Would the anti-walking case like to present its rebuttal? With pleasure…
I slipped out of Buonalbergo under the cover of darkness. I had screwed up some part of the conversation the night before. In my initial conversation with my host, she had asked what time I left that morning. It was a long stage, so I mentioned waking up at 5:30 and being on the road soon after. She was surprised, but I talked about how nice it is to see the sun rise and enjoy the cool of early morning. At some point, the conversation shifted to when I would depart on this morning, but my Italian exists outside of verb tense, so I missed the transition. The consequence was that she bid me farewell after dinner, as I returned to my studio apartment, advising me that a bar would open at 6am, while she also informed the other pilgrim that she would see her at 7:30am for breakfast. I paused at the threshold, wondering if I had the words and the will to talk myself back from the brink, and then let it go.
My running joke with people is that “ho venti parole,” or “I have 20 words.” My experience with Spanish means that my accent is convincing enough and my comprehension is decent, but I still struggle badly to land on the precise language required to formulate a credible response, especially if the conversation veers away from familiar travel-related ground. Initially, I tried conveying this through something like, “my vocabulary is very poor,” but “twenty words” has proven much more effective at capturing the dynamic, even if it cheats me of a couple dozen other words in the process.
That wasn’t my only conversational failure at dinner. At one point, our host asked us about faith. My fellow pilgrim stated that she is Catholic, so the discussion shifted to me. “Are you Catholic?” No. “Oh, so Protestant, then?” No, not that either. It took a while to land on non-believer. And then we got to the most disastrous question of all for the linguistically-hobbled: “why?” I tried to deflect: “I’m not sure I can answer that question in English,” but my audience continued watching me patiently.
Ah, hell. I inhaled, clutched my twenty words tightly, and gave it a shot. On my walk, I stammered, I have passed through the regions of Don Tonino Bello and Padre Pio. I am not a Christian, but I appreciate these men, not as priests, but as people who worked for the tangible benefit of those in need. I understand that the spiritual work is important and valid. But the physical demands–housing, medical care, food, safety–that is essential.
It’s an evasion, but an honest one, the spiritual equivalent of “my greatest weakness is that I work too hard.” I struggle with religion because it too often seems removed from the tangible needs of the vulnerable, and to illustrate that I spotlight the exception to the rule. In any case, the word salad does its work; eventually, the conversation shifts. At dinner’s end, my host–who has already cared for pilgrims on the Via Francigena Sud for more than a decade–notes that she always takes at least one big idea to carry forward from each dinner with pilgrims. Who knows; maybe something coherent emerged from those twenty words.
And suddenly, all of those ponderings were dashed when a giant white blur came careening towards me through the darkness. It’s an avalanche that defies physics, rolling uphill at ever greater speed, until it crashes into me. A dog, one of the giant white beasts that is generally too lethargic to do more than elicit a couple woofs, while its smaller companions do the more aggressive work. This one, though, rose to my full height and slams its paws into my chest. I felt it nip my sleeves. And somewhere, cutting through the fog of full operational shutdown, as fight and flight were both thwarted by freeze, I realized something important. It’s playing. Holy shit, it’s just a giant puppy.
Years ago now, I had my arm ripped open by a German Shepherd in Spain. It could have been a lot worse; it was aiming for my face. Besides, one chomp was enough; contented, it returned afterward to its dog house. The owner got me to a clinic, stitches were applied, and I was back walking–admittedly more than a little worse for the wear–the following morning. I’m fortunate to not have seen my life scarred by traumatic experiences to any significant degree, but the lasting consequence of that encounter is that my amygdala hijacks my body every time I see a strange dog running towards me now. I love dogs. Before that encounter, I approached every dog with absolute impunity and confidence, fully prepared to give it a good and thorough patting. Now, I pause, evaluate, seek out warning signs, and as often than not look to disengage. It’s a lesson I have tried to carry forward about how profound trauma can alter lives in much more dramatic ways, reshaping our future choices in ways that feel almost completely out of our control, robbing us of joys we once took for granted. There was a time when this collision with a giant pup would have been a highlight; today, it’s something to endure and survive.
