A Study in Contrasts

It's 1:30 AM and raining in Santhià as I begin this update. ‎ (And 3:30 as I finish it.)

One of the drawbacks to my newly sedentary life is that I'm just not tired enough to fall asleep by 9:00 PM any more. I have been doing a lot of reading while my flesh grows back over the large section of skin on my heel that was ‎surgically removed.  This evening I watched as a spider methodically disassembled its web that was exposed to the wind and rain. I hadn't known they could do this, let alone witnessed it before. And those are the ‎highlights of the past two days I've spent in Santhià. 

I've already written about my excursion to Turin on Saturday, so in this update I'll be talking about my experiences on Sunday.

Last week while I was reclining in my bunk reading, one of the local volunteers who helps maintain the hostel in Santhià came by. Mario speaks more English than I do Italian, so our conversation was weighted towards my native tongue. (I do try to use as much Italian as I can‎, both as a sign of respect to my hosts and to reinforce the learning process.) When he learned that I am Orthodox, he promptly pulled out his mobile and called the Orthodox priest who lives in Santhià. (I was pleased and impressed that he had Fr. Julian's number saved, and could call him directly without having to search for his contact details.)

Fr. Julian is a Romanian priest ‎who alternates services between Santhià and Vercelli. Each parish has their own church building (centuries old Catholic churches). The service this weekend was in Vercelli. I hadn't prepared to receive Holy Communion, so after a small breakfast and a coffee, I caught a train to Vercelli. I got the address from the World Orthodox website (orthodox-world.org) but I didn't know at which end of the street the church was located. Fortunately for me, it's a short street, located near the train station. 

I arrived shortly before the Great Doxology, and even though I didn't receive the Eucharist, it was GOOD to be there. As at the Romanian parish in Ivrea, they sang "To Thee the Champion Leader." I may not know much liturgical Romanian, but that tune is instantly recognisable. At the end of the Liturgy, I spoke with Fr. Julian briefly ‎and then made my way back to the train station and Santhià. 

I was a little footsore after the walking and standing for the three hour Liturgy, but I headed to the café for a quick pick-me-up. Enrico had been in Turin the night before, celebrating a friend's birthday, and although he was exhausted, he was also very enthusiastic about the city - so much so that I decided to abandon my plan for a quiet afternoon in Santhià and headed back to the train station. 

It was almost 4:30 when I arrived in Turin. Most businesses, museums, and churches close early in this part of Italy, so I made my way directly to the Biblioteca Reale. On Saturday, I'd noticed that the ‎Royal Library had just opened a Leonardo exhibit, but when I poked my head in the door and saw the lineup, I decided to keep moving.  

When I arrived on Sunday, I was informed that there were no more tickets available for the day, and that I should come back "tomorrow." I explained that I was a pilgrim walking the Via Francigena, and was staying in Santhià. The woman behind the counter astounded me by making a judgement call and allowed me to pay my €12 for the opportunity to see original drawings and manuscripts by da Vinci and a few other artists.‎ Admission to the Royal Library itself is free, so I wandered through the section open to the public for half an hour before being escorted to the vaults for the special exhibit.

It was an impressive display.‎   My ignorance of the visual arts is profound, so the only other artist whose work I recognised was Rembrandt. In addition to their sketches, there were a number of 16th century maps of Turin, some illustrated early Renaissance science texts, several gorgeous illuminated manuscripts (including a 15th century copy of the Lives of Sts. Barlaam and Joasaph), and some late 15th and early 16th century maps. I spent more time poring over the navigational map of the Mediterranean and Black Seas and their respective watersheds than I did any other single object on display. (To be fair, I do have skin in the game. Literally.)

Once I re-emerged from the library, I was somewhat at a loss. It seemed a shame to head back to Santhià after such a short visit, but the other museums nearby were no longer admitting patrons. And it was raining. And I'm trying to curb my spending. With a mental shrug, I crossed a square heading towards the street back to the train station. Both sides of this major street are lined with cafés and high end shops, and the broad sidewalks‎ are covered with arcades. At least I would stay dry.

As I approached the start of the sheltered sidewalk, I heard a bit of commotion. "‎Signore e signori!" (Ladies and Gentlemen!) The rest was beyond me, but what I saw was a group of about twenty people in costume, carrying drums and kazoos and an electric guitar (complete with amplifier, flange, and a few other effects pedals) assembling.

"Fun!" I thought. Since I had no other plans, and my train wasn't scheduled to leave for a few hours, I decided to follow the parade and see what happened. They were headed my way, they were walking under cover down the sidewalk of a major ‎thoroughfare, and they were blowing large soap bubbles and making lots of noise.

