PHOTOS!!

OK, with 12 posts in 9 days, I think everyone will agree that I delivered on the "flurry of posts," as I had promised in my 9/22 blog post.

Though I am not quite caught up to my current position, I have taken some big strides, and hope to be current within the next week or two.

In the meantime, here are all the photos from Siena to Sutri, a total of eleven albums. It is a shame that I took so long to put all of these on the web, as each album deserves a good look. Tuscany was absolutely beautiful, and the North of Lazio was no slouch either. Anyways, there is enough reading material newly posted to last everyone a while, and while you're reading, I urge you to open up these albums (for the posts uploaded today, the link is conveniently placed at the top of the post), so you can see more than the four or five teaser shots I usually attach to each post.

All is well here with me, as I wrap up 2 wonderful weeks in Rome. While many of the little stories and discoveries of this period will go untold, you may rest assured that I have made the most of my time here, and hope to return in the very near future.

So, without further ado, here are the albums.

Love,
Pat

Tuscany
Siena
The Sienese Hills
Montalcino and Abbadia Sant'Antimo
Walk to Abbadia San Salvatore

Lazio
Abbadia San Salvatore to Acquapendente
Acquapendente to Orvieto to Bolsena
Bolsena to Montefiascone
Viterbo
Castiglione in Teverina, Civita di Bagnoregio, Tuscania, and the pizza party
Vetralla and Sutri -
Back to Castiglione in Teverina for the Wine Harvest

A Two Days' Break from Work

9/28 - Viterbo to Vetralla - 9.75 miles
9/29 - Vetralla to Sutri - 14.24 miles


See the Photo Album

As it turned out, unforeseen circumstances pushed the harvest back a few days, so rather than do farmwork for another two days, I decided to take a two day break, and come back when it was time. So, on the morning of 9/28, I returned to Viterbo, and without thinking twice, I started walking again. After five days of working and staying put, it was certainly a strange feeling to walk again! It took a few miles to get back into the swing of things, but since I had missed the entrance to the Via Francigena, a busy road shook the dust off of my walking shoes.

All in all, I should say that this was a pretty uneventful day. As I walked by several farms, I found myself appreciating with greater intensity and a keener eye those that were well-maintained, or better yet, manicured. I took a nap near the road, was awakened several times as cars stopped to check on my welfare, and learned not to pass out so close to a road next time.

When I reached Vetralla, I soon found the parochial church that was on my list, and entered. After a few suspenseful minutes of not being able to find the priest, and being turned away, he finally appeared, showed me to my room, and offered to make me dinner. I refused several times, but he insisted, so I agreed to meet him in the refectory at 7:30. Left to my own devices until then, I turned around from the door, and saw an upright piano. I was thrilled to have my own private piano, and immediately sat down to play, but it was too good to be true: the piano was severely out of tune, and several keys were unplayable. Still, I managed to clunk around for an hour before deciding that it was too far gone to make any attempt at music. Too bad, but I had recently had a good experience with a piano at Montefiascone, and one can't be too greedy, after all.

At 7:30, I headed to the Refectory, and found that a full meal had been prepared for me, with obvious care. As I sat down at the table, the priest offered me various things, and opened the large refrigerator door, urging me to eat or drink anything contained therein, including for breakfast the next day. With that, he left me alone to eat, and again I was thankful for my good fortune.

The next day, 9/29, I arose early, eager to cover some distance before heading back to Castiglione in Teverina. I managed to find the Via Francigena again, and was glad to have done so, since the first thing I encountered outside of Vetralla was a beautiful forest. After a peaceful walk, I came upon some large hazelnut groves, and was happy to see that the season had advanced since my last hazelnut groves in the Langhe of Piedmont, and that the hazelnuts were nearly ready. I walked down a private road lined with giant pines, and saw various large villas far off from the road. I realized that I was in the suburbs of Rome, and that these were probably long-held villas of important families.

In no time, I had reached Sutri, and before heading on to my next destination, I decided to check in with the boss man and see if the harvest was definitely happening the next day. I received confirmation that it was, so I hopped on a bus back to Viterbo, and in less than one hour on a slow bus I had covered the walk of two days. Once back in Viterbo, I spent a few hours at the internet cafe, biding my time until the guys finished work. When they finally made it back to Viterbo, I met them at Giovanni's house. Giovanni, my coworker on the farm, and by now a good friend, hosted me in his apartment over the next two days. So, together with his girlfriend Jenny, and his hilarious and musical roommate from Puglia, Sante, I had some dinner, and went to bed early, as I had two long work days ahead of me.

Montefiascone to Viterbo, and a day waiting for "the call"

9/20 - Montefiascone to Viterbo - 13.36 miles
See the Photo Album

I had promised myself to give this charming little town a closer look, and I am glad that I did, as it was beautiful and devoid of tourists. Since it was a hill town, I slowly made my way up to the top, and when I reached it, I saw stretched out before me Lago Bolsena and the surrounding hills. I took a large panorama photo, studied the landscape, and went on my way, having found the signs for the Via Francigena.

The walk was, again, not a very long one, so I was not too worried when I realized that I had missed a turn to remain on the Via Francigena. I was in the middle of a vast expanse of farmland, so I walked until lunchtime, then ate my lunch against an electrical pole with a view of a flock of sheep. Laying down for a quick nap, I was awakened by a fire truck, which had stopped to see if I needed rescuing. Laughing, I got up and continued my walk, and when the road started to turn ugly and polluted, I realized that I had reached the city of Viterbo.

Then I missed the right road again, ended up encircliing the city on a busy circumnavigation ring, and so entered Viterbo in anything but triumph. Worse still, the religious places on my list were full, but I did find a room at the Bed & Breakfast, which was just a bit out of the Medieval town. The man on the phone gave me instructions to get there, and only understanding about 80% of it, I decided to head in that general direction and see what was around.

