The trimuphant arrival in Rome

10/3 - Campagnano di Roma to La Storta - 17.46
10/4 - La Storta to Rome - 16.67

Since Ester was planning on walking around thirty miles that day, and thus finish her trek before her tendinitis (!!!) got any worse, I was more than willing to let her go, and moreover, she was probably content not to have to hold up for the dead weight with his American-sized backpack. So, waking up a full three hours after she did, I moseyed my way to the next stop.

The walk was pleasant, through a regional park with lots of trees and a few meadows. I realized that I was in the nicer suburbs North of Rome, as many of the houses had great views of the park, and were quite large by Italian standards. I even managed to run into a golf course, which is certainly not something one sees every day in Italy. Getting back on track, I followed the Via Francigena through various twists and turns, eventually crossing a stream completely soaking one shoe in the process (I found out later that Ester, no novice, had had the foresight to remove her shoes before crossing).

As I reached La Storta, I caught up with a group of pilgrims, all Italians from Brescia, with a great walking spirit and lots of historical knowledge about the walk. Giulio, Franco, and Franco's son Emmanuele had walked from Lucca, though being older and retired they had opted for a less demanding journey. So, with their wives accompanying the journey by car, these pilgrims stayed in hotels, leaving the churches to those of us who needed them more. It was quite fun walking with them, as well as with Giulio's three Italian Greyhounds, who of course turned lots of heads.

Having reached La Storta, we parted ways, but agreed to meet the following day, so we could enter Rome together. Having slept at the convent of Santa Brigida, I soon caught up with my fellow pilgrims, and we started off for Rome. I was glad for their company, not least because Emmanuele had downloaded an alternative route that avoided some of the busier roads. In addition, Franco, a former Mayor and eyeglass salesman, was a choir director, and so led us in cheerful song. Giulio, a very spirited character and retired owner of a cleaning supply company, had lots of jokes and color commentary throughout the day.

By and by, we got deeper into the city, and before I knew it, we were upon a mountain overlooking the historic center, as well as the massive dome of St. Peter's. We took a few celebratory shots, savored the exhilaration and feeling of accomplishment, and scampered downward toward the finish line, stopping only for a quick lunch and coffee. Of course, this is not the end for me as it was for them, but still I considered it the half way point, and obviously a very important landmark.

What a strange and gratifying feeling to walk into the square at St. Peters! As I looked at all those tourists with dull eyes, taking in yet another sight on a long list, I felt so fortunate to have this monument mean so much to me. Together with my fellow pilgrims, we waited in line to enter the Basilica, wandered in awe as Franco filled us in on many of the details, and made way to the Sacristy.

I had mentioned in a previous post that pilgrims carried a stamp booklet or "credential" of their trip. The final stamp, of course, would come from St. Peters, so I joined the three of them to have their credentials stamped, and in the process, had them stamp a postcard I had been given that very morning by the nun at Santa Brigida. So, glad to have received this most precious of keepsakes, I left the church, said my goodbyes to the group, and started the next chapter of my journey.

The place where it all started for me on my first trip to Rome six years ago was Piazza Navona, and it was here I headed first, almost on autopilot. I sat for a good while, incredulous at finally having made it there, drinking in the familiar sights and sounds. Soon after, while still sitting on a bench in the Piazza, I heard from Ester, who came to meet me, and we walked around a bit together. She, through Providence, had found a free place to stay, but they would not answer my calls, so instead we parted, and I found myself at the fascist-era hostel, tired from an exciting and emotionally draining day.