Maybe I maintained a poker face (I don't know), but inwardly I was grinning like a madman. I had gone from being an aimless and broke foreigner in a ‎rainy city to a witness of creative chaos that disrupted the expectations of everyone along the route. Quite a few people followed the procession for several blocks, people sitting at sidewalk cafés gawked, shopkeepers came to their doors and smiled as we passed -- it was wonderful! I've posted some photos and one video of the Famiglia Malfatti on Flickr. (https://www.flickr.com/photos/phool4xc/sets/72157649206768851/)

It took an hour to travel the kilometre to the corner opposite the train station. After a few final minutes of mayhem, the group began to disperse. I chatted with a few people, and Ludovica gave me an "admission ticket" to the Freak Circus. (It's tucked away safely in my wallet. Echoes of Hermann Hesse's Steppenwolf.) I learned that they'd be performing later at a contemporary art show being staged in the former maximum security prison nearby. One of the guys pointed it out to me on my GPS map - the great news was that it was only a block away from the other train station in Turin, which is accessible from where we were by the Metro.

After bidding them "Ciao!" I crossed the street to the train ‎station and checked the departures schedule. The last train going through Santhià was leaving at 11:00 PM, so I grabbed a miserable train station sandwich and then took a short subway ride.

I had an hour to explore the various art exhibits set up in cells on three floors of one prison wing before my new friends began their performance. There were a few really interesting ‎displays, but it was too much to really engage with any one artist or display. 

The photo accompanying this update is one of the few pieces that prompted more than "That's pretty cool." It took me a few seconds to register what I was looking at, and then I literally laughed out loud.

Carlsberg was one official sponsor of The Others Fair, with beverage carts that displayed the slogan "Drink Different." My internal reaction was the same as it was back in the 1980s when I learned that the "indie" beer Black Dog (slogan - Be Your Own Dog) was a wholly owned subsidiary of Molson's. Yes, I understand that art shows need funding. Leonardo da Vinci was dependent on patrons, as were many‎ of the great European artists of the past thousand years. (Or more - I'm ignorant about the visual arts, remember?) Still, an art show sponsored by banks and breweries provides a very different context for experiencing art than a random act of beauty one happens upon in the street. (Perhaps something like Nuit Blanche has struck a healthy balance.)

To me, the important distinction between a contemporary art show and a street performance like those put on by the Famiglia Malfatti and ‎Valter Luca Signorile (https://www.flickr.com/photos/phool4xc/15570304547/) is the element of surprise and delight that results from having the artist come to you and presenting you with an opportunity to explore something new and unexpected. People who go to contemporary art shows have a certain set of expectations which frame their experience. Yes, it's still possible to be surprised and delighted, but there's an extra layer of mediation that simply doesn't exist on the street.

Anyway, that's enough of my late night philosophisin'. I do have one last hospital checkup on Wednesday, but I'd have started walking again today if my care package from home had already arrived. Hopefully it'll be here in the next day or two.

The Accidental Pilgrim

When I visited my friends in Murfreesboro this September, Fr. John graciously invited me to ‎speak to his parishioners after Vespers on the topic of pilgrimage. Several of the stories I related had to do with what I called "accidental pilgrimage," by which I meant suddenly realising that I was in the presence of the Holy, without setting out to get there. 

Reading the chapter on "Interruptions and Surprises" in The Road to Emmaus reminded me of this. Jim Forest writes:

"‎Far from avoiding the unplanned, the pilgrim has chosen a temporary way of life that provides a continuous parade of unexpected moments and events—a life in which interruptions, or surprises, are the main events. But which is it: interruption or surprise? You decide. When someone looks back on a pilgrim journey, more often than not the unplanned events along the way prove to have the greatest significance."

So it has proven with my afflicted foot.‎ My original plan for this stage of my pilgrimage was to head directly to Rome on the Via Francigena. Instead, I have spent the past two weeks in a small town in northern Italy waiting for my foot to heal. On Friday, I went to the local hospital for a check up. The doctor was pleased with what he saw, and so was I, particularly when the new dressing proved small enough for me to ease my foot into my trail shoes for the first time in a fortnight.

To celebrate, I decided to make a day trip to Turin. It's only about an hour from Santhià by train, and one way train fare is €5.25‎. Turin was the first capital of modern Italy, and before that it was the seat of power for the Royal House of Savoy for 500 years. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/House_of_Savoy) Palaces abound, as do churches, museums, and art galleries.

Given the condition of my foot (vastly improved but still tender) and the time limitations, I knew I had to be very selective. I left for Turin with two goals: to visit the Cathedral of St John the Baptist, and to walk up the Monte dei Cappucini. The first of these destinations is where the Shroud of Turin is housed, the latter is the resting place of Ignazio da Santhià about whom I wrote earlier.

One of the surprises of my visit was witnessing a performance artist standing impassively on a large block of ice in a narrow hall running off the street. A looped recording‎ played back the words, "La nostra conscienza non è assolutamente tranquillo." (Our conscience is absolutely not clear.) A sign near the entrance gave information about the piece in s‎everal languages including, oddly enough, Hebrew. Valter Luca Signorile chose to call his five hour long performance I AM LIKE GLASS.

The highlight of my visit was the time I spent at the chapel in which is laid the Shroud. It is displayed ‎on very rare occasions, at the discretion of the Pope. The last time the public could view it was in 2010; the next scheduled exhibition is for 2015. 

The rest of the time it is housed in a side chapel of the Cathedral of St John the Baptist in a specially constructed casket (for lack of a better word). The aluminium casing is 5 m long and 1.6 m wide, and stands about a metre high. This long low table is then covered with what is essentially an altar cloth, and the public is kept out with sturdy looking locked glass doors. There is an enlarged negative print of the image of the face suspended over the Shroud.

