Paula’s Weekly Summary Pilgrim’s Progress into Week 4

We continue to avoid criminal behavior, in fact, we have been seriously pursuing good judgement.  We do not want to lose our baby-sitting privileges when we return home.  Two examples of this new virtuous life: 1) when we enter heavily trafficked roads we remove our ear pods, a pair of which we share so we can listen to the same book and music; 2) I refrained from stopping in the middle of traffic to pick up a colorful bug carcass to add to my collection

At times we cannot avoid walking along busy motorways.  When we step onto the pavement we transform into mythical figure with enormous antennae, oscillating eyeballs, conch-shell-like ears that enable us to hear approaching vehicles and assess size, weight, and the driver’s disposition. These assessments are communicated through a series of grunts and appropriate action is taken.  Never underestimate a middle-aged woman driving a Fiat Panda.

While I have exercised restraint about collecting on busy roads, the path continues to provide a wide inventory.   The rusty metal collection of barbed wire and loppy bits has grown significantly.  These pieces scream to be part of a jewelry ensemble: chockers, bracelets, maybe a tiara. I could sell these pieces and include a tetanus shot with each purchase.  Just an idea.

The ceramic pieces, my “progress artifacts”, nearly outweigh the rest of my suitcase.  I have tried to be a more discerning collector. Pieces collected in the early hours of the day are more capricious but as the hours accumulate retrieval is challenged by all body parts.  You see I’m a basic 5-to-6-hour walker.  When we are going on 8 hours I start seeing Jesus on toast.   Things break down. The debate goes something like this: I spot a nice shard. Head says, “I think we have that already.” 

Knee, and hip weigh in “You going to bend down for that?” 

Left knee “Oh no, please.” 

Right knee “But it’s just white with a few dots!”

Hip, “Agh, she is going for it.”

Arm, “I got it, don’t worry.”

My body emits a sound like the deep groan of metal on the Titanic when the ship breaks in half.

I’m no prima-donna when it comes to accommodations.  One of my earliest recollections regarding this fact goes back to high school. A friend and I rented a bedroom room in Ocean City through an ad.  We discovered upon arrival that the “room” was a camper parked in a garage with a dog chained to the hitch.  You adapt.

The criteria for choosing accommodations on our walk is primarily proximity to the Via Francigena path.  These are often very limited.  After 132 overnight accommodations on the Via Francigena, statistically it was likely one would be unacceptable, and it finally happened.  No further details are necessary. We have had the full Kubler Ross range of room types.   My favorite room on the phase resembled a chic public storage unit.  No windows, a gray and black palette, and a paneled frosted path divider between the room and bathroom. It had an amazing stock of Malin&Goetz soaps.  One problem, condensation when using the shower created a cascading water element on the walls creating puddles on the floor.

A clarification is in order regarding “Norman Towers Spa” in Casalbore.  Some may have misinterpreted the term “spa” based on congratulations for a nice cozy respite. In Casalbore Spa means a big hot tub in a crazy tricked out room.  The hot tub faced a large TV projecting a burning fireplace and was adorned by multi-colored ceiling lights.  The ceramic tiles on the wall depicted Vesuvius and Niagara Falls. None of the usual spa amenities were offered, no puffy slippers, no thick towels, no lavender spray for your pillow, no music replicating dolphin chatter.  The lovely owner, Valario, confided that the “Spa” was very popular with local clients of his bar.

The weather this week was challenging, cold rain and wind most days, but the past two days tendered a spectacular apology. We were treated to a dramatic display of Puglian agriculture.  We walked through waist high wheat and fava beans, often without a visible path, just pushing through these gorgeous plants. Acres of flowering fennel that looked like fluffily green moss was our next host.  We meandered among bent and twisted olive trees, which resembled menacing characters in children’s fairy tales.

But today was a gift.  After our GPS failed and no signage, we were marooned in an endless field of asparagus without horizon.  African men, sitting close to the ground in hundreds of electric, canopied go-carts straddled the rows of the plants, cutting asparagus shoots with a simply paring knife.  We took great interest in them, and they took great interest in us.  After a while the carts stopped, men got out, took off their shoes, knelt and bowed touching the ground for mid-day prayer.  We learned that the workers were from all over Africa, some from Ghana, some from Mali, some from Zimbabwe.  One harvester asked me “Where are you from? What is your name?  Where are you going? How many kms did you walk today? How old are you?”

We were still confused about where we were until we spoke to Angelo, who gave detailed direction and an armful of freshly cut asparagus which we savored as we found our way back on the path.