

A few summers later, I followed Saint James across the Spanish countryside with three beautiful frenchwomen, hoarding chocolate, wine, cheese and fresh baked bread along the way. Upon discovering a particularly messy melted bar of chocolate in the bottom of one of our bags, lovely Isabelle would simply rip off a bit of bread, greedily wiping the chocolate wrapper clean.  One clear hot day, after walking on tired legs past a golden field of contentedly grazing cows, I sniffed the air in confusion. “I swear, the cow poop here smells like chocolate!? I must be overtired and hallucinating..." My walking companions laughed at my suspicions, attributing my quirks to my simply being american. Poop does NOT smell like chocolate!

Weeks later, after completing my pilgrimage to Saint James and saying goodbye to the new dear friends I had discovered, I made my way to a small town outside of Valencia to visit family friends before heading back to the states. Two days before I was to fly home, I found myself walking rows in a thirsty olive grove owned by my host Paco, a middle aged friendly man who I strongly suspect could rule the world with absent minded perfection if he so chose. Covered in dust crusted sweat, armed with my tiny tank of a camera, and sporting a new gash in my leg where I had lost a battle with a thistle plant, I stumbled back to where Paco stood under a large shady tree. I watched curiously as he pulled a dark brown pod off a low branch and began to chew his way through. Seeing my interested look, he explained that the Carob tree that he was standing under grows throughout Spain, southern Europe and parts of the middle east and Africa. He chatted on about how in better times, Spaniards harvested the pods of the Carob to be used in making syrups and sugar free chocolate, but due to a lack of financial returns, the carob pods were now mostly used region wide as animal feed. As Paco launched into an in depth  explanation of the many merits of carob and how the seeds of the pod were actually the weight measurement behind the ‘carat,’ my mind focused in on one tiny detail...   So, poop actually DOES smell like chocolate!!

Unfortunately, I cannot take credit for this pic..
Courtesy of Lindt ;)

And now.. Walking Details!!  Despite the chill of January, I managed to walk 45 miles which is about 4% of my 1000 mile goal for 2013. Together, we have raised $420, about 8% of our 2013 goal of $5000 for Almost Home Kids.  

For more info on this amazing and loving charity visit http://almosthomekids.org 

and to donate, visit
http://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser
/1000milesorbust/hiketosaintpeter
1000milesorbust

I hope you all have a wonderful Saint Valentine’s Day. And as for gift recommendations ... Lindt!  Large quantities of Lindt.. Perhaps even a ‘Kilo Surprise!’  

My lovely host holding an olive branch

Under the Carob Tree..

Soneja Siesta!

How many soccer balls did it take to bend that sign :)

Soneja.. Fun with camera settings..

Quo Vadis? .. Where are you going?

Saint James has grand plans and who am I to disappoint him?  "There is someone I want you to meet," he says, "but he can be a bit stodgy so you will have to be creative as to how you approach him." 

"uh... ok?" I respond hesitantly.  Jim continues, "I want you to go to Rome to see my old friend Peter. He will be expecting you."   Holy poop..  

While my Saint James, flaws and all, has become an approachable friend, Saint Peter is a whole other story.. Though Peter was said to have had moments of arrogance, a minor jealous streak in regards to time Jesus spent with Mary Magdalena, and Peter did deny Jesus three times, he was still the first chosen by Jesus. Jesus gave him the namesake 'Peter' which is a form of the word "rock" in Greek and Latin.  And Peter was a rock; stability and strength in the face of a chaotic decaying Roman empire. In the years following the death of Jesus, Peter fathered and organized the new fledgling christian church. And upon his execution under the rule of a severely depraved Emperor Nero (as evidenced in the mysterious deaths of nearly everyone in Nero's family..)  it is said that Peter felt himself unworthy to die in the same way as Jesus, requesting instead to be crucified upside down!!!   

Peter is one serious dude!  How on Earth will I make this work?

                                                       ******

I had a little sister. She was lovely and for nearly a year, my family was given time to love her and to learn to live with and without her. Life was filled with white hospitals, bleach smells, irregular beeps and a family that couldn't cope.  Years later, I moved to Chicago to work for the Chicago Fire Soccer Team and I met Judith, a strong, soft spoken Scottish woman who ran the Illinois State Soccer association with calm efficiency. Judith and her husband were blessed to have been given time to love their sweet little boy Euan. However, after Euan joined my little sister, Judith changed her life, going to work for an organization that had been a rock for her family. 

