At the end of a day, at the end of a life, what is remembered–and how much of that is actually real?
I often find myself going back to Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried. That happens for a lot of reasons–it has probably happened in at least one of these daily trip write-ups at some point, I can’t keep track anymore–but for none greater than his conception of “story-truth” and “happening-truth.” The latter is the more conventional definition of truth. It’s the basic facts, the objective details, the stuff that would show up in an encyclopedia article. The former, though, is the deeper, more probative, truth that is present in any given moment, but particularly a moment of significance. It’s the “why” that jumps out from the “what.” One of the lesser casualties of our “post-truth” world is that it has eroded our ability to explore truth with nuance; you’re either with the facts or you’re with the conspiracy theorists.
But there’s a lot of merit in the story-truth, especially when we’re taking stock of what will be remembered–and what should be remembered from a particular day.
The walk out of Pietrasanta, which I began in darkness, is a long stretch on well traveled roads. I missed the worst of that, of course, because of the early hour, but I found myself checking and re-checking the gps, just to confirm yet again that I still hadn’t missed the turn-off. When I finally left the road, I was smacked in the face by a confrontation with pilgrimages past. If you’ve ever taken a wrong turn, and then another wrong turn at the same intersection, and then ended back up in the same space paralyzed by the possibility of strike three, well know this: you will never forget that place. And there’s an intersection in this stage where the quiet backroad splits into three possible roads. The middle option looks like the entrance to an industrial space; the other two look like they’re heading somewhere. Of course, the correct option is the middle road, which leads to an always-overgrown footpath climbing out the back and over the hill.
The walk into Camaiore, meanwhile, begins at least a half-hour before you actually arrive. I was sure I had reached the town; I was relieved to finally get my first coffee. And yet the creek-side footpath kept going. And going. And going. Once again, I finally resorted to consulting the gps, just to make sure that I hadn’t somehow skipped it entirely. At long last, though, I finally crossed the creek, crossed the highway, doubled back through a piazza and emerged on the charming pedestrian street running through town. And right in the center, I ordered that essential coffee, along with a delightful pistachio croissant. It couldn’t have been better. And then I remembered that the road out of Camaiore is perhaps even longer than the one leading in.
I realized, as I settled into a rhythm as the urban area finally petered out, that most of my memories of this stage from my first student group’s walk here center on overgrown brambles! As I climbed a rare ascent to Montemagno, I marveled at the clear pedestrian track. Years ago, we had been forced to fight for every foot of progress, weaving delicately through a blackberry blender. Instead, this time the climb was a breeze; what had changed was a mishmash of different waymarks near the top, calling for pilgrims to turn left, right, or continue straight along the road! Without any clarity, I opted for straight again, since that was the old way, and even if it had a low ceiling it had a high floor.
In the small village of Valpromaro, I popped into Grimaldi’s bar for a quick coffee. As I moved deeper into town, two different locals advised me that there was a pilgrim hostel just ahead, and I should take a break there. When I reached the hostel itself, one of the volunteers was sitting outside, and he immediately sprang into action. As if it were choreographed, the other two volunteers, just inside, pounced into the doorway. Was it generosity or boredom? Probably a bit of both. Regardless, before I knew it, I was inside, my pack was on the floor, and I had a chocolate foisted into my hand. I was sorry to miss the overnight experience here; a different student group had overnighted in this hostel years ago, and that’s the lone memory I have from this stage in that particular year. It’s a model of hospitality on the Via Francigena.
The last town in this stage before the destination is San Macario in Piano. If you removed the actual town center from Camaiore, you would have San Macario. There is no center. There is no defining moment of arrival. You walk through the outskirts and then it’s over; you cross the river and it’s behind you. Nothing symbolizes disappointment quite like San Macario in Piano.
Fortunately, a delightful riverside walk takes the tired pilgrim most of the remaining kilometers to Lucca, before a tough final push into the historic center. While the Chiesa di San Michele in Foro is the first major church that pilgrims see in the city, and the Duomo di San Martino merits a good look of its own, many pilgrims end up being most fascinated by the Basilica di San Frediano on the northern end of town. It doesn’t hurt that for years the youth hostel next door was the primary place that pilgrims overnighted.
As I try to do on these walks through Italy, I took a moment to dip into the life of Saint Frediano. This time, though, I didn’t even make it past the Wikipedia page, because I found its futile efforts to be so laughable. To start on solid ground, we’re pretty confident that Frediano, who might have been called Finnian, was an Irish monk–like Columbano–who eventually made his way to Italy and became bishop of Lucca. One story goes that Pope John II exhorted him to take up the role between 560 and 566. The Wikipedia editors then add, “This information is unreliable since Pope John II had died in 533.” Yes, unreliable. The next story spotlighted describes Frediano’s great miracle. When the Serchio River was causing problems for the people of Lucca, because it kept flooding and pushing too close to the city, it’s said that Frediano traced out a better channel for the river to follow with a rake, and like a good dog it meekly followed the outlined route. 6th-century historians argue instead that Frediano had the Serchio’s waters diverted to merge with those of the Ozzeri–much to the chagrin of the people of Capannori, who suddenly had seen their own lands swamped by the increased flow! Less miracle, more NIMBY.
And… that’s pretty much all there is on Frediano. Sweet church, though.
Circling back to the truth of the day, the happening-truth would lead one to believe that it was often quite tedious, with a large chunk of the time spent waiting to arrive or leave a particular town. Past experiences on this route had been shaped by low-grade lacerations and wrong turns. The story-truth of the day, though, singularly involves hospitality. Of that much-needed break in Camaiore, of the familiar bar in Valpromaro, of the onslaught of eager enthusiasm to be helpful in the hostel, and finally in my stay with Sandy and Theresa in Lucca. Those are, to be fair, all actual, real happenings that occurred. None of them are fictions. But they reframe all of the day’s other experiences. Some will be eradicated; others will be cast in a warm glow. None offer any sting whatsoever, because of the overarching delight that emanated from the day as a whole.
