Festa dei Santi, Piazza Roma

— Posted inUncategorized — 6 min read

Happy feast of All Saints to those of you in the western Christian tradition!
This morning I was awake early, so the sound of the church bells ‎calling the faithful to the early Mass at 8:00 didn’t bother me at all. In fact, I was already heading across the square for my first cappuccino when they started. Turns out I was wrong earlier about it being a recording, since I could see the largest of the bells swinging as it tolled.
This was the first of three Masses this morning, the last of which began at 11:00. By that time, the media crew from Rai (an Italian network) had already set their lights and the stationary cameras, and a few cameramen (no women) were working the crowd. A two horse carriage had entered the square at around 9:00, but apparently they were early, as the liveried drivers parked it directly in front of my window on a lane beside the church leading to the square. (The evidence of their stay is still present.)
There were a number of displays set up in ‎the middle of the square. One local craftswoman had samples of what I assume was hand-painted china, all bright flowers and sunbursts. The local youth basketball association had set up a portable backboard, and for quite some time, two of them were taking turns doing backwards free throws. There was a bevy of little kids fetching balls and passing them to the shooters, so it was a continuous display. Another table had an assortment of antique woodworking tools, grindstones, and even an old anvil. The final display was manned (and I use the term advisedly) by a local alpine club, complete with matching blue plaid shirts and feathered Tyrolean hats. Beards and suspenders were optional.
The blonde in the photo of this group is the network’s anchor personality who is covering this weekend’s events in Santhià. I have no idea who she is other than that, or how well known she is, but even before the cameras had started rolling I’d picked her out of the crowd as the anchor. The whole time she was on the square, she carried herself as though she were on camera.‎ In fact, that may very well be true, given how many people had cellphones, iThings, and actual cameras out and in play. (Your correspondent not excepted.)
Eventually the crowd was marshalled to stand in front of the church, on either side of the vehicular right of way. Two senior police officers took their place in the sun beside the town banner, and the horse-drawn carriage made its entrance into the square. I’d been expecting the mayor, or perhaps the local bishop, to be the honoured passenger. It was with equal parts amusement and dismay that I saw it was the reporter. She had walked around the corner of the church to where the carriage and attendants were waiting, hopped in, and was given a 30 second ride so she could be helped from the carriage for the TV cameras. Applause from the crowd greeted her “arrival” and she was welcomed by an elegantly dressed older gentleman, whom I assume is the mayor.
(If you’ve not read Neil Postman’s brilliant book on media, Amusing Ourselves to Death, I highly recommend it. One of my high school English teachers had called it one of the most important books of the quarter century. I won’t disagree with Mr. Kahnert, even though he made the statement nearly 30 years ago.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neil_Postman#Amusing_Ourselves_to_Death )
I retreated to the hostel soon afterwards. I’d been upright much of the morning, and needed to get my foot out from underneath me. To my surprise, I fell asleep reading in bed, thus combining two of my favourite things. 
By the time I re-emerged at 2:00, the square was empty except for the media trucks and the wiring they’d put down Friday evening. I was impressed at how clean the square was – no more mess on the ground than there had been six hours earlier (with one notable, steaming exception near the hostel), and there were no overflowing garbage bins anywhere in sight. Then I realised that there had been no food or drink and no vendors‎ selling trinkets, and therefore no mess.
I headed off to the supermarket to buy some food for the rest of the weekend. I’d be very surprised to find anything except cafés open on a Sunday here, so I bought some cheese, yoghurt, more cheese, a third kind of cheese, 2 kg of Valencia oranges, two tins of reheatable soup, and some tea. Since the small package of Lindt chocolate was 18% off, I tossed that in the cart as well. I had bought bread earlier from the local paneteria – I got there in time to see the delivery van pull up in front of the “bakery.” It’ll be a day old tomorrow, but these buns have a nice thick crust, so I know they’ll still be good.
For the first time since arriving in Santhià on Monday, I saw a beggar at the door of the church before Vespers. (Maybe it’s only worthwhile coming out on the weekend.) Certainly there was a good crowd at Vespers, and the organist did another competent job. I’m delighted to be where I am and doing what I’m doing (sort of – this infected foot is something I’d be willing to forego), but it’s most especially on Saturday evenings that I get a little homesick for the people and our prayers together at St George.‎ (I’m sure last night’s Harvest Fest went well, and hope that the teens and advisors had a great time at the sleepover afterwards. I was thinking of you guys! Just don’t let Angela handle anything sharp or flammable, and you’ll be fine.)
Since I’ve already soaked and re-dressed my wounded foot, I won’t be wandering too far this evening. It’s 8:30 as I type this and the sound of bells is filling the air – perhaps an evening Mass is about to begin. I’ll be using the Daily Services booklet compiled by Fr. Andrew Stephen Damick to do a reader’s version of Vespers. 
“Pregate per me, per favore!”