The route wound through gentle hills along small, paved roads, trending downhill. A valley in the distance offered a general destination, but the streets were empty beyond my footfalls. Aside, that is, from the dogs. The dogs were everywhere. Soon, a jubilant black shepherd joined me, its white paws adding their own pitter-patter to the soundtrack. And his bark, of course. He barked at everything–announcing our arrival, chasing off the rare car, and challenging every other dog whose property we crossed. Initially, I thought I was a fun distraction; after the first kilometer, though, I realized I had become a companion. If anything, this arrangement inspires even more anxiety for me. I’ve had dogs follow me before, away from their homes in some cases, and into danger–busier, more congested areas–in others. There are few more powerless situations than when you’re trying to chase off a dog that has decided you’re good company. Sometimes, even the classic strategies–shouting, throwing rocks–prove futile in the face of a determined canine. And this one was determined. He was having a grand time, exploring every side trail and then bounding back onto the road, twenty meters ahead and arooing contentedly. Every Italian we encounter, out with their own dog in their yard, assumes he’s mine. At one point, a local dog starts shadowing “mine,” prompting the owner to chase him down the street. It runs into bushes, evading him with remarkable ease. It’s a situation even Benny Hill would appreciate, me trying to outrun my dog while this bedraggled Italian tried to catch his, all of us in a row.
The large town of Benevento gradually came into focus on the horizon. This was my fear–that the dog would follow me into that mess and become ensnared. In the midst of this perseveration, my headphones broke. “No distractions for you,” fate declared. “This demands your full attention!” And then suddenly, the dog bolted up a side track and never returned. He found something more interesting, I suppose. Maybe he had just followed me home.
Instead of relief, the walk into the city proved to be discouraging in its own way. An extended march through industrial areas leads into Benevento, and once the city began I found the roads to be clogged with cars, all as eager to be elsewhere as I was in the moment. And then I stopped dead in my tracks. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I was teleported from modern hassles to ancient glory. Ahead of me, blocking this busy road with sheer disregard, was the triumphal arch dedicated to Trajan to commemorate the opening of the Via Traiana, a road linking Rome and Brindisi. We pilgrims on the Via Francigena Sud owe Trajan some thanks for this one. In 1723, Giovanni de Nicastro wrote, “The Arch must be admired as everyone admires the great bones of giants, it must be experienced with wonder and almost worshipped with silence.” Alas, silence wasn’t on the table, as traffic surged unceasingly around the arch, and yet for a few moments I tuned out all of those distractions completely, as I circumnavigated the remarkable memorial. It has endured so much. For starters, when Benevento was conquered by Goths in 545, and they went on a spree of destruction, razing the city walls all around it, even they left the arch untouched. Not far from the arch I stumbled across another exceptional historical artifact, an Egyptian obelisk that once stood outside the Temple of Isis here, nearly two thousand years ago.
Despite those delightful distractions, I remained negatively disposed towards Benevento throughout my visit. I couldn’t shake off the morning’s events, nor could I overcome my distaste for the city’s jumbled layout. Only later, did I attain the necessary distance to ask that crucial, annoying question: why? The answer came readily enough. The city of Benevento survived one disaster after another in the 20th century. World War II, in particular, ravaged the place. First established as the site of Jewish internment camps, it was later bombed repeatedly by the Allies, before they finally took the city on October 2, 1943. Half the city was destroyed and 2000 residents were killed in the process. And then, great floods swept through Benevento in 1949 and 2015. It certainly doesn’t help that the city is at high risk of seismic activity and has suffered from many earthquakes in its past. The cathedral displays these scars vividly; most of the structure is new, as the original was destroyed in the bombing, but a handful of snapped, Roman columns stand in its midst, a reminder of what was. History is fascinating to read about from a distance; it can be challenging and unpleasant to face in person, especially when one has grown accustomed to such beautiful sites elsewhere.
A bike track leads out of Benevento. At the beginning, a series of dog houses are situated near the parking lot, offering shelter to a group of strays that have taken up residence. This is one of the challenges in Italy; the number of stray dogs and cats all along the trail has been discouraging. Clearly, there are people who care for some of them, creating these shelters and sometimes bringing food, but it’s a difficult thing to see. One joined me for a brief stroll, but I ignored it completely. No pats, no kind words, no acknowledgement of any kind. It killed me.