When I got to the general vicinity he had described, I couldn't find the place, so while making calls every few minutes to try and reach the man again, I patiently waited and finally finished the Brothers Karamazov, having enjoyed it even more this time around. Looking up from the book, I realized that night was fast approaching, and when the man did not respond to the last of multiple phone calls, I decided to try my luck elsewhere.

Walking away, a man came out onto a nearby balcony, asked me if I was looking for the B+B, and then pointed me to the house 50 yards from where I had been sitting for two hours. It was the only house I had not tried, as the gate had no doorbell or signs. Now I tried the gate, found it unlocked, and walked to the B+B, where they had been waiting for me. Good thing I've learned to be patient...

I had a pizza in town, went to bed early, and awoke the next morning excited, as this was the day I would go to the farm for the wine harvest. While I waited for the phone call, I wandered around Viterbo, found the medieval town bigger than the others I had seen lately, and settled on a grassy patch to write down my thoughts.

After a lunchtime kebab and a few hours at the internet cafe, I finally got the call, and rushed to meet my contact. As he had some business in town to attend to, he left me with a friend of his, who showed me a bit of the city, and took me up to the roof of his apartment for a great view. We went for an aperitivo, which I found out is one of the best deals in Italy, as one drink buys you full access to the vast array of dishes that the bar lays out. So, as we got to know each other, I had a full dinner for the price of one glass of wine, which he generously offered.

Since he had to go meet a friend to see a movie, I headed off alone again, and waited until 9:30, when my contact called again. I met him once more, went to pick up my backpack at the B+B, then headed to a wine bar, where he introduced me to six beautiful girls, Italian students at the University of Viterbo. Actually, he sort of dared me to go up to them, as they had asked about me before, and introduce myself to one of the girls. I hesitated, a bit daunted, but there was nothing to lose, and soon I was seated amongst these girls chatting away, telling stories about my trip. They were a very captive audience, had lots of great questions, and were very sweet and welcoming.

If the whole week was going to be this way, I would be one lucky guy, I thought! I saw the girls off, as they had exams the next morning, then got into the van and headed to Castiglione in Teverina. And you know most of the story from there: work, life on a farm, playing with the dogs, work, catching a fever, working through it, making pizza with friends in the pizza oven, then heading off after day five to walk for two days before returning for the harvest.

Bolsena to Montefiascone, with 2 great stops

9/20 - Bolsena to Montefiascone - 9.39 miles

See the Photo Album

Pilgrim on the Via Francigena

After packing up my belongings, I quietly walked down the stairs so as not to disturb anyone. I think Sister Giovanna had been waiting for me, however, because she soon popped out of nowhere and ushered me into the refectory, where they had laid out a breakfast for me. She then left me to eat in peace, but not before asking that I sign their guestbook, and very shyly requesting that I leave an offering, if I were at all able to do so. I did both, and felt ashamed for not having done the latter on my previous sojourns in these religious houses.

Luckily for me, she had verbalized the normally unspoken duty of a pilgrim who has the means to donate to these convents and monasteries along the way. Now that I knew how it worked, I felt much better about accepting their hospitality. Still, despite the creeping temptation to think that these people are only kind and hospitable to pilgrims because they want more money, my own experience tells me that this is not so, at least where I stayed. No, they love their pilgrims, see their journey as a beautiful expression of the active love of Christ, and want to help them in any way they can.

So, now the question arises: you're not on a walk for overtly religious reasons, so how can you enjoy the benefits of the services provided? Well, I have given this some thought, having had a few minutes (read: hours and hours) of free time, and here is what I have to say about it. Nowhere is it written or suggested that only religious people may walk on the Via Francigena, this pilgrim's route to Rome. No one has ever hinted that these houses are only for Catholic pilgrims. I never misled anyone into believing that I was a Catholic pilgrim, or expressed any religious thoughts that were inconsistent with my own beliefs (which I will do my best to leave out of this blog). When asked about my religious affiliation, I respond truthfully, and further state that this walk will hopefully help me to sort everything out (which is true). Finally, the fact that I lacked the "credentials," a book of squares to be stamped at each destination along the way, made it clear to all that I was not a true Via Francigena pilgrim (or at least had not started my journey with that intent in mind), but I was never treated with any less respect, kindness, and generosity as a result. So, having laid everything out on the table, I strive to be respectful, grateful, and cheerful, and enjoy being on this path; after all, it holds great interest for me from a historical perspective, as many of these towns had grown up around the Via Francigena as outposts. I love knowing that thousands have climbed the same hill, marveled at the same vista, and slept in the same convent for hundreds of years.

Walking by the Lake

Judging by the weather, I had a great day ahead of me. The sky was that deep azure color one finds after a heavy rain, the sun was warm but not oppressive, and a strong wind blew off from the lake to keep the day from becoming too hot. Perfect walking weather, I thought, and was a bit disappointed that this day would be a short one, as Montefiascone was only a few miles away. Well, not that disappointed; I used the extra time I had to visit an internet cafe, chat at length with the market owner, and even visit the church, which had early Christian elements.

The signs for the Via Francigena pointed me toward the Via Cassia, the main road in these parts, so I set off on the side of the road, which was surprisingly empty. Looking to my right, I could barely see the lake of Bolsena, as my view was obstructed by houses and trees. I wanted to get closer and take a picture, but no roads led to the water, so I kept walking.

A couple miles later, I saw my chance: a field with tall grass was split down the middle by a dirt path which went all the way to the water's edge. This must have been someone's land, but I didn't see anyone around, and meant no harm, so I turned off the Cassia and walked down that path. It ended at a large, beautiful tree, and I found myself sheltered from the road on my own private beach. The view was divine, the smells and sounds of the choppy lake were fresh and pleasant, and there were plenty of places to sit and relax.

I plopped down my bag and ate my lunch after a very short walking spell; usually I make myself earn it, walking two or three times the distance I had just covered, but I could not pass up this spot. As the tree, the reeds, and distance separated me from the road, I felt as though I were the only person on the lake. The wind also played an important role in making me feel this way, as it pushed away the sounds of cars, leaving only a dancing field of grass. This was, without a doubt, one of the most memorable lunches of the trip, and I took the opportunity to record the sights and sounds thoroughly. I just wish I had a way to capture smells and taste, too!