My tastebuds wept for joy

— Posted inUncategorized — 6 min read
(I fell asleep while composing the following on  Friday evening. Twice. Here it is now, twelve hours after I began.) 
As I mentioned in my last update, I had planned to return to La Vecchia Taverna for dinner this evening. As the more astute amongst my readers may have guessed from the title of this post, I did so.  

http://www.ristorantepizzerialavecchiataverna.com

Two nights ago when I dined there, I used the pilgrim discount card from the hostel. That gave me access to a €10 “menu pellegrino.” My expectations had not been all that high. On the Camino, most pubs and restaurants offered this sort of thing at about the same price point, but there it was generally solid fare, without style or grace. I’ve never eaten so many french fries in such a short period of time.
La Vecchia Taverna, on Via Svizzera in Santhià, doesn’t look like all that much from the outside. There’s a largish neon sign projecting from the second storey (first floor if you’re European), and entering from the street you find yourself in a cramped-feeling room that has a small bar, a small ice cream freezer, a cash register, a pizza oven, two pizzaioli (in this restaurant, they don’t toss the dough up in the air like you’ve probably seen in commercials), and a lot of empty pizza boxes waiting to be filled.‎ 
The restaurant is actually upstairs. I’d manoeuvred myself up the steps two nights ago, not knowing what to expect. The large room was full of tables, and many of these tables were already occupied, even though it was only ten minutes past their evening opening time. Always a good sign!
I was shown to a small, two seat table near the entrance. The table setting was nice, but nothing fancy – just what was needed. Clean linen, packaged bread sticks‎, salt, pepper, toothpicks. My first real surprise was when the waitress came and asked what I’d like. On the Camino, the menu pellegrino usually has very limited options – soup or salad being the most common choice I had to make in Spain. 
Welcome to Italy! For the first plate, I was given five or six options to choose from. I went with the pesto, and for “secondo” I just repeated one of the items the waitress had rattled off for me. (It turned out to be a perfectly grilled pork chop.) I was also given the choice of insalata (take a guess!) or something I didn’t understand. When I looked confused, the waitress said, “French fries.” I went with the salad. (Photos will be uploaded to Flickr once I get a good legit WiFi connection again. If I remember two weeks from now when I finally reach Vercelli.) 
Shortly after placing my order, a bread basket was set on the table, and I began stuffing my face. (I’d managed to somehow miss eating lunch.) And then the pesto arrived. I‎’m not a foodie, so I have no idea what herbs were involved in the sauce, but the plate of penne was a rather unappealing greenish-gray colour which tasted like the best movie theatre popcorn had been transfigured. All I know is that there was plenty of olive oil involved, and that when the pasta was gone, I used the fluffy soft white bread to sop up the remaining bits of glory. The pork chop came soon after, with a lemon wedge. As is standard in these civilised parts, a jar of olive oil and one of vinegar arrived for me to dress the salad to my taste.
That was Wednesday night. (And let me apologise to my Orthodox readers if I have caused offense by not keeping the fast. If I do make it to Jerusalem in time for Holy Week, be assured that I will follow the canons to the letter.) 
This evening, I chose a more restrained course, ordering a pizza for take away. While I was waiting, I observed something which I’d missed on my previous visit. La Vecchia Taverna in the small town of Santhià has been a participant in the Campionato Mondiale della Pizza for the past twenty years. (I’m not absolutely sure that they won in 2014, but their entry was featured on a large sign. It’s called the Santhiàtese, and I think I’ll be trying that at least once before I finally leave this town.) The pizza I ordered was so good, my tastebuds wept for joy.
I felt I had earned a bit of a treat, since there was a fair bit of pain and nastiness involved when I went to see the doctor at 1:30. My dressings were cut off, and for the first time I had a good clear look at the horrific mess my foot has become. This time there was no local anaesthetic when they peeled the inner layers of the dressing off my flayed foot. The horrid menacing colours which showed the progression of the infection had not diminished any, but I’d only taken two doses of penicillin at that point – one last evening shortly after dinner, and one this morning with “breakfast.”
My next appointment is still set for Monday, but until then, I’m supposed to soak my foot in a footbath for at least ten minutes everyday. I ‎bought the necessary supplies at the pharmacy, including a package of antiobiotic-infused gauze dressings to bind up my wound afterwards, and set about the task after dinner.
It wasn’t as unpleasant as I had expected. The really encouraging thing was seeing how much improvement there had been in only eight hours. The amoxicillin is starting to do its job!
In the meantime, the satellite crew from Rai has arrived in the town square and parked their trucks opposite the church. Apparently the network has a show which features life in small town Italy. Since this weekend is a major feast on the Roman calendar, they’ll be filming right here in Santhià. I asked my bilingual friend in the café about it, and then chided him gently. Just the previous day he had been complaining that Santhià is too small, too quiet, and that nothing ever happens here.
So, a mixed day. I spent some time on a park bench consoling a very friendly stray cat. As I type the last of this update‎, the sun is just hitting my table on the sidewalk in front of “my” café. The film crew looks to be all set up and ready to capture the excitement of All Saints’ Day in Santhià. 

