As the great American poet Bret Michaels once wrote, in a moment of breath-taking originality, “every rose has its thorn.” I’ve been thinking a lot over the last couple of days about the twists and turns of accomplishment and joy, about the pairing of decadent sweetness and churning nausea, or the delightful buzz and the inevitable hangover.
Many pilgrims have reflected on the melancholy nature of arrival in Santiago de Compostela. It’s an accomplishment worth celebrating, and a journey one rarely wants to see end. To me, the continued walk onward to FInisterre and Muxia evokes even more conflicted feelings. Never has my body been more confused than when I first set foot out of Santiago, pack back in position. It’s a relatively short walk to Negreira, and yet it dragged and dragged, taking far more time and energy than it should. The mind knew this to be a journey worth making, but the body revolted. It had done its job. Enough.
My body has stubbornly resented these past two days out of Rome as well. It knows I received the Testimonium; I couldn’t sneak that one past it. And even if I’m fully aware of the long journey that remains ahead, and despite my conscious enthusiasm for every day still in store, my body has dragged in a fashion I haven’t experienced since the latter stages of the Ligurian coast, and back then the sluggishness had been much more dearly earned. Admittedly, the state of my shoes–with the insoles entirely worn through in places, and the soles offering little more security than wet toilet paper–has often resulted in delicate steps along rocky trails, and the amount of spider webs taken to the face per kilometer today was outrageous. My body has good reason to consider a labor dispute.
The trail from Albano Laziale was otherwise delightful, passing through thick woods, and periodically offering obscured but still lovely views of Lake Albano below. Having crested that hill and maneuvered into another wooded stretch, I soon transitioned to another high-level view of a volcanic lake far below, this time Lake Nemi. And its namesake, the town of Nemi, appeared soon after. As in Albano, Nemi had clearly been immersed in festa the night before, and the cleanup operation was only just kicking into gear.
Nonetheless, the charm of this small town, another popular weekend spot for Romans, was immediately apparent. Nemi is famous for its strawberries, which grow wild in the surrounding woods, and are celebrated for their sweetness. And yet, if you believe the myth, they are the fruit of unfathomable sadness. Venus, the goddess of love, had fallen hard for the famously-handsome Adonis. Adonis, however, just wanted to hunt with his bros. Even after Venus warned him of a vision she had experienced, discovering that Adonis would die on a hunt, he still carried on with his plans–and, of course, died. When Venus’s tears came in contact with Adonis’s blood, it’s said these strawberries were created. And so, today, the sweetness that draws people from around the world to Nemi, is a legacy of profound loss.
Every bar in Nemi sells liqueurs made from strawberries. Most also offer a stunning view of the lake far below. During a particular moment during the Roman Empire, one might have seen (though not from Nemi, since it didn’t exist yet) a pair of remarkable watercraft below–Emperor Caligula’s floating palaces. The larger of the two was complete with marble, mosaic floors, and bathing facilities. And yet, sailing on this small lake was banned by Roman law, as it was a sacred space. Was Caligula openly flouting Roman law? Were these pleasure barges, employed for some of his much-discussed perverse sexual behavior? Was his horse, the consul, around? Far differently from the strawberries, of course, but Caligula’s track record exemplifies the uncomfortable pairing of pleasure and pain.
After Nemi, the Via Francigena Sud loses most of its trees, dropping a few hundred meters, though still following a rolling hillside overlooking the utterly flat valley below. The city of Velletri offers the main break from open countryside, dominated at this elevation by olive trees. The shift in scenery after Rome, and particularly after Nemi, is striking. The towns are rougher around the edges; conditions are more arid and exposed; garbage dumps, a complete non-issue in Northern Italy, have suddenly returned.
The city of Cori, a striking hill town that one can admire from a distance, looks exactly how its Wikipedia history would lead you to expect. Its Tower of Hercules, dating to the 1st century BC, sits high in the town center, with a commanding view over the valley below. It speaks to Cori’s significance in Ancient Rome, originally a rival and threat to the Roman Republic, and eventually an important city within the empire. One legend even links its founding to Aeneas. And yet, from the Middle Ages onward, its narrative is one of decline and disaster–a Saracen invasion, a raid by Frederick Barbarossa, conquest by Ladislaus of Durazzo, and an absolute pummeling during World War II. Its primary turn in the spotlight in recent history was a consequence of a double murder that dominated Italian news–”the Cori crime.” As with the other towns in this area, it is rough around the edges, showing its years in many ways. But it’s also quite clearly an immigrant town, with many people of diverse backgrounds turning out for work as early in the morning as this pilgrim. Those immigrants are joined by the refugees and other minors in need who have been taken in at the old convent, the very same place I spent the night. Cori is clearly not a place of abundant resources; the difference from the north is tangible. And yet, there’s a powerful commitment to hospitality.
As I settled in for the evening, I worked to make amends to my body, loading up on calories and going to bed early. It’s the least I can do. As for new shoes, they’re waiting, just one more day down the road.
