The Person I Left to Become

In June of 1991 I left Brussels, Belgium and a long time career as a social activist to pursue a creative career. At the time I anticipated writing a book and becoming an author. That has occurred, to a certain extent. But, more profoundly and without my conscious planning, within two months of my departure, I had enrolled in my first art class and set my feet on a path to becoming a visual artist.  Now twenty-three years later I have returned to Europe, via Brussels, as the creative person I left to become.

I am here in Assisi, Italy to begin my first artist residency. Regardless of what I accomplish while I am here, the fact remains that the vague goal that I sought when I left an established career has been reached. It is time to set new intentions.

For anyone who longs to develop new dimensions to their life and personality, I am a living witness that it is possible. If there are lessons from my path, they are:

·       Following the tiny crumbs of longing that emerge as you pursue your intention is more important than having a clear understanding of a path for achieving your goal.

·       The path will be circuitous, will not be easy, and will take a significant amount of time.

·       If you stay true to your intention, miracles will occur.

I have no idea where this return to Europe will take me. I have come to Assisi, city of peace, with three intentions.

1.       I want to accelerate my work on Eve’s Imprint: A Global Family.

2.      I want to find partners and sponsors for Eve’s Imprint. Surely there are others who recognize that our common human origin in East Africa hundreds of thousands of years ago makes all cultures and ethnicities one family and that as such we can and must find avenues for peaceful coexistence on this blue marble in space that we call home. 

3.      I want to meet my paternal ancestors who passed through Tuscany and the Mediterranean region some 40,000 to 30,000 years ago.

Eugene to Florence: I Doubt That My Art Supplies Will Make It

Early on the morning of September 29, I flew from Eugene to Portland. There I had to pick up the checked bag containing my art supplies and check it in again with the airline carrying me to Europe.

Having purchased my tickets from CheapTickets, I had stopovers. It took three hours to fly from Portland to Chicago where I had less than an hour to change planes. I arrived at my gate as they were doing final boarding for my flight to Brussels. Considering how fast I had moved through the airport, I was convinced there was no way someone could have moved my checked bag to this new airplane. The bag would never make it. The woman checking me in insisted that it would indeed arrive in Florence when I did.

The seven hour flight was not super full, however there were not enough empty seats in my area for me to stretch out. Sleep was not an option, so I attempted yogic breathing. The good thing was that I was near the bathroom. Several trips there provided a limited bit of exercise.

The arrival in Brussels was a complete shock. I had anticipated going through passport control and customs in Italy, not in Belgium. I had locked my suitcase and under the pressure of doing all of the security procedures, it took me a couple of minutes to locate the key. Then my small bottle of mouthwash (less than 4 ounces but not in its original bottle) caused suspicion and was confiscated. Now a prime terror suspect, I was led away to an examining room, nervously leaving all my stuff exposed in several plastic boxes on the conveyor belt. Finally passing inspection, I attempted to find my flight gate.

The airport was a shock. It was a rich person’s paradise. There were several floors of high-priced symbols of opulence. There were video advertisements for high couture fashion. I found the erotic video for Victoria’s Secret downright embarrassing. Announcements were made for Israel, Dubai, Nairobi, Shanghai, etc. The screen showing gate assignments announced that the gate for my flight to Florence would not be posted until twenty minutes before take off. Another security measure?

When we went through passport control I had heard a Jewish woman on the plane from Chicago mention Florence, so when I spotted her in the boarding area, I approached her about sharing a taxi when we arrived in Florence. She and her husband were going to be staying at a hotel near the train station so they agreed to my request, cutting my cost in half. I ignored the several winks I was receiving from an Italian male trailed by a compliant wife. But I did exchange pleasantries with a Norwegian couple on their way to a two-week vacation with friends in an Italian villa outside of Florence.

Italian Adventure Begins: Angels Appear

Arrival at the domestic airport in Florence reminded me of arriving in India over thirty years ago. It was dumpy, slow, and everyone was smoking. I immediately located the Lost and Found desk so I could report the checked bag that I was sure had not made it through the transfer in Chicago and customs security in Brussels. I was wrong! Once the luggage conveyor belt began moving, what should appear but the bag I had been sure would never arrive. I am grateful to everyone who told me to “think positive” and did so on my behalf.

After practicing a few Italian words on a pleasant taxi driver and giving my share of the fee to the Chicago couple, the taxi deposited me at the train station, now burdened with two suitcases and my backpack. Amid the chaos of train announcements and a crush of people rushing about, I was overwhelmed by a bank of ticket machines. Rick Steves had led me to believe there would be one machine, not over a dozen being swarmed by masses of people. Memories of Victoria station in Mumbai, India flooded all the memory channels of my brain. Panic set in.

I spotted a young woman who appeared to be herding teenagers to a train on one of the 18 tracks. When I approached her for help, she told me, mostly by sign language, to go to the end of the long row of machines where there would be an assistant to help me. After a hike down the station dragging my two suitcases, I spotted a woman wearing a vest reading “assistance”. She looked like the twin sister of my grandchildren’s nanny from Croatia and turned out to be just as caring and professional.

After several failed attempts to buy a ticket using my debit card, she went on to someone else. I stood staring at the machine until I saw a button for language. Once I hit English, things were easier to understand. The issue had been knowing exactly when to enter the pin code. Proudly waving my ticket to the attendant, I scanned the train platform screens. None of them showed Assisi. She asked if I wanted to go immediately or wait; there was a train leaving for Rome. Totally confused, I said “piu tarde”. She said there would be a train leaving for “Leeno” in an hour. I did not see “Leeno” on any screen. Finally, through her hand motions to the destination tracks screen several yards away, I realized that she was saying “Foglino”. There was no track listed but I could see a departure time. I would have to wait an hour and fifteen minutes.