The War Cemetery

While I could have spent all day here, I did have to reach my destination by nightfall, so I said goodbye to my little beach, and walked back up to the Via Cassia. I was not on it for very long, however, before I came across another compelling stop: a British War Cemetery, honoring the fallen in this area during the Second World War. This, as you surely must know from all the photos of war monuments I have taken, is right up my alley, so I turned without hesitation, and walked down the large white steps to the cemetery.

I never expected it to be as well maintained and aesthetically pleasing as it turned out to be. I also did not expect it to be open, as I was alone here, but when I pushed the iron gate and it slowly opened, I entered. Oh, that I might one day be laid to rest in a place as peaceful and still as this war cemetery was! Spying plaques along a shaded wall, I went over to read, and found a full account of the Italian campaign with a description of who fought and died here. Opening a vault built into the same wall, I found a guest book and a booklet which contained a full list of the dead, as well as an even more-detailed account of the fighting. I took this booklet to a sunny patch of grass facing the graves of these heroes, and here read the account of what they did to serve their country and the cause of freedom.

Once I finished, I took an emotionally taxing stroll among the graves, reading the tombstones which bore messages from proud, affectionate, and grief stricken parents and family members. I do not possess the ability to accurately convey the electrically-charged but profoundly peaceful atmosphere in that cemetery on this particular day, but I hope that the photos will give you at least an idea.

Silently, and with true reverence for these honored dead, I walked out of the cemetery, and back to the road, where cars whizzed by, barely noticing the columns that marked the cemetery's entrance. And then you ask why I walk...

Montefiascone

It was not much longer to my next destination, and I arrived at the 17th century convent around 5:30 - once more I was warmly welcomed by the nuns, and showed to my sleeping quarters, another room with beds for five or six, but with just me to occupy it. Just as the nun was about to leave me, I decided to go for it, and asked if they had a piano. She smiled, and without even taking off my shoes and sitting for a minute to rest, I followed her back down.

She took me into a separate room, a salon in the old style, beautifully furnished, and here I found a grand Bosendorfer, one of the best pianos. Better yet, the piano was in excellent condition, being used frequently by the town's piano teacher. I sat down, took a deep breath, and played. The nun smiled at me, the mother superior came in for a chat, but then the door was closed and I banged away.

When the door opened again and the nun asked me if I planned to eat that evening, I realized that it was 7:45, and that I had 75 minutes to find a place to eat and return by the 9:00 curfew. I ran out, still pulsing with energy from two hours in paradise, and saw that this was a truly beautiful medieval town. Promising myself to take a closer look the next day, I settled on a trattoria on a square.

This was a special little place, with the kind of staff that takes pride in their art form, and with a chef who owned the place but did not keep aloof, often serving as waiter and busboy. I had papardelle al ragu di cinghiale (wild boar meat sauce, yum), a pot filled with delicious porcini mushrooms and roasted potatoes, and a cream-filled pastry topped with chocolate that came from a bubbling fondue pot five feet to my right. What a crying shame that I only had an hour to eat and linger! I could have sat all night, tasting these delicacies that were clearly prepared with love. It turns out that I even lucked into sitting next to the chef's parents, and so soon became engaged in the prattle back and forth between parents and son. At their urging, he gave me some little plates to sample, some reserve dessert wine to wash it down, and then when the bill came, the chef cut it by 20%. I repeat, what a crying shame that I had to leave for curfew!

Back onto the Via Francigena, by way of Etruscan Road

9/19 - Orvieto to Bolsena - 13.68 miles
See the Photo Album here


Going to see some art

I wish I had seen the Duomo the day before; even though it would have been impossible given the circumstances, it would certainly have been more convenient. I awoke to the sound of rain, and groaning, took my sweet time getting ready. Part of me just wanted to stay, or at least skip going back up to the church, which was smack dab in the middle of that large plateau. Still, I am a stubborn son of a gun, and had left off up top, so I had to go up anyways if I wanted to keep on the right track. Moreover, I would have felt stupid coming all the way to Orvieto and then skipping the main attraction. So I put on my raingear, and still grumbling, took the funicular back up.

The duomo was beautiful, revealing Orvieto as a historical, powerful city. The chapel in which were housed the main Signorelli works was closed off, costing 5€ for admission. Grumbling even more, I dished out the money, left them to look after my backpack, and stepped into the chapel. I won't lie and say that I dropped to my knees, teared streaming from every orifice as I let the master works consume my soul in a flame of spiritual passion. They were, in the words of a 6th grader, cool and neat. And I guess that's how it is with me and works of art in Italy: if you're going to make me pay when there is so much to see for free, it better be worth it. *sigh* I know, looking back I won't remember the 5€ but the fact that I saw these works in person. Anyone who has leafed through an art history book and recognized works previously seen in person can tell you it's pretty damn satisfying, like seeing an ex-girlfriend dating a total loser, but no as mean, and to be honest, not as satisfying either.

Since I paid the 5€, I figured I might as well get my money's worth and see the museum too, which proved to be a good shelter from the rain, for the twenty minutes it took me to yawn my way through it. Whoa, negative nancy! Ok, it gets better, I promise. I just want to convey a little of the ill-at-ease and moodiness that accompany a rainy day, when you know that you'll have to walk through it. Actually, feeling this way even at the time, I decided to undertake a little Pollyanna exercise and jot down the top 5 reasons I like the rain.