Almost Home Kids is an organization based in Naperville and Chicago that provides care for medically fragile children who no longer need to stay in a hospital, but are still not ready for home. While touring the Chicago home with Judith, I looked at warmly painted walls covered in friendly murals and pictures, I saw an inviting open kitchen with a large accessible countertop,  and I smiled into the big brown eyes of a gorgeous little girl who wasn't quite ready to succumb to nap time. The words of one particular volunteer were quite evident. "It isn't just about medicine," she said. "They also focus on the needs of the family and loving the child." 

Due to the compact size of Almost Home Kids, every single dollar has an impact; providing diapers, bedsheets, latex gloves, or even a Nintendo Wii among other things. And while providing a safe, loving place for each child, Almost Home Kids is projected to save Illinois taxpayers approximately 16 million dollars in the coming year.  As I looked around, I knew that I wanted to help. 

As 2012 quickly draws to a close, I put aside a pair of destroyed hiking boots and begin looking for the next pair. Besides visiting James in Santiago, my personal goal had been to walk a thousand miles by  new years and while I came close, even if I began walking now straight until midnight, I would not make it.  (of course, my distance is much more impressive if I convert to kilometers..)  And so my goal for 2013 becomes clear; walk 1000 miles, 600 of those on the Via Francigena to see Saint Peter in Rome and walk for someone other than myself...Walk for my sister, for Euan and for all the other little angels at Almost Home Kids. 

I ask for your help in this endeavor. Please sponsor my miles by pledging a per mile amount. One cent per mile adds to $10, five cents to $50 and so on and so forth. Every mile and every cent is a difference.

For more info on how to give..  
http://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/1000milesorbust/hiketosaintpeter1000milesorbust

For more info on Almost Home Kids
http://almosthomekids.net

http://almosthomekids.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/Almost-Home-Kids-Annual-Report-2012.pdf

And Have a Happy and Healthy 

New Year!!

Resident Pilgrims

My City is dressed up for Christmas with white lights dripping from every tree. Tall grey buildings wrapped up red and green butt up against a cold grey lake; our own little sea. Churches with their alters full of rich velvety poinsettias, are lit solemnly with tiny candle flames as strains of Handel's Messiah ring out from countless choir lofts. The smell of infinite cookies baking dances through the air as a frazzled population races through final holiday preparations. A thin layer of snow turned ice crackles underfoot as impish children race from one fantastical santa land store window to the next, while in between random spurts of binge shopping, we smile.  My city is dressed up for Christmas.. and she is so lovely.


... And oh so far from Spain... 


My knees no longer ache and that makes me sad.

For weeks after saying goodbye to Saint James and returning home, my body felt tight and creaky, and my mind felt as though I had left it elsewhere. I ate like a horse and craved manchego cheese with an almost homicidal intensity. (as a side note.. manchego is freakishly expensive in the states.) I searched out Milka chocolate, mixed sprite with multiple types of beer (with some truly foul results..) and caught myself cutting vegetables in my kitchen 
with the same little pocket knife that had accompanied me across Spain.


I itched to walk... all the time... everywhere.. my hand reaching for my trusty walking stick. Upon returning home, I threw out multiple pairs of high heels, avoided makeup like the plague and I spent hours pouring over the thousand (or two) photos I had taken on my way to meet James, trying to narrow them down to the few pictures that friends and family would have the patience to look through.



I brought up the camino in nearly every conversation I had with anyone..
"Oh, you want to go out for thai food  ..Well, when I was walking to Santiago.."
"Really? You think blue is a good color.. Well, in Spain..."

And every argument with my husband ended like this...
Me: "I'm sorry, but when was the last time you walked a thousand kilometers?"
Husband: "are you gonna stop using that excuse anytime soon?"
Me: "Nope.  Wanna go for a walk?"
(...exasperated husband stalks off...)

I just wanted to be left alone to write, to read, to make music and most of all... to walk. As a result, I aimlessly followed yellow arrows painted on the sidewalk only to end up following a utility company's proposed repair dig.  And one of my many unplanned walks resulted in my getting locked inside a cemetery. (seriously, read the sign at the front gate ALL the way to the end!!)  On any given day my heart urged me to run back to the camino to carry on since it seemed that a  thousand kilometers wasn't a great enough distance to effectively walk away from myself.

I returned from Spain with a new desire to respect and take care of my body in a wholesome natural way, and to that end I joined a school of martial arts where I am learning Tai Chi from 'Johnny Cage' (a privilege lost on me as my first and last video game was 'Duck Hunt'... I am now vegetarian and anti gun..) I simplified life, cutting back on classes and students.. only to discover that while I truly enjoyed the extra time, I miss those students and their families horribly and am wondering if it would be a terrible faux pas to offer them a time back. As my fall season wrapped me up in its slightly less hectic schedule of choirs, students, masses, rehearsals, and classes, I realized that perhaps the camino was not about showing me what is wrong with my life but rather showing me that the life I have built might possibly be exactly where I belong. I have been able to find contentment and joy even as I search out new challenges and adventures. However, in the recent loss of our kindhearted sweet Indian grandfather, we see the limits of this life. We must live it every single moment of every day. I see our beloved Ajooba (grandfather) stepping up between my Saint James and Shiva and they are chatting, their heads angled together. They look up towards us, "what are you doing wasting time watching us?" they say while waving us away. "Go on.. LIVE!" 