‎

Outside my front door

— Posted inUncategorized — 1 min read

This belltower apparently dates to the 12th century. Although I do see bells at the top (though not from this angle), I also see speakers, and the complicated peals I’ve heard makes me suspect it’s all pre-recorded these days. http://flic.kr/p/pAMepX

What a great day!

— Posted inUncategorized — 3 min read

Truth be told, I’d rather have been walking, but if I had tried to choose where to be stranded I couldn’t have done any better than Santhià!
‎One of the nice things about this place is it’s a small(ish) town, and the hostel is in the centre of it. There’s a café owned by the president of the local “Friends of the Via Francigena” chapter 50 metres away, an excellent restaurant 200 m away (La Vecchia Taverna), the library is another 200 m beyond that (free, albeit painfully slow, internet), while the hospital is 300 m from the hostel in the other direction. The main street with bakeries, produce marts, convenience stores, pharmacies, cafés, banks, etc. is 50 m away, and this section is pedestrian only.  Oh, and the pilgrim’s hostel is run on the honour system, with a jar for pilgrims to deposit their €10 per night.
Since Vercelli is so close by train, I’ll be able to go to Liturgy each weekend I’m here. (Although I do need to contact the parish priest to find out about service times and the exact location.) And this morning, while chatting with the bilingual baristo at the local café, I realised I could take this enforced halt from the pilgrimage to visit both Turin and Milan! Santhià is almost exactly halfway between these two cities, and it’s an hour to either one by train. (The train station is about 500 m from the hostel.) I won’t be doing that this week, but in another ten days or so, I’ll likely be up for a day trip or two. 😀  My original plan had been to follow the Via Francigena directly to Rome, which meant missing out on Florence, Milan, Venice… Perhaps this affliction of pain has been a blessing in disguise! (Perhaps? No, I’m being coy when I say that. Most definitely a blessing.)
Tomorrow I will have to post photos of what I see when I walk out my front door. Hint: it’s nine centuries old, made of brick, and has bells in it.‎ The panoramic shot I’ve linked to below was taken from the west is what I have come to consider my front yard: the Piazza Roma. Okay, it may not be as grand as what I’ll see in Rome itself, but for a town of 8,000, it’s pretty impressive.
On the east side of the square, on the site which has had a church dedicated to St Agatha since the 4th century, is the main church of the town – also the church which gave the town her name. (Santhià is a linguistic corruption of Sancta Agatha.) The hostel is part of a row of residential buildings on the south edge of the square. To the west it’s a row of small businesses on the ground floor, including two from which a pilgrim can request a key for the hostel. (The other two storeys are also residential.) The north side of the square is the municipio (town hall), and a hostel key may also be had from “Il Comando Vigili Urbani” in the office there. (Doesn’t that sound like an awesome title?  It’s so prosaic when translated into English.)

