Paula’s Weekly Summary: Pilgrim’s Progress into Week 5

The mountains are behind us, a lasting memory of beauty and testament to endurance. Some of you have mentioned being reminded of the Sound of Music and Julie Andrews as we described our ascent.  Trust me, Julie Andrews isn’t going to get your ass up that mountain.  You need the heart thumping, foot stomping, leg warmer 1980’s music of Donna Summer and Gloria Gaynor.  Bad Girls all the way.

While we were cresting what seemed to be an endless climb challenged by obscure or non-existent signage, I heard in the distance what I thought was the pounding of a drum circle.  As we grew closer, I realized it wasn’t drums it was bells, cowbells which were proportioned to the size of the cow s. They were creating an opera worthy of Philip Glass. 

The cows, literally a herd, were standing astride the Via Francigena path.  We stood, looking at each other, the cows glaring with an attitude of pure entitlement, chewing.  I returned their look with confusion, wildebeest and zebra meet cow what is the protocol?   We surrendered the path, bovine 1, human 0.  Finally, we reached the summit and glimpsed the full array of our 24-day journey, mountains, plains, sea.

Following the ascent, down we go to San Giovanni Rotondo, the home of Saint Padre Pio.   It was like being dropped into a CPAC convention, I was met with familiar nods of recognition – they think, that I think, like they think. Exit.

We are now in a labyrinth of olive trees and grape vines.  We’ve been in Puglia only a couple of days but have noticed a greater level of intimacy in our interactions with Puglians.  People stop us, curious tainted with a level of concern.  “Do you want a ride?” “Do you need water?” A man stopping to warn us that the people in the next town are all crazy.  An elderly lady noticing our walking sticks asked “But, where are you going, where will you sleep, are you hungry?”  Edward answers in his perfect Italian, camouflaging our nationality. I prefer to be exposed as an eccentric American rather than a mascaraed as eccentric Italians, so I throw in a couple of “Gee, that is crazy” or “Oh, that is great” forcing the next question “Where are you from?” And their response “oh I have a cousin in New York.”

As we leave the forest and the trees and the vines, I, perhaps, over-romanticize the small scenes we have walked through almost every day: the butcher folding the paper around my sandwich with the precision of military corners; the blue and pink ribbons tied with pride to gates and doors announcing the birth of a baby; the greetings exchanged between young and old with two kisses; sitting on a log or stone wall for lunch; the pilgrims pedicure, culling calluses on curbsides.  I can even romanticize the dinner, when no other option existed, in a wedding venue, just us 2 and the chef proudly serving his pasta specialty, fish head stuffed with meat.  Recently I observed a nonna in the center piazza dragging her grocery trolly while yelling in her phone “cipolle, pane, pomodori e basta!”, the trolly like a large hare being pulled by its ears, while directly around her four cars making their bespoke version of a U-turn.  Then there are the dogs barking everywhere.  Some behind gates, some behind doors, on balconies, in cars, or chained to their dog houses.   The little ones bark way beyond their weight class, the older ones stay reclined lifting only their heads to bark an alert.   There was a pair, a Mutt and Jeff duo, that followed us for nearly an hour.  The small ones are my favorites, hidden behind stone walls, barking madly, the top of their heads momentarily visible as they jump, apparently hoping to leap the wall.   There was even a dog sitting on a lap at a restaurant yesterday that raised its head long enough to offer a few earnest barks.  There is an old Lebanese saying, “The dogs bark, but the caravan moves on.”

The wildebeest and Zebra are lopping on.

Happy Easter to those of you, like me, who follow the Julian calendar.