The hills returned with a vengeance after that, as I climbed back out of the valley towards my day’s destination. The Via Francigena Sud passes just above the town of Foglianise. Perched much higher, near the mountaintop, is a hermitage dedicated to Saint Michael, as vigilant as ever. I booked an apartment in Foglianise, but its location was difficult to pin down. I descend steep streets to the location pinned on Booking. Nothing there. Combing back through the information, I discover instructions to proceed to a pizzeria located nowhere near that pin, almost two kilometers away. I make the trek and find the pizzeria closed. The neighbor helps me out, calling the accommodation’s number, and before too long the host picks me up and drives me to their place… which happens to be right on the VFS. Almost three kilometers of walking, for nothing.
I did some sulking that night, and then I decided to get over it and focus on what’s next. I had been carrying new shoes for a few days at this point, trying to maximize my first pair before making the transition. Whether through hubris or neglect, I hadn’t even tried on the new shoes, but I decided this was the time to switch over. And finally, at this inauspicious moment, I discovered that they were far too small. Completely unwearable. They would trash my feet within the first few kilometers. I stared at them in utter incredulity, and then faced myself blankly in the mirror, marveling at my stupidity. Why didn’t I at least try them on in San Severo, when it would have been easier to take action? I tossed them to the floor with complete disdain.
The following morning began with a climb into a mountain pass, crossing between two peaks. Just into the descent, I saw an old man with another large, white dog. As if he anticipated the potential for a negative encounter, he took preemptive action, shouting at the beast. As it bolted for the house, he reinforced the message by tossing his walking stick, helicopter-style, into its hind legs, eliciting a yelp. Completely unfazed, the man greeted me and asked where I was from. The double-take he offered after I said “American” was almost comedic, the motions so exaggerated. And then he crooned, “TTTTTTTRUMP!”, and started cackling as he followed the dog back towards his house.
After those initial exertions, the day smoothed out, leading me down into another valley with a town–Telese Terme–known (as the name suggests) for its hot springs. I’ve never been able to discover the joy of being stewed, though, so I carry on, climbing once more out of a valley into the hills. It was a frustrating walk, as the waymarks were good enough to inspire trust, only to fail completely at a point when an important turn occurred. The trail, too, was almost manic in its approach to hills, constantly following a sharp descent with a sudden climb, only to give back those meters almost immediately. I’ll take up-and-down over flat any day, but even for me this felt gratuitous!
My destination for this day, Faicchio, is an elegant little town, winding along a hillside overlooking a small river. Fortunately, the priest informed me that the parish church where I’m staying is not the one in the town center, but two kilometers further down the road. The misadventures of the previous day would not recur! He arrived as scheduled and, in a thoroughly perfunctory manner, let me in, explained the arrangements, and took off. I had checked ahead and discovered a supermarket in the area, a little over a kilometer away, open all day, so I decided to head over before showering. Only once I arrived did I discover that Google Maps had lied; the supermarket had recently changed its hours (I could see the old schedule crossed out with marker on the sign) and now observed siesta. I had two options: sit and wait for two hours, or burn a couple extra kilometers by adding a second round-trip. I chose the latter. Some days, it feels like if there’s a more inconvenient possibility on the table, you’re destined to get slapped with it.
There’s a weird tension that I feel when writing about these travel experiences on a day-to-day basis. I don’t like to complain, because it feels petty, small-minded, and entitled. Here I am, seeing all this incredible stuff, having these fantastic experiences that many can only dream of, and I’m complaining about a supermarket being closed. That’s gross. I also don’t like to complain because I recognize that these are the smallest of stumbling blocks, and only by focusing on their immediacy in this specific moment do I empower them to become something more substantial. They will be of little lasting consequence; they will detract nothing from the journey as a whole. Indeed, if anything, they’ll make me appreciate it all more. And yet, if I only document the positive, does this account become the written equivalent of social media, crafting a gilded narrative that elides the more varied reality? I see this sometimes in pilgrimage discussion groups when someone posts a note about a bad day and the responses are filled with high-minded statements about how much valuable learning there is to be done in reflection. And sure, those responses are correct in their way, but reconciliation occurs on its own schedule. You can’t rush it without compromising the outcome.
That said, you can learn to laugh at it, to shake your fist at it. When life gives you lemons, you can chuck the lemons back at fate and derive a little satisfaction when one of them plunks fate squarely in the face.
