Dear friends: I am having problems posting pictures to my blog. If I can solve the problem I will update and republish this post. Thanks for understanding.
I've been thinking a lot about ghosts.
For starters, my wonderfully emphatic and kind professor of Italian often asks whether we believe in them in order to illustrate the use of ci in place of ne with the verb credere.
Well, I don't believe in the corporeal kind, except perhaps the one I saw on a United flight from somewhere to San Francisco almost thirty years ago. From what I know of his corporeal self, some sort of help was likely required to get him to his final destination and cruising at 35,000 feet or so certainly would have got him a good part of the way there. On balance I think he made it.
The night I made it to Pontremoli in the northwest corner of la Toscana, the small city where I ended last year's walk and where I would begin this year's, I spent the night at the former monastery of the brothers capucine. After getting settled, meeting my friend Patrick at the station, and dining at Taverna all'Occa Bianca, I settled in for a restless sleep. Some time way before dawn I felt an impish little presence bouncing up and down on my knees. I told him to stop, which he did, and leave, which, at the time, I thought he had. Was it an old capucine or a jet-lagged stupor? Don't know, but read on.
Patrick and I headed out early for breakfast at the same taverna in which we had enjoyed a selection of regional specialities the night before. I had asked the padrone where we might get an early breakfast, and he said he'd open up for us by around seven. Over a cappuccino and a cornetto, I engaged him in a conversation about whether his family was from Pontremoli, how long he'd had the taverna, and other questions of the sort I like to engage those friendly or polite enough to suffer through my barely comprehensible Italian. Coloro che non provano, non imparano. Those who don't try, don't learn.
Il padrone asked about our walk. We spoke about it at some length. When I asked to pay, he offered his hand in a friendly shake and said "Buon cammino." That's it: breakfast at the cost of a congenial conversation. Perhaps he thought acting kindly to a couple of pellegrini might bring on some future intercession for his own benefit. No telling what kind of ghosts he may have been trying to assuage.
But there is that other kind of ghost, non-corporeal, neither friendly nor antagonistic, the felt presence of things past. All those who have visited Italy have likely sensed it. It is there in the presence of ruins, remains, refurbishments and repurposing like the mixed martial arts class held in the piazza fronting the church and monastery of San Francesco the other night in Lucca, or in the traditions like the evening passeggiata updated with incessant texting iPhones and youngsters in tow twirling fidget spinners, or in Nonna's traditional cooking adapted with Quinoa or with a special note on the menu to sufferers of celiac disease as to which dishes migh be most suitable to their condition.
Traveling by foot at three miles an hour, though, provides different kinds of opportunities to ponder these ghosts. From Pontremoli to Aulla to Sarzana to Massa to Camaiore to Lucca, the starting and end points of my first five days of walking, and all the small cities, villages, clumps of houses, hill towns and farmsteads in between, the interplay between old and new is everywhere. Many of the ospedali that welcomed and cared for pilgrims as long ago as five hundred, a thousand or fifteen hundred years ago are gone except for their stone outlines on the ground or are standing in some state of ruin. Others, though, are still welcoming pilgrims, providing a friendly reception, a hot shower, a clean bed (bring your own sleep sack, of course, no linens provided) and a meal – breakfast and/or dinner.
Some are in the same structures that welcomed pilgrims long ago and others in repurposed church annexes or monasteries, or old palazzi left to the governance of civic authorities. Today, many still open their doors only to credentialed pilgrims, but others take vacationers as well. WIFI is almost everywhere and if it is not, the pilgrim frequently will opt for another ospedale, even another town to stop in. How else to do FaceTime with one's better half left at home?
In the countryside one gets to talk with people, simple and unaffected, in the kindest meanings of those words. A wave and a step forward initiates a conversation. I see that wave and cross the road to be greeted with a tooth-gapped smile and a glimmer of gold as the smile broadens further. The padrone of a small house and plot of land, can of wasp spray in his shirt pocket as he exits his croft, is so anxious to converse. He proudly places his fists on his hips, arms akimbo, when I call him by that title. He asks the usual questions. I ask him about the frequency of pilgrims: many, though for him that might be one or two a day. We spoke about his place and his work. I offered my name, first and last, and a handshake. In return he offers me his hand and his name: Sergio, Sergio Lucchese. A Lucchese, in the region of Lucca? Not a surprise but what does it say? His name is not a vocation as many names are. Somewhere, there was a break in official lineage, the father unknown or unwilling to give his name, so the name of the predominant regional power was taken. Another ghost story, standing right in front of me and offering to share a beer. Grazie, no. Devo andare dieci kilometri piú. Ten more KM to walk. So he insisted on giving me a 1.5 liter bottler of water and I could do nothing more than accept and carry the additional 3.3 pounds with me, though I already had plenty of water to see me to Lucca.
By about noon on our first day of walking, I was really feeling the effects of the jet-lag and my disturbed sleep the night before. I needed a nap. We spotted a restaurant on the outskirts of Filetto, across from a glade of chestnut trees. Outside the eatery was a sign for a pranzo lavoro, a working man's lunch, usually a sign for a hearty meal at a good price. We entered but both opted for a wonderfully fresh insalata mista for which the chef came out to ask if we might want some radicchio in our salad, his hands full of just picked and washed leaves still dripping wet, some garden dirt stubbornly clinging to them. After lunch, I crossed into the woods where a few picnic tables had been placed. Stretching out on a bench, I dozed for half an hour in that selva oscura, the same dark woods that are said to have been the inspiration for the opening of Dante's "Divine Comedy," until that little imp once again bounced me awake. It's the last I saw of that little ghost, but I continue to enjoy those other fantasmi I encounter every day of my walk.
