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.