Along the aisle, there are several video displays playing a looped video explaining the history of the Shroud and the various markings on it. There's no sound, of course, but it's subtitled in Italian and Polish. Approaching the area at the front of the church, there are signs in multiple languages requesting people to remain silent, turn off their phones, and refrain from taking pictures. 

I was quite content to sit on one of the benches facing the chapel and use my prayer rope for a bit. Eventually I just sat quietly for a good long time, letting the people coming and going float through my field of vision. Some crossed themselves and genuflected, others maintained the "museum pose" with hands clasped securely behind the back and an air of detached inspection. 

The cathedral is a triple aisled basilica, with the side chapels opening from the outer aisles and seating for the faithful only found in the main centre aisle. In addition to the benches facing the Shroud chapel placed between the pillars, there is a kneeling bench across the glassed-off entrance to the chapel. It's wide enough for six or seven people, and at elbow height on top of this pew there was a short prayer ‎printed in as many languages. 

Eventually I made my way forward and located the English translation. I didn't scribble it down in my journal, and my normal method of recording text was precluded by the ban on photos. Here's the gist of it as far as I can remember. "I have sought Your face, O Lord. Grant me to see it again at the resurrection when You return in glory at Your second coming." (There was a bit more to it than that, and if I were really motivated I could probably find the text online. Then again, so could you, my dear reader.) 

This is only the second Catholic church‎ I've visited in Italy in which people can actually light a candle. (The other one was the cathedral in Ivrea. Naturally, the Orthodox parishes I've visited have beeswax tapers.) Everywhere else, they have banks of electric light bulbs mounted on fake candle sticks. After dropping a coin in the slot and pushing a button, a light goes on. I assume it stays "lit" longer for €1 than for €0.50. (Is it just me, or does this seem like a form of liturgical docetism? But I digress.) I lit a few candles next to the Shroud chapel as I left.

When I finally emerged from the church into the warm sunshine and bustle of the square outside, I had to sit and readjust to the outside world.‎ Eventually I was ready to move on, and started towards the Santuario della Consolata. Although the Cathedral is adjacent to the royal palace and the rulers had their own private entrance directly from their quarters (rather like the arrangement in Constantinople), this other church was the one favoured by the House of Savoy. It was sumptuously furnished, but it was all a little too baroque for my liking.

By late afternoon I began walking towards the River Po. On the other side of the river there is a range of hills which overlook the main sprawl of the city which seems to fill the river valley right up to the foothills of the Alps. After walking across the bridge, I began to ascend what is now known as Monte dei Cappucini (Capuchin Mountain). As the name suggests, there is a monastery on the summit. It was here that Ignatius of Santhià entered the monastic life, and where he finally reposed in 1770. (See the Vatican site for a brief account of his life here: http://www.vatican.va/news_services/liturgy/2002/documents/ns_lit_doc_20020519_ignazio_en.html)

I noticed that there was a small group of men gathered at the entrance to the monastery. It turns out that the Capuchins distribute bread every day to anyone who comes to their door between 4:00 and 5:00 pm. Each of the men had a small shopping bag filled with large rolls.

While the church was nice, what really made the walk up the hill worthwhile was the view. I'd seen it described as a balcony overlooking the city, and that's an apt description. There were many more people leaning against the wall overlooking the city than were inside the church. 

I had arrived late afternoon, and lingered to watch the sunset. We were high enough above the city for the traffic to be inaudible, the Po was just visible through the trees, and the snowcapped Alps on the opposite horizon glowed in the setting sun. Friday night I had stayed up extremely late reading, and as a result I'd only had four hours of sleep. Perhaps my mood of calm joy was the result of exhaustion (I do get that way), but others around me also seemed happily contemplative as they gazed out over the city.

I wound up walking seven or eight kilometres during my eight hours in Turin. I visited four churches, bought chocolate from a fifth generation chocolatier, had lunch in an historic café, and thoroughly enjoyed myself. ‎ If my blisters had not become infected, or if I'd been stranded a week earlier or later, I would have missed out on all of this. Yes, I've deliberately set out on a pilgrimage to Rome and ultimately Jerusalem, but the circumstances which led me to the Shroud and then up a small mountain in Torino fit my own arbitrary criteria of an accidental pilgrimage.‎

For Madmen Only

I started walking back to the train station in Turin in time to meet the Famiglia Malfatti and their Freak Parade. I tagged along since they were heading in my direction, and the vibe reminded me of the pre-show scene at Grateful Dead concerts. Eventually I was handed a ticket to the circus. Shades of Hermann Hesse's Steppenwolf. It also put me in mind of the Merry Pranksters, although that was well before my time.

See a few more photos, and one video on my Flick stream.

An early departure

Daniela and her mother Hildegard were eager to get going this morning, but were kind enough to pause for a photo. http://flic.kr/p/pZkLuT

Duomo di San Giovanni Battista

This is the church which has housed the Shroud since 1694. http://flic.kr/p/pGHaNQ