As my horrifying sock tan lines fade completely away, I feel my pilgrimage memories take on a misty dreamlike quality... that is until one gray, cold in the bones kind of Chicago day when I open my mailbox and spot a slightly tattered envelope with the words "Par Avion" stamped ever so crisply. As I pull Jean-Pierre's lovely letter to my heart,  I lift my face and feel the radiating warmth of a beautiful meseta sun.

"And Now," I say with a hint of dare and mischief to my beloved Saint James , "What shall I do next?" 

Lost in Translation..

"Why do you keep calling me a shower?" I laughed messily in response and proceeded to explain to a group of french people what the word "douche" means to americans...

There are horrible stereotypes all along the camino, my favorite illustration being this...

Asking for Directions:

Germans will give extremely precise instructions, usually going so far as to draw a map.

The French will generally walk with you but will likely try to either seduce or feed you on the way.

Italians are rarely asked as they tend to travel in herds and that is intimidating.

The Irish will walk with you as well but will pursued you to stop off at the first bar for a pint. Hours later, you will realize that you didn't really need to go anywhere anyway.

There is no need to ask Americans as they will tell you anyway..

A Spaniard will point to the very next corner, telling you to go that direction and ask someone there. So that by the time you reach your destination, you will have chatted with at least 38 Spaniards.

On Camino, I learned how to say the word 'blister' in five languages, how to tie boots properly, how to sleep in a wheat field, how to make friends in any room, how to touch the arm of someone I am talking with, how to wash underwear in the sink.  I learned how to play more than six chords on the ukulele, how to let go of vanity, how to swim in a river, how to poop...in a field, in a forest, audibly with people nearby, in a bathroom so foul that I wished it were a field. I learned how to walk while looking up at stars, how to drink water from any source, how to kiss cheeks and how to guesstimate times and distances...wrong.

 I learned that harem pants can be worn by men, that it's safe to eat cheese which has been in someone's backpack for more than three days, that the 'C' on the water faucet does not mean 'cold,' that crying is ok, laughing is ok and shouting is ok. I learned that a chocolate bar smashed between two slices of bread does a sandwich make, that though it's hard walking uphill... the view is so worth it, that just because you don't speak the same language, doesn't mean you can't be friends and I learned that goodbye is never forever...

I sat at the end of the earth, wind whipping past my ears, and I watched the fading evening sun leap over the edge of the sea into oblivion.  My camino had ended.

While the figurative heart of Saint James lies in Santiago, marking the final stopping point for many weary pilgrims, legend says that were it not for the devil's interference, Jim's final desired resting place would have been Finisterre, the perceived earth's end. And so, after visiting James with Marion and Genevieve, I bid a temporary farewell and went back to Sarria to walk again the last 115 kilometers of the camino with my Chicago friend Barb and the wonderful friends we made along the way...Daniele, a kind italian man who loves God and mom and has a beautiful smile, Adan, a spanish man who taught Barb and me a long list of inappropriate spanish phrases (which we immediately committed to memory..) and Ash, a sweet tiny canadian woman with a quick humor, lovely blue eyes, and a 7 foot walking stick that she was trying to figure out how to take back to Canada.

I found myself for a second time with pained knees, kneeling on the unpadded kneelers in Jim's grand house. Except this time, I had arrived on my 33rd birthday, the age of our lord. I had thought that a second visit with James would have given me some sort of closure, but even as I was leaving the church, James was still talking. "...Jen, I have more to show you!!" And so with James yapping in my ear (I could be schizophrenic) I packed my backpack yet again and wandered west alone into a cloudy cool Galicia, aiming 90km for the end of the earth.

After hiking three hours alone and thinking about nothing but peanut butter and jelly, I ran into Henry, an american political science professor who I had last seen weeks before in Logrono. As we walked, we shared camino adventures and he told me that he had fallen for his walking companion, a lovely austrian woman who was trying to let go of a painful divorce. Before heading home to Austria, she had invited Henry to come and finish his camino by staying with her and letting her show him her life. He had quietly declined and said his goodbye. "WHAT??? How could you just let her go!!??" "I didn't see how it could work.. she lives here and I live in the states.."  "Seriously, that's your excuse?  When was the last time you met someone who made you feel like this? There are ALWAYS possibilities, ways for things to work if you make them!! 