Amid an array of signs warning to watch out for pick pockets, I parked myself, my two suitcases, and my backpack just outside the area where my angel of mercy was helping other confused travelers. I was not going to stray far from “real knowledge”. There was some comfort in observing that most of the people my angel was helping were Italians. So it wasn’t just my bad Italian language that was the issue. Several times my angel suggested that I could go to an area where I could sit down to wait. I declined not only because I had been sitting for over 24 hours but because I was not going to risk missing my now identified train to Foglino.

I had a brief “conversation” with an Italian matron who seemed to share my passion for staying close to the assistant. A track number finally appeared for Foglino. It was the last track at the other end of the platform. Trailing my suitcases, I walked down and validated my ticket. Then I walked back for assurance from the angel that I had done it properly, thanked her and said “Arrividerci” to her and the Italian matron.

OK. Now I was on my own. Rick Steves had said most thieves attack as you are boarding buses or trains. He recommended boarding at an end car where there would be fewer people. I melded into a group of tourists being led by a guide, thinking one of them might help me lift my two suitcases onto the train. But they proceeded past the last car. Fortunately, there was no one else in sight, so I could take my hands off one of the bags while lifting the other one. I parked my bags and myself just inside the door of the last car, exhausted. There was no way I could even consider lifting them up to the luggage rack.

Once again, memories of train rides in India swept over me. I sank back in the seat, grateful that despite the train’s vintage quality, the seat was padded. At 4:10, the train began moving. At long last, I was on the last leg of my journey to Assisi. Walking down track 16, I had seen Assisi flash by on one of the platform screens, along with numerous other town names. I thought it had given 18:20 (6:20 pm) as the arrival time for Assisi. Somehow I must stay awake and alert for another two hours and somehow I must phone my airbnb hostess thirty minutes before arrival so she could meet me at the train station.  I had brought my cellphone for precisely this purpose, but checking it revealed that the battery was too low to make any calls. Ok, for now just relax and figure that out one and a half hours hence.

People came and went from the train car as we passed through small towns. Fortunately, there were enough seats that no one objected to the fact that this arrogant American was hogging three seats. All other riders appeared to have functioning cell phones. As other riders occupied seats across the aisle, I would assess whether or not I thought I could appeal for help in calling my hostess.

By the time 5:30 pm rolled around, there was one man in an expensive suit seated across the aisle. Rick Steves had warned that many thieves dress as businessmen. How was I to know? He made some calls and at one point pulled out a printed itinerary and gave his arrival time to someone. He had a paperback book that he would read between making calls. He appeared to be oblivious to me and my parked suitcases.

At 5:40, I decided it would be more of a risk to leave the bags and look for someone else than it would be to approach the businessnan for assistance. I pulled out my defunct cellphone and crossed the aisle. “Scusi, Senore. Per favore. Il mio cellulare non lavore. Would you be willing to make a call for me?” He looked up from his book. “I need to call my hostess and tell her the train will arrive in Assisi around 6:00.”

Despite the fact that my Northwest sportswear revealed no cleavage and my wrinkles gave evidence of age, he appeared willing, so I showed him the number of my hostess. He dialed it and handed me the phone. A young person answered and, forgetting to politely say “Pronto”, I repeated the name of my hostess. She came to the phone but was no more comfortable speaking English than I was speaking Italian. We kept misunderstanding the time I was arriving. I handed the phone to its owner and asked if he could tell her I would arrive at 6:00. He graciously did so and said ciao. I did my “Grazie”, sighed and crossed back to my seat by the window.

6:00 came and went and no platform sign read Perugia, the one town that I knew came before Assisi. At 6:30 my friend across the aisle approached me to say that he thought it would actually be 7:00 before I reached Assisi and shouldn’t we call my hostess and let her know that. I agreed and pulled out the paper with her phone number. He showed me that it was already in his phone and he pushed a button to call her. When he tried to hand me the phone, I pleaded in sign language for him to speak with her. She let him know that she was already at the train station. He graciously apologized for “his” error. Bless him for not mentioning the stupidity of the real caller!

At this point we began a conversation. I explained why I was going to Assisi and he told me he works for the railroad – the very one we were riding – and was on his way to Perugia. I saw a Perugia sign flash by and mentioned it. He checked as the train pulled into the station but it was the stop for Perugia University and he wanted the next one. As he collected his suit jacket from the hook where he had carefully hung it, his raincoat from the rack above, and stuffed his book into his bag, he said that he would be returning to Florence the following night. I thanked him profusely for his help and said arrividerci as my second angle headed for the exit. It was comforting to know there are both male and female angles.  

At 6:50, I saw a sign for Assisi and moved all my luggage to the exit. Again, no one was exiting but me, so I could lift one bag down at a time. I moved as quickly as possible down the long platform to the station where most other passengers had gotten off. After a mistaken connection with an Australian woman who lives six months in Assisi, I found my Italian hostess outside.

In her broken English and my scant Italian I declined her kind offer to move me to a room in a more convenient location. No, grazie. I have already made an arrangement for the residency director to pick me up at 10:00 next morning from the previously agreed upon address. You can call and tell her the new address. No, I do not have a cell phone. Don’t you want to eat dinner? No. Please just show me the shower and the bed.

After showing her my passport and paying for a one night stay, she helped me carry the two bags up a flight of stairs, unlocked the door and handed me the key which I was to leave on the kitchen counter downstairs when I left in the morning. Grazie, grazie, grazie. Buona Notte!

After six months of preparation, thanks to two Italian angels along with many Oregon friends and Rick Steves, I have arrived safely in Assisi.