5. Makes you appreciate sunny days that much more
4. Brings out all the wonderful smells of plants, trees, flowers, dirt, and even asphalt
3. Shows me that the extra weight of my rain gear is worthwhile after all
2. Allows me to keep milk chocolate in my backpack without it melting
1. Means I don't have to wash at least one of two outfits

The Etruscan Road to Bolsena

So, having checked another cultural must-see off my list (which is only getting longer, not shorter, as I grow older), I walked back down the plateau, a bit more treacherous in the rain, and continued on my way. I had said it gets better, and here's how. While looking for a place to sleep at the tourist information center the day before, I had received a map of old Etruscan roads linking Orvieto to various points, among them Bolsena, my destination. So, instead of walking along the side of the road, I got to wind my way through forests, tiny villages, expanses of farmland, and all of it on roads in use for thousands of years. There was something so real about this walk, so unique and untouched by time and tourism. I might as well have been walking three thousand years ago for most of it, and even though the rain was a bummer, it somehow made everything that much more authentic.

I walked the whole trail, roughly ten miles, without seeing another soul, and when I emerged on the outskirts of Bolsena, I was brought back to this century by three luxury cars, who actually stopped on the road to gawk at me, as if I were some Etruscan emerging from the primeval forest. It didn't help that I had chosen that exact moment to relieve myself... After an uncomfortable deer-in-headlights exchange, they moved on, and keeping a respectful distance I followed, expecting them to lead me to town. Wrong! A half-mile down the road, I came to the gates of a giant private villa, saw the three cars parked, and turned right around. I figured I probably was not going to get a cup of hot chocolate anyways, not after what had just happened.

By the time I had backtracked and reached Bolsena, I was completely worn out, even though the walk had been relatively short. I called the nuns, found out with joy that I was welcome to come, and walked the last stretch. Upon my arrival, I was treated royally, given a cup of hot tea and cookies, along with some newspaper to put in my shoes (helps them dry, they said, and they were right). These old nuns took good care of me, and with a hot shower and comfortable bed, I was soon restored to good health and spirits.

A quick jaunt in Umbria

Acquapendente to Orvieto, in the region of Umbria - 18.80 miles


The North tip of Lazio is a relatively narrow strip of land that juts into both Tuscany and Umbria. Studying the map, I realized that by taking a one day detour, I could reach the town of Orvieto, and thus add another region, Umbria, to my list. More importantly, Orvieto's duomo contains a chapel richly decorated by Luca Signorelli, including his fabulous depiction of the Last Judgment.


I don't normally take detours for works of art, since that would mean veering off every few miles. However, this was no minor work or art, and Orvieto was no small village, but actually a major city in the province.

Wait, time for a quick detour on an informational tangent. Italy's geography is separated into regions (the rough equivalent of our states), then provinces (corresponding to our counties), then comunes (corresponding to our greater city areas, such as the greater New York area, Los Angeles, Philadelphia etc.), then towns, corresponding to parts of the greater city areas (Brooklyn, Santa Monica, West Philadelphia), and finally frazioni, borgate, località, quartieri, contrade, the rural and urban divisions of a city into parts of town or neighborhoods. In summary: Region = State, Province = County, Comune = Greater City Area.

Back to the story... Going one day out of my way is a comparitively quick detour, but this does not make the actual walk there any quicker. I slogged up and down hills, and walked all day, but when evening came, I finally reached Orvieto. The city is on a huge plateau overlooking the surrounding countryside, and there was no way around climbing up that plateau to reach it. Well, that's not quite accurate; there was a funicular that went from bottom to top in two minutes, but that, of course, was off limits. So I walked up a steep hill with no sidewalk (who's crazy enough to walk this street anyways?), and finally entered the city walls.


It was time to find a place to stay and drop off my bag, so I started by looking for religious housing, as it had treated me so well for three days running. I performed my usual tricks, asking the old men, going to the tourist information center, and so on. However, today I was out of luck. I went 0 for 3 on religious housing, the hostel was far out of town, and the only cheap hotel was down below. By now, it was pitch dark, so I turned off the GPS, took the funicular down the hill, and found the hotel.


The lady showed me to my room, quoted a price that was nearly double what the hotel guide had said ("that's from years ago!" Then why don't you update it!). I think the lady saw me go into genuine shock when she said 60€, and as she must have feared losing me, she took the price down to 40€, which was actually a fair price, since the room was well-decorated and the hotel ahd recently gained a star, from two to three.

Anyways, enough boring, useless details. I closed down a Kebab shop, thankful to have barely made it in time for dinner, watched CNN in English for the first time of the trip (turns out the US markets aren't faring so well. Remember, you heard it here first!), and went to bed. But wait! You didn't even see the Signorelli work!

Entering Lazio, the first unknown region

9/17 - Abbadia San Salvatore to Acquapendente - 18.54 miles

Awaking early, I packed up and departed, ready to say goodbye to Tuscany and enter a new region. After a quick trip to the fruit market and a spirited conversation with three locals, I started down the hill, loaded with the many ripe treasures I had just received as a gift, and smiling at my continued good fortune. Nature also provided on my walk, with abundant blackberry bushes all the way down the hill.

When I arrived below, I found a very different Tuscany from the one I had seen over the last few days. Walking on the via Cassia, a major artery leading to Rome, I walked in an industrial area, followed by giant farms stretching over kilometers in either direction. Stopping at the one town in the midst of all this grand nothing, I asked an elderly couple for some water, ate lunch under a willow tree (two days of tree shaded lunches in a row, whoopee!), and kept moving.

The border between Tuscany and Lazio was on a bridge, and spanking the sign, I crossed from the known to the unknown. Up till now, I had an idea of what I would see, and where I would go, being familiar with the regions I had crossed. Lazio, however, was a question mark for me, Rome being the only point of reference. I embarked on a contemplation and reflection session, giving myself a sense of closure with Tuscany, and excitedly imagined what I would find in Lazio.

My first town in Lazio would be Acquapendente, and it was here I found myself once again on the Via Francigena. What is this path, and why did I keep finding it? Having first seen the signs for it on my first day at Grand Saint-Bernard, I had crossed its path a few times in Tuscany, and now here. I soon found out that the Via Francigena is part of the network of roads linking Italy with Switzerland, France, and England. Since medieval times, pilgrims to Rome have walked these same roads, sleeping in the same places and eating at the same restaurants. Unwittingly, I had stumbled back onto this route, never knowing how large a part it would play over the next few days.