Three days later, Henry handed my phone back to me while trying to suppress a huge grin. "This is crazy... this is SO not fiscally responsible!"  He was on his way to Austria. 

I left the beautiful seaside town of Finisterre behind and walked the final 3.5 kilometers (uphill) of my camino to the light house at the end of the world. I sat, contemplated, and wrote my goodbye letter to Saint James. Hours later, Henry joined me as the daylight weakened and together we watched the sun dip his toes into the ocean before diving below the waves.  We shared a glass of red wine, toasting our accomplishments, our camino, our lives and his impending austrian adventure. And as darkness fell, we took our letters to the fire by the ocean and burned them...our final letting go. We walked the 3.5 kilometers back to Finisterre and our beds quietly, the sea on one side, the road on the other, the humid wind racing past our ears, the smell of salt and pine filling our lungs, the flickering light from the lighthouse mingling with the pale beauty of the stars. The next morning we boarded a bus back to Santiago.

"James, I am at your house for the third time and I am wondering at what point you will begin asking for rent.." "Why now, of course! You see the collection boxes and the women begging at the entrances." "But James, I am nervous to leave you. I know that it's time to go home, but I feel like I should start my camino all over again." "Jen, you can't use me to hide from the world, but at the same time, don't think that we are finished, you and I..." 

Unfortunate Cornfields..

"Jim, you totally suck! You had a wild party without me.. I had to read about it in the newspaper!!" James looks sheepishly at the ground,"Yeah, it was quite the fete...but you will be here soon and I hear that you are bringing cake."

I looked over at Marion in the dark, her eyes open, her hands reaching for her phone to check the time. I could hear Genevieve rustling around in the bunk above me. "It´s time," we whisper, sneaking quietly out of the albergue and stealing into the cool humid night air. We looked at eachother, each with a mischievous gleam and a silent smile. "Thirly kilometers to cover and it´s only 2am... we will meet James by morning." We head off on the path through dense forests, our walking sticks clicking, our tiny flashlights flickering, the air smelling of warm pine, dogs alone announcing our arrival into each tiny town between us and Santiago. Distorted shadows danced before us as a moonless sky dangled massive stars above our heads with the big dipper looking close enough to scoop us up and deposit us at James´ feet...

I had considered leaving a note of apology for the farmer but I didn´t know how to word it in spanish.. 

"To the owner of this lovely cornfield, I am truly, TRULY sorry about what I did in your field. I realize that there is nothing that those particular stalks of corn did to deserve such a fate.. But believe me when I say; James made me do it!" I had made it successfully through my entire pilgrimage with my stomach in tact but James said that he wanted my last night to be a truly memorable story. So it was not until my final race to Santiago that I was brought low by a questionable creamy dessert at dinner. However, one is not a true pilgrim until one has pooped in a pitch black forest at four in the morning...and again one hour later in the aformentioned unfortunate cornfield. 

We could tell that our pilgrimage was in its final days when our conversations had changed from deep conversations about love, family and the meaning of life to food, poop, and sex and a ranking of their importance. Everyone seemed to have an engaging embarrasing story of loose bowels. Genevieve had her moment while hiding behind a garbage can, praying that no one would look out the window during seista, and Matt had a period of a couple days when he would just disappear midsentence in a mad race for a toilet (or a large bush.) And as for food conversations.. I have learned never to mention that I am hungry to anyone who is french as that person will immediately begin to describe delicious foods with such eloquence and poetry that I begin to hallucinate.. 

The sun had risen over the trees, filtering through a misty haze. A frail rainbow rose above the western horizon pointing us on to Santiago. Marion, Genevieve and I stopped five kilometers outside of the city, momentarily afraid to go on. "Are we ready to finish?" We had lit two candles the day before to celebrate Genevieve´s two months on the camino. She and Marion were about to finish a journey of 1600 kilometers from Le Puy to Santiago, twice my distance of a mere 800km. We were nervous. We walked anxiously through the outskirts of town, straining our necks for a glance of the cathedral spires. One block away we saw the church peaking through the beautiful old buildings and our hearts sped. Our tired feet raced and as we burst into the open courtyard of James´ house, we burst into tears. We had arrived; tarte de Santiago and champagne (cava) in hand.(note to self.. never buy cheap champagne when in the presence of anyone french.. it´s not worth the amount of time they will spend bitching..) We ate drank and cried, smiles beaming through our tears.

"I loved having you here, I hope you know that you can come back anytime!" James says with the warmth of an indulgent uncle."Really Jim? Thanks! How does next week work for you?"

Well, Hello Jim!!