A few more weeks in Santhià

— Posted inUncategorized — 4 min read
Yesterday morning when I checked my right heel, there was no sign of improvement. I wasn’t sure whether the small red area bordering one side of the blister was the result of pressure from my ungainly limp, or if it was evidence of infection.
I stayed off my feet most of the day, reading in bed, but I did walk about 400 metres to the local public library for internet access, and another 50 metres later to La Vecchia Taverna for dinner. All told, I didn’t walk much more than a kilometre.
This morning I was initially optimistic. The pain had diminished overnight‎, and I had hopes of setting off for Vercelli by Thursday. Then I gingerly removed my sock and saw that both the blister and the area of red swollen skin had expanded overnight.
I had breakfast and then called my travel insurance company. The connection was patchy at times, but I was given a claim number and told to go ahead and seek medical treatment. The Ospedale San Salvatore in Santhià doesn’t have an emergency department, but they referred me to the hospital in Vercelli. The train station was just a five minute limp away and the ticket only €2.70 for a 13 minute trip. The two minute cab fare from the train station to the hospital cost more.
Since infected blisters would normally be attended to by a family doctor, I was the lowest priority patient. I’d been there for about three and a half hours when, to my surprise and delight, I recognized my name being called. After 21 minutes with the doctor, I’d been given a spray-on local anaesthetic, my blisters had been drained and then trimmed off, and I’d received a tetanus shot. As I was leaving, it occurred to me that they hadn’t asked for proof of medical insurance or any type of payment. I went back in, found the English-speaking nurse, and asked about it. She looked at my papers and said that everything was in order.
I caught a taxi back to the train station, hopped the train back to Santhià, had an adequate “menu pellegrino” at a different restaurant from last night, and then limped carefully back to the hostel. At that point, I swapped out my dead battery with the spare and started it charging, and proceeded with this update.
Tomorrow morning, I’m to go to the local hospital (all of 300 metres from the hostel) to receive my first dose of antibiotics. The doctor in Vercelli told me I’d need to stay off my feet for two to three weeks, and have periodic check-ups and a full course of meds.
I probably should have done all this yesterday when I first noticed the blisters were not healing up normally, but at least I didn’t try walking the 21 km to Vercelli to prove I’m a tough guy. I’ll spare you the gruesome “Before” photo, but here’s what the fine professionals at St Andrew’s Hospital in Vercelli left me with. Think of freshly-fallen snow, cool, clean, pure, refreshing. (At least that’s how it feels now. I may have a different perspective once the anaesthetic wears off.)
So, I will be doing lots of reading over the next few weeks, practicing my Italian, and getting fat(ter) and lazy in the warm Italian sun. And since the local library has internet access, I may even upload some more photos, and properly organise what I’ve already shared so far. I can’t think of a better place for a pilgrim to spend recuperating than Santhià!

A quiet day in Santhià

— Posted inUncategorized — 7 min read
On arriving at the municipal pilgrim’s hostel ‎in Santhià Monday afternoon, my first priority was a hot shower and change of clothes. At this point I also took stock of my poor long-suffering right heel, and decided that if there was not a radical change for the better overnight, I would remain here until I could continue without fear of inflicting further damage.
When I awoke Tuesday morning, the situation had not improved a whit, so I hobbled across the square to the café which offers a free “breakfast” for pilgrims staying at the hostel and had my cappuccino and croissant. Then I hobbled back to the hostel (all of 50 metres), crawled back into bed‎, and began reading Hilaire Belloc’s The Path to Rome. (Twelve hours later, with some diversions, I’m 3/4 of the way through this wonderful, witty, inspiring book.)
Periodically I emerged from the hostel to absorb some heat from the glorious sunshine in the square. These thick-walled stone houses look grand, but they are chilly in October when one is laying about. By late afternoon, I finally found the thermostat, so tonight I will not need my reflective groundsheet over the mattress and an extra wool blanket over my down sleeping bag.
After arriving late Monday afternoon, my next priority after bathing and changing was to find WiFi. Herein lies possibly my only complaint about Santhià as a 21st century pilgrim. The hostel still has WiFi, but at some point they decided to password protect it, and the password was not forthcoming when I inquired about it. (My Italian wasn’t sufficient to follow the explanation about why they had cut it off for pilgrims.)‎ The contact person in the shop nearby explained that I could go to the local public library and use their free WiFi, but when I arrived five minutes past closing time, I discovered that it too was locked down. (A neighbour was not quite as security conscious, so I took the opportunity to upload a few photos.) 
On scanning for other networks, I discovered that, like Ivrea, Santhià has a municipal WiFi network available. Unlike in Ivrea, there was no possibility to register for it online. When I inquired at the tech division at town hall this afternoon, I was told that it was not possible for me to register, but that the hostel has WiFi. My Italian was insufficient to argue the point, so my photos from this beautiful town will have to wait until I reach Vercelli, the next city along the way.
I did make it back to the library today during opening hours, but rather than give me access to the WiFi, they showed me to a computer terminal. The Pentium 4 running WinXP must be laden with all kinds of third party and background apps, because it was painfully slow. Once my USB flashdrive was finally recognised, I loaded up my PortableApps suite and did what I needed to do. 
On leaving, I paused to chat with the three librarians on duty. ‎I really can’t carry on much conversation, but I’m understanding a lot more than I had expected. One of the questions they asked me about Canada was whether there was much political tension between francophones and anglophones. I explained that there had been in the past, but after three referendums, Quebec seems to have accepted that the rest of Canada loves it and wants it to stay part of the country. (If I had a better internet connection, I’d have linked to the 22 Minutes video on YouTube comparing the relationship between Quebec and the rest of Canada to that of a glamorous French woman married to an anglophone hoser – continually threatening to leave, but in the end remaining. Ah well.)
Interesting side note: in the province of Vallé d’Aoste (Aosta Valley), most of the towns and villages I walked through had a street named after Emile Chanoux. Never having heard of him, I did a bit of research. There’s nothing about him on Wikipedia in English (Sharif, feel like doing some translation work in all your “spare” time?), but I learned he was born in 1906 and as a journalist was a fervent advocate for minority rights within Italy, even arguing that these minorities are not best served by a central government and required local autonomy to truly thrive. Historically, this northern alpine region of Italy had been part of the possessions of the royal House of Savoy, a powerful French duchy, and the official signs in this region are still in both French and Italian. Chanoux was a journalist, and also worked in the anti-fascist underground during the Second World War. Eventually his published views drew the attention‎ of the state. He was captured and tortured, and died in captivity in 1944, without giving up the names of any other members of the resistance.  The occasional wayside memorials to those killed that I’ve encountered in northern Italy and also walking around Paris always warrant a brief pause and prayer. I’ve posted photos of a few of them to Flickr.
I haven’t seen any of these sobering reminders in Santhià. (Then again, I haven’t seen much of the town.) What I do know is that the name of the town is derived from Saint Agatha, and the current 17th century church‎ is built on the site of the 4th century church dedicated to her. The current bell tower and crypt date to the 12th century. Photos to follow once I have a decent WiFi connection.
 