Seeing signs for a campsite, I headed that way, but when the Via Francigena veered off and my GPS told me to follow, I took the fateful turn away from the campground. Running into two old men, I was soon confirmed in my decision. They recognized me as a pilgrim, and pointed out the place I should seek, a hotel for pilgrims in the center of town. I followed their directions, and sure enough, I was stopped by a lady driving a small Audi. "Pilgrim?" "Yes." "This way." I followed the car down a tight, serpentine medieval street, and soon found out that this woman was a member of an association providing housing for pilgrims. She made a phone call, another woman came with keys, and soon I had found myself a third evening of free lodging. The lady even told me about a restaurant with a special price for pilgrims.

Chuckling at my luck, I took a hot shower (my first shower in two and a half days), hand-washed my clothes (did I mention it was my first shower?!?), and walked to the restaurant. When I saw it, I was a bit intimidated. This was a pretty nice place, and I was wearing the clothes I didn't wash, but which was equally dirty and stinky as the clothes I did wash. Still, I went in, climbed the stairs, ignored the questioning eyes that pierce through me nearly every time I enter a crowded restaurant alone, and leafing through the menu, found that it was above my price range. Still, I counted on my good fortune, as I had been on a roll today, and followed the lady's instructions. "You're a pilgrim? We have a special fixed menu for you." Organic risotto, steak, vegetable, wine, dessert, and coffee, a truly delicious meal, and I was treated extremely well by the entire staff. This was a 35€ meal, but it had been worth it, and I was happy to pay. I asked for the bill, and smiling at me, the waiter brought it to the table, folded in half. 15 Euros.

I choked up. I will never get used to the kind-hearted and generous treatment I receive here on an almost daily basis. I wrote a glowing and praiseworthy message in the guestbook, which was filled with similar messages from other pilgrims, and walked back to my warm bed, thrilled for such a propitious inaugural day in Lazio.

From one Abbey to the next

9/16 - Abbadia Sant'Antimo to Abbadia San Salvatore - 19.09 Miles

The least I owed these monks of Sant'Antimo was to attend the mass that morning, and I did so willingly, excited to see the ceremony in such a unique setting, and to hear these talented chanters once more. I won't say that it was thrilling, or that I was on the edge of my pew, but there is something unmistakeably divine in the swirling incense and meditative hum of voices that fill a Romanesque Church. Something tells me that I might have been a devout Catholic had I been baptized and raised in such a magnificent church. Then again, isn't that the point of all this grandeur? Who built it, using what labor, to what end? Anyways, I won't go into the back & forth that I often hold with myself regarding organized religion: this is certainly not the proper forum to do so, and the last thing I want to do is alienate anyone or ruffle any feathers needlessly.

After the mass, I was followed by the priest, who had a quick chat and introduced me to Augustine, the wise and holy church cat, who, judging from all the holy water he has reportedly consumed, is as holy as they come. We talked religion and walking for a bit, I thanked him for his hospitality, and left the Abbey.

Maybe it was just the effect of the first sunny day after three rainy ones, but I was struck dumb by the beauty of this region. Right outside of Castelnuovo dell'Abate, the town neighboring the Abbey, is one of the most beautiful landscapes I have ever laid eyes upon, and this is saying a lot, after all I have seen here. Figuring one last shot wouldn't hurt, I tried my fifth and last Montalcino vineyard attempt, and discovered that a team of professionals was "covering" that particular vineyard. For those of us (for I cannot count myself out of this large and ever-growing group, despite my current disposition - see my vineyard post and the way efficiency saved my body, for example) who place efficiency on a pedestal, come see this view and tell me it isn't a shame that worker-bees come and "get it done" without stopping to enjoy and celebrate their surroundings the way their predecessors have done for centuries. I'll be the first to admit that I had bowed down to that false idol in times past, but can safely say that all this walking (what an inefficient expenditure of time, energy, and resources!) has almost completely freed me, if only for a delicious but short spell, from its mesmerizing allure.

"OK, enough flowery speech, get to the point," says Efficiency Personified, in a curt and staccato clip. "There's lots of work to do and I still haven't gotten through all of my morning emails!"

When I had first plugged in my destination on the GPS, it had recommended a route that veered in a semi-circle that was four or five miles longer than I could comfortably handle if I wanted to reach my destination before nightfall. Studying the paper map, I saw that a road led straight to Abbadia San Salvatore, cutting out those extra four or five miles. This, as I have said before, can mean only one thing: big hills. Still, up and over was feasible whereas around was not, so I prepared myself for a long day and started walking. I was aided by inspiration in the form of my beloved Beethoven, who furnished me some lovely walking music for the entire day. I started with his Missa Solemnis, to see how he treated the same ceremony (or extremely similar) I had just witnessed, and which was therefore fresh in my mind. I must admit that I preferred Beethoven's version of the mass, though I realize that his version does not serve as a replacement, and that therefore a comparison is not quite appropriate. I also engulfed an early string quartet, a piano sonata, a piano concerto, and a symphony, and by the time I was through, it was time for lunch.

Since I did not have much time to spare before dark, I could only take one 45-minute break in about six hours of walking. I spent it on a hill overlooking part of that same view, for the last time on this trip at least, and ate my lunch under a giant oak tree. Whenever I used to picture myself resting on this walk, it was always under a large tree, so I was glad to finally make that image come true in such a picturesque fashion.

The last bit of the walk took me up the biggest hill that I had climbed so far in Tuscany, and included a lovely portion in a shaded forest with a dirt path. To accompany this unexpected walker's treat and round off this long day, I dove into a deep and active listen of Beethoven's grandest piano sonata, the Hammerklavier, a beast of a piece written in four movements, including his longest sonata movement (the third movement), and a ten minute fugue to finish it off. I know this piece well, have laughed and wondered at its different sections, but had not so deeply studied it before. This time, I had a professor in one Andras Schiff, a concert pianist with an encyclopedic knowledge and an intimate love of Beethoven. Months before, my Dad had sent a link to me (thanks again Dad for this precious gift!) which featured a lecture-performance of every Beethoven sonata by Schiff, available for free download. Only now, filthy rich with that priceless commodity, time, have I been able to listen to these brilliant lectures, and accompany them with enlightened listenings of the sonatas.