Dear friends: I am having problems posting pictures to my blog. If I can solve the problem I will update and republish this post. Thanks for understanding.
I've been thinking a lot about ghosts.
For starters, my wonderfully emphatic and kind professor of Italian often asks whether we believe in them in order to illustrate the use of ci in place of ne with the verb credere.
Well, I don't believe in the corporeal kind, except perhaps the one I saw on a United flight from somewhere to San Francisco almost thirty years ago. From what I know of his corporeal self, some sort of help was likely required to get him to his final destination and cruising at 35,000 feet or so certainly would have got him a good part of the way there. On balance I think he made it.
The night I made it to Pontremoli in the northwest corner of la Toscana, the small city where I ended last year's walk and where I would begin this year's, I spent the night at the former monastery of the brothers capucine. After getting settled, meeting my friend Patrick at the station, and dining at Taverna all'Occa Bianca, I settled in for a restless sleep. Some time way before dawn I felt an impish little presence bouncing up and down on my knees. I told him to stop, which he did, and leave, which, at the time, I thought he had. Was it an old capucine or a jet-lagged stupor? Don't know, but read on.
Patrick and I headed out early for breakfast at the same taverna in which we had enjoyed a selection of regional specialities the night before. I had asked the padrone where we might get an early breakfast, and he said he'd open up for us by around seven. Over a cappuccino and a cornetto, I engaged him in a conversation about whether his family was from Pontremoli, how long he'd had the taverna, and other questions of the sort I like to engage those friendly or polite enough to suffer through my barely comprehensible Italian. Coloro che non provano, non imparano. Those who don't try, don't learn.
Il padrone asked about our walk. We spoke about it at some length. When I asked to pay, he offered his hand in a friendly shake and said "Buon cammino." That's it: breakfast at the cost of a congenial conversation. Perhaps he thought acting kindly to a couple of pellegrini might bring on some future intercession for his own benefit. No telling what kind of ghosts he may have been trying to assuage.
But there is that other kind of ghost, non-corporeal, neither friendly nor antagonistic, the felt presence of things past. All those who have visited Italy have likely sensed it. It is there in the presence of ruins, remains, refurbishments and repurposing like the mixed martial arts class held in the piazza fronting the church and monastery of San Francesco the other night in Lucca, or in the traditions like the evening passeggiata updated with incessant texting iPhones and youngsters in tow twirling fidget spinners, or in Nonna's traditional cooking adapted with Quinoa or with a special note on the menu to sufferers of celiac disease as to which dishes migh be most suitable to their condition.
Traveling by foot at three miles an hour, though, provides different kinds of opportunities to ponder these ghosts. From Pontremoli to Aulla to Sarzana to Massa to Camaiore to Lucca, the starting and end points of my first five days of walking, and all the small cities, villages, clumps of houses, hill towns and farmsteads in between, the interplay between old and new is everywhere. Many of the ospedali that welcomed and cared for pilgrims as long ago as five hundred, a thousand or fifteen hundred years ago are gone except for their stone outlines on the ground or are standing in some state of ruin. Others, though, are still welcoming pilgrims, providing a friendly reception, a hot shower, a clean bed (bring your own sleep sack, of course, no linens provided) and a meal – breakfast and/or dinner.
Some are in the same structures that welcomed pilgrims long ago and others in repurposed church annexes or monasteries, or old palazzi left to the governance of civic authorities. Today, many still open their doors only to credentialed pilgrims, but others take vacationers as well. WIFI is almost everywhere and if it is not, the pilgrim frequently will opt for another ospedale, even another town to stop in. How else to do FaceTime with one's better half left at home?
In the countryside one gets to talk with people, simple and unaffected, in the kindest meanings of those words. A wave and a step forward initiates a conversation. I see that wave and cross the road to be greeted with a tooth-gapped smile and a glimmer of gold as the smile broadens further. The padrone of a small house and plot of land, can of wasp spray in his shirt pocket as he exits his croft, is so anxious to converse. He proudly places his fists on his hips, arms akimbo, when I call him by that title. He asks the usual questions. I ask him about the frequency of pilgrims: many, though for him that might be one or two a day. We spoke about his place and his work. I offered my name, first and last, and a handshake. In return he offers me his hand and his name: Sergio, Sergio Lucchese. A Lucchese, in the region of Lucca? Not a surprise but what does it say? His name is not a vocation as many names are. Somewhere, there was a break in official lineage, the father unknown or unwilling to give his name, so the name of the predominant regional power was taken. Another ghost story, standing right in front of me and offering to share a beer. Grazie, no. Devo andare dieci kilometri piú. Ten more KM to walk. So he insisted on giving me a 1.5 liter bottler of water and I could do nothing more than accept and carry the additional 3.3 pounds with me, though I already had plenty of water to see me to Lucca.
By about noon on our first day of walking, I was really feeling the effects of the jet-lag and my disturbed sleep the night before. I needed a nap. We spotted a restaurant on the outskirts of Filetto, across from a glade of chestnut trees. Outside the eatery was a sign for a pranzo lavoro, a working man's lunch, usually a sign for a hearty meal at a good price. We entered but both opted for a wonderfully fresh insalata mista for which the chef came out to ask if we might want some radicchio in our salad, his hands full of just picked and washed leaves still dripping wet, some garden dirt stubbornly clinging to them. After lunch, I crossed into the woods where a few picnic tables had been placed. Stretching out on a bench, I dozed for half an hour in that selva oscura, the same dark woods that are said to have been the inspiration for the opening of Dante's "Divine Comedy," until that little imp once again bounced me awake. It's the last I saw of that little ghost, but I continue to enjoy those other fantasmi I encounter every day of my walk.
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