Santhià was also the 44th stop made by Sigeric the Serious on his return to Canterbury after being confirmed its archbishop ‎by the Pope in Rome in the year 990. The diary kept by one of the members of his party still exists, and this is the basis for the modern Via Francigena. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Via_Francigena
Looking at the table in the Wikipedia article, I can see how woefully slowly I’ve been travelling. I began walking at Lausanne and with all my blister breaks, I’ve taken 21 days (and counting) to cover what this 10th century cleric and his party did in ten.
We dwellers of the modern age have much to be commended for, but I don’t think we will ever match the sheer grit and toughness of the generations which preceded us, even as recently as a century ago.‎ Hilaire Belloc is one such witness, Patrick Leigh Fermor is another. And of course, the millions upon millions of boys and young men in graves both marked and unmarked, who lived and loved and fought and died in the catastrophic wars that devastated Europe (and Asia) in the first half of the 20th century.
Hmm, that took a grim turn. 
Back to Santhià! From what I’ve gathered, the local hostel is run by the Amici della Via Francigena Città di Santhià  (Friends of the Via Francigena, City of Santhià) with assistance from the municipal government and local business owners. One such supporting business is La Vecchia Taverna at Via Svizzera 47, just a few steps away from the hostel. They offer pilgrims a fixed price menu for €12 which far exceeded anything I had on the Camino in Spain, both for the sheer excellence of the food, and the incredible value offered. If, as I rather suspect, I am still in Santhià tomorrow evening, I will be dining at Hotel Ristorante Vittoria, which offers a similar deal. (Depending on how far it is from the hostel. I’m really trying to avoid walking right now!)
And so let me conclude on that note: warm, well-fed, safely ensconced ‎with an entire hostel to myself. Still tender of foot, but these things take time. Tomorrow when I finish with Belloc, I think I shall resume reading The Road to Emmaus: Pilgrimage as a Way of Life by Jim Forest.
http://www.amazon.com/The-Road-Emmaus-Pilgrimage-Life/dp/1570757313.  

Discretion, valour, and remaining in Santhià

— Posted inUncategorized — 1 min read
I could, if it were absolutely necessary, walk to Vercelli today. However, I have decided to adopt a policy of not walking unless I can stand squarely on both feet ‎without whimpering.

At this rate, perhaps I’ll be celebrating Christmas in Rome instead of Albania somewhere. That’s not a problem, except the number of days I can stay in the Schengen Area is limited to 90 in any given 180, and I still have to walk across northern Greece.