In particular, Schiff's treatment of the Hammerklavier is awe-inspiring, at times laugh out loud funny, but always engaging. I listened to this 45-minute sonata as I climbed the hill, walked with rapt attention for Schiff's 80-minute lecture-performance, and with an encore listen to the Sonata, I finally approached Abbadia San Salvatore. Why do I spend so much time harping on this one composer? I listen to music every day, most of it very good, but I only seem to talk about Beethoven. Why? Well, first of all, this isn't a music blog, so I can't talk only music, but must pick and choose. Second, most people don't really care for classical music, or haven't yet given it a truly fair shake, putting it in a convenient little cubbyhole as: studying music, dinner music, or worst of all, music for snotty old people wearing pince nez and exclaiming "I declare!" So, better that I stick to one than try to talk about them all. You make plants grow with a watering can, not with a fire hose, after all. Before I move on, let me make one request, so that once and for all I can say that I have tried to share my passion while I had a soap box upon which to stand. Find a Beethoven Sonata, download the corresponding lecture (www.guardian.co.uk/schiff), skim a wikipedia article or something similar about the sonata (feel free to skip the technical parts if you don't understand, and whatever you do, don't let the language intimidate you or turn you off!), and listen to the sonata, then the lecture, then the sonata once more. I know what you're thinking: this sounds like a big investment of time. But I promise you that it is one of the most worthwhile investments you could ever make!

OK, I'm a realist, or at least I try to be, so for the two of you who actually do this, let me know if you want suggestions beforehand, and once you're done, please let me know what you think! Oh, and one more thing: don't start with the last 5 sonatas, Opus 101 or later, since they're pretty far out there, and I don't want to lose you altogether!

Back to the story... after such a peaceful evening the night before, I made way straight to the church, hoping to repeat the experience, and passed through what would be the first of several well-preserved medieval centers in the area. Almost ready to collapse, I knocked on the church doors, and receiving no answer, plopped myself down on the front steps.

Within minutes, an ancient priest approached from a nearby building, and after asking me a few well-intentioned questions about my trip, showed me to another multi-purpose room, much like the one at Abbadia Sant'Antimo, though without a kitchen or hot water. Still, happy to receive a second day of lodging for free, I heartily thanked the priest, and took a well-deserved rest.

Montalcino and the Abbey of Sant'Antimo

9/15 - Buonconvento to Castelnuovo dell'Abate - 19.09 miles walked


The first bottle of "fine" wine I ever purchased was a 1997 Brunello di Montalcino from Castello Banfi. I remember where I purchased it (Firenze), how much I paid for it (35€), when I drank it (Christmas 2004), and with whom (my family). Ever since that first bottle, I have loved Brunello di Montalcinos: the dark, earthy taste, the larger-than-life textures, the exciting delayed gratification that comes with an investment which has tempted you from the wine fridge for years. In my mind, I had imagined the vineyards that produced this majestic wine, along with the surrounding countryside. And it was on this dreary, dripping morning that I would see it for the first time.

Within minutes of entering the Comune of Montalcino, I soon found the names of several vineyards that I recognized and whose wines I had tasted, and silly as it sounds, I was giddy with excitement. These venerated villas, with cypress-lined driveways and row after row of manicured vines, were just what I had hoped they would be.

I wanted in. I wanted to walk these rows, sample the grapes as I snipped off thick clusters, eat soup and rustic home-baked bread with three generations of winemakers bursting with tradition and lively stories, and be as authentic a part of this process as possible.

So, walking in the misty sprinkling of rain, I decided to see if I could get myself the kind of opportunity I was searching for. Now, I will admit a weakness of mine, something that has held me back many times before: I have a dreaded fear of rejection, of putting myself out there only to be denied. This character weakness has kept me from having countless experiences, and there was absolutely no way that I was going to let it do so now. That being said, I want you to imagine the following scene: it's cloudy, with intermittent rain, but with the kind of overcast cover that looks liable to break at any moment, revealing a weakened but recovering sun. The landscape features rolling hills dotted with farmland in various stages of growth and cultivation, including the brown upturned soil of now empty wheat fields, yellow-green fields of fallow land sprinkled with flowering weeds, and row after row of green vines, pregnant with drooping clumps of dark purple grapes. A white-beige gravel road, wet but not soaked - after all, the ground was thirsty after months of dry, crackling summer - cuts through these fields, winding up a steep hill to the looming medieval town of Montalcino, whose towers jut out from the trees and centuries-old buildings.

Now picture a walker, saddled down with a large pack on his shoulders, taking long strides up that gravel road. He pauses, gathering his courage and silently repeating a mantra of his own invention, and turns onto a driveway. Men are working in the fields, hammering away and bantering back and forth with one another in what sounds like a local dialect, similar to Italian but barely intelligible to his foreign ears. Spying these men, he takes a step onto the dirt path separating two rows of glistening vines, feels the mud squelch beneath his hiking shoes, and takes a few more cautious, unbalanced steps into the vineyard. The men notice him, stand up erect and are immediately silent, in obvious anticipation. "Excuse me, are you the owner?" "Some might call me that." "May I have a few words?" Silently, and with a hint of macho apprehension (a contradiction in terms, but there you have it), the man approaches. "I was walking by, I'm a traveler/pilgrim, and think that this place is truly beautiful. I was wondering if I might be of service working on the harvest, and if you have already started."

Five times I reenacted this scene, or one very similar, and five times I was denied, each time a different variation of the same theme: it's illegal to hire workers without a contract, they're really tough these days on us after "the scandal," we outsource now, the harvest hasn't started yet, we don't need anymore help, team's full, we don't have enough grapes to require outside help.

While I was disappointed, and sometimes felt a bit sheepish, I realized that I had taken a major step in my growth as a person. I tried, put myself in a vulnerable position, failed, smiled, tried again, failed once more, and moved on. I can't win every time, this I know, but now I saw myself doing something I would not have done before this walk. And that's almost as satisfying, especially looking back as we all know I got the chance to harvest shortly thereafter, albeit in what is, compared to Montalcino, a wine making backwater.

This day held another victory of sorts for me, that of my arrival at the Abbey of Sant'Antimo. Rather than stay at one of the hundreds of overpriced bed & breakfasts in the area, I took advantage of my research from Volterra and had called the Abbey to reserve. They were full, the monk said, and, defeated, I said that I was on foot, and wondered if he knew of any other affordable options. "You're a pilgrim? We'll find a place for you, then." Two days later, at the end of a rainy walk that essentially crossed the entire zone of Montalcino, I was presented with the austere beauty of this Romanesque Abbey.

Man, was I tickled. I could not imagine a more beautiful place to sleep in this amazing backdrop. I entered the church, was told by the custodian how to find the monk that would show me where to go, and was informed that Vespers began at 7:00 PM. I found the monk, he showed me the kitchen, informed me that the food was mine to fix, showed me where to get the materials to make a coffee for myself, and then took me to a large multi-purpose room which would be my room for the night. He then scampered off to prepare for Vespers, leaving me dumbfounded at this stroke of fortune.

I made a coffee on the stove, sipped it down, and headed to the old church. There, as the evening sun played on the altar and nave of the Romanesque church as it set for the evening, I listened with joy and reverence as these monks, about twelve in all, sang Gregorian chant for half an hour. Nothing could be more serene, contemplative, authentic, and marvelous than that service was for me.

Quietly stirred, I respectfully left the church and returned to the kitchen, reflecting at how communal worship is a lot more acceptable and pleasant when the service is of such peaceful and undemanding quality. Reaching the kitchen, I met Enio, another guest at the Abbey. Enio, as it turned out, is an Alpine guide / electrician who once a year leads a group into the wilderness of Puglia, a region in Southern Italy, for a week of meditation and reflection. Since we had the walking connection, we immediately fell to chatting, and piling our collective resources into a magnificent dinner, we shared experiences. He told me all about Goum, this special journey, helped me brainstorm about stuff I could toss to lighten the load (he was way more intense than I could ever be, even suggesting that I get rid of my tent - "you will always find some sort of overhang or something"), and I found out he was the head electrician for Rifugio Sella, the refuge in Valle D'Aosta where I had cavorted with ibexes all those weeks ago.

Parting as friends and exchanging email addresses, I went to bed, happy once again for such a full, educational, and inspirational day.

Cascina di Murlo to Buonconvento - Rainy Day No. 2

9/14 - Cascina di Murlo to Buonconvento - 13.89 miles walked, still in the rain

There was no way around the fact that everything was wet when I woke up the next morning. My tent had help up pretty well, but most of my clothes and rain gear had been wet from the day before, so my tent was damp on the inside as a result.

Going to the bathroom for a coin-operated hot shower, I managed to blow-dry some of my clothes, but really there was no escaping the universal damp of the morning. I folded up my dripping tent and headed off. Since I had to back-track a bit, I got to see my beloved landscape again, and was still just as thankful the second time around.

The rest of the walk was, well, rainy, but I did manage to see some absolutely classical Tuscan villas, complete with cypress-lined entryways and olive tree groves.

When I got to the last stretch of road separating me from a hot shower, the skies opened with the largest downpour yet, full of windy gusts and with limited visibility. I laughed and took a little video, seeing that the heavens wanted one last good shot at me before I escaped for the night.

Twenty minutes later, I had reached my hotel in the town of Buonconvento, in one of the two existing single rooms (the rest were all, get ready, matrimonial suites). I immediately took a long, hot shower, a true luxury, and proceeded to hang every piece of my clothing to dry in the room.

As there was a restaurant downstairs, I didn't leave the building for the rest of the night, choosing instead to hit the sack early. The next day would take me to Montalcino, and I wanted to be ready.

Back to the Past - Leaving Siena

Okay, back to the past, so I can catch up with my walk and get us to my current location, Rome.

Last episode in the saga was the Siena romance. For details, see the past blogs below.

9/13 Siena to Cascina di Murlo - 14.6 sad and lonely miles trudged in the pouring rain

Franka and Julchen left on the bus at 10:38 (on time, for once, when I least wanted it to be), and I was weighed down heavily by their departure. Even now I marvel at how two days can take me from a happy-go-lucky self-sufficiency to a feeling of helplessness and loss. Ever since my sister, swelling with her brand new middle school wisdom, taught me about Pathetic Fallacy while I was still a tyke in elementary school, I have always remembered the term with fondness when it applied to the situation in which I found myself. Well, I got it in spades, giant droplets soaking me to the bone as I lamented diverging paths and the inexorable march of time. So, with the rain coming down in windy sheets, I slogged my way out of Siena.

Walking in the rain is one of those things that looks romantic from your dry, air-conditioned seat in the movie theater. In real life, it's a big old mess, cold and sopping wet. Even with all my rain gear, which performed remarkably well, there was no escaping hours of driving rain hitting and soaking my hands and face, and by degrees, my feet.

I did the best I could: I put on a playlist perfect for my mood, and when I was ready to move on from my pint of Ben & Jerry's moment, I started the Odyssey. And so I walked, for a few rainy hours, all the way to Cascina di Murlo.

But here, where I need it most, I had a zen moment. Ready? On a regular stretch of the walk, I looked to my right, and saw spread out before me a magnificent landscape, of the type I had only dreamed about seeing after drooling over so many paintings. I stopped, only two miles or so from my destination, and took it all in. It was here that the most important part of my trip came to me, in a flood of emotion.

Thank you. Thank you. I am grateful for every day, for the rain, for the romance, and the loneliness, and this view, and for seeing even now that this too shall pass. I am sorry - for my pride, for all too easily falling into the hero role in my frequent imaginings, for negative and disdainful thoughts about others that pop up despite my vigilant efforts to subdue them, and most of all, for forgetting to say thank you at every opportunity. And finally, how fortunate I am, setting for myself a dream, a crazy plan with abstract goals, and having everything work out so magically and favorably, and with such universal support and care. Thank you.

Now, why do I share this so openly, putting it on the web for eternal archival? I'm not sure. But I find it important for me to memorialize these thoughts as they occurred to me at that point in my journey, and to share them with you. Cynics, go ahead and take your shots. I leave a lot open for you to snicker about, but even having read this and thought about it for many days, the message remains.

Returning to the mundane... I lifted the wet backpack to my shoulders, adjusted the straps for the millionth time, winced as I put on the soaking, cold gloves, and walked up the hill the other two miles, all the way to the campground.

I set up the tent on the soaking wet ground, lay out my soaking clothes as best I could in the cold, damp tent, and crouched under a tree until dinnertime. At dinner, I met the Brasilian restaurant employees, chatted a bit, and went to bed with the sound of rain pattering on my tent in thick, wet drops. Thank you!

What I learned from my trip to the vineyard

So what did I learn from the seven days spent working on a vineyard?

I learned through hard manual labor the great strength of nature, particularly on a small scale. Weeds that defied a copper weed whacker blade or the full force of my torso with a sickle or spade: brambles of blackberry so dense and tangled that ten minutes of hearty striking could not fully break through: nine hours of work to barely alter a portion of the landscape, and only for the few months, weeks, or even days until nature would grow back, even stronger than before. I, along with the kind-spirited Giovanni, 23 year-old oenology student from Salerno, mused with respectful awe that six months of neglect would turn this farm right back into a forest, leaving no trace of all the grooming effort we had put forth.

I learned, therefore, to appreciate a well-groomed and meticulously maintained plot of land. It is a constant struggle, and even difficult on the soul, as one must ruthlessly destroy and worship the land, often simultaneously.

Once again, and not for the last time, I remembered to be appreciative of those who produce my food and drink, especially those who do so on a truly organic farm - and I emphasize truly, as many secretly cut corners while no one is looking. That higher price you pay is for the farmer who, respecting tradition, goes to great lengths to produce a competitive product without the aid of many of technology's most tempting tools. We who grow up and live far from the farm will, through no fault of our own, tend to forget with what toil and paternal care our produce arrives at the supermarket, shiny, ripe, and without any bruises. However, while it is forgivable to forget these things, it is our duty to every so often return to the land and once again understand through our direct labor the value of our food. That is a lesson I hope never to forget.

I learned that efficiency not only saves time, as it does in an office, but also means saving your body from excessive soreness or exhaustion.

I learned that regardless of your industry or labor, work well done is satisfying to the soul and pleasing to the eye.

I learned to recognize and identify Beethoven's first ten piano sonatas, a total of 35 movements, a most satisfying example of multi-tasking if there ever was one. Along this same (melodic) line, I realized blissfully that I will always associate these sonatas with this phase in my life (except for no. 8, the Pathetique, whose associations go back to being 16), as they had been hitherto "un-earmarked."

Most immediately to my current condition, I re-learned to thank my lucky stars for my absolute freedom. Not since the start have I so fully recognized with heartfelt emotion my complete liberty: I wake up when I wake up, I buy what I want to eat, I decide where I want to go, when I want to leave, which path to take, when to take a break, if I want to nap on the ground, eat, read, write, or continue, where I want to pause, how far I want to go, when to stop, where and when to sleep, where and what to eat, and what to do with my time in between walking, eating, and sleeping. What a heavenly paradise I have carved for myself here in these most precious of days! There is nothing like seven days of labor, 70 hours of toil with someone to direct your time, to make you appreciate so deeply a walk like the one I have undertaken... except maybe 10 days of the same, or five years, and so on... but we will just stick to what I have learned here, eh?

Through Tito, Liu, and Benjo, three of the most loving, playful, and affectionate black lab mutts, I learned that dogs make excellent work companions. The shovel feels lighter when a puppy chases the clumps of compost as they fall. I was constantly giggling with these three, puppy, mother, and grandfather/father, whether it was the daily game of trying to tie my shoes as they nudged my hands onto their heads for petting, or the way they jockeyed for position (two hands for three dogs... grrrr), or the way they "helped me work" like little children. Man's best friend is no false appellation for this beautiful species.

Finally, I learned to appreciate wine, the process of making it, the intricacies of selling it, and the nitty-gritty of imbuing it with high quality. I cut with my own hands thousands of bunches, fingers sticking together after nine hours of grape juice bursts. I sampled the different grapes, noting the particular qualities in each variety. I saw the stems, dirt, leaves, insects, weeds, and rotten grapes that make their way into the tank, and realized that this process is far from perfect, and that these "undesirables" contribute to that taste that wine drinkers call terroir.

I lifted the forty and fifty pound crates of grapes up to chest level in order to dump them into the de-stemming machine, weighed them hurriedly on a scale one by one, power washed them, carried them outside, and repeated the whole process the next day. I sampled that concentrated, murky, chunky grape juice that will months later become wine, and saw that this is no blind process, but involves graduated cylinders and various chemicals, even for organic wines.

In short, I saw what I wanted to see, and having experienced at least the initial part of it, developed a deeper and more reverential feeling toward wine makers, and a greater appreciation for those wines that make an evening special. So, the next time you lift your glass to take a sniff before you take that first delicious sip, spend a moment to think about the grower, anxiously looking out the window every day to see what the heavens will bring: the harvester, bent over for hours at a time snipping tens of thousands of bunches: the winemaker, sweating bullets as he tries to keep tabs on the dozens of variables that make a wine undrinkable or unforgettable: and the vine, which thanklessly and wordlessly brings forth bright, flavorful bunches of that divine fruit year after year after year Trust me, your wine will taste better if you do.