The Most Free and Alive Time in Your Life

Last week, I attended the United Methodist Association of Communicators Annual Meeting in Albuquerque, New Mexico.  I had a fantastic time meeting new people from all over the world, spending time learning more about how we can better communicate God's timeless message of love, compassion, justice and salvation through 21st-century technologies, and seeing examples of some of the best materials produced by some incredibly talented people.

But with all of that, the most personally profound experience at UMAC was decidedly old-fashioned.  Novelist Lynne Hinton led a workshop, "Write to Soul," that had me using pen and paper to capture emotions and insights as a spiritual exercise.  I want to share one activity completed in this workshop - both the process of the activity and its result.

The activity was to answer reflections questions on "the most free and alive time in your life."

1. What was a time in your life when you felt the most free, the most yourself, the most alive?
2. Recall some details of that time: when, where, who were you with?
3. What was that time like for you?  What did it feel like?
4. What was the grace of that experience?  What does it seem God was wanting to say to you?  How can it inform your present choices?

Once we'd written some words, phrases, and/or sentences in response to each prompt, we were invited to review our responses and select six phrases as particularly meaningful or poignant.  Then we numbered them from 1 to 6.

Using those six phrases, we then built a three stanza, free form poem using the following formula:
     Stanza 1
         Line 1 - use Phrase #1
         Line 2 - use Phrase #2
         Line 3 - use Phrase #3
         Line 4 - use Phrase #4

    Stanza 2
        Line 1 - repeat Phrase #2
        Line 2 - use Phrase #5
        Line 3 - repeat Phrase #4
        Line 4 - use Phrase #6

    Stanza 3
        Line 1 - repeat Phrase #5
        Line 2 - repeat Phrase #3
        Line 3 - repeat Phrase #6
        Line 4 - repeat Phrase #1

Here is my result:  The Most Free and Alive Time in My Life

Friday, 6 a.m., in front of my dresser
I stepped on the scale, and I reached a new low
80+ pounds had been lifted from my body
I was a kid again, but with the maturity of soul to appreciate it

I stepped on the scale, and I reached a new low
Still, I have trouble recognizing myself in the mirror
I was a kid again, but with the maturity of soul to appreciate it
"You are not fat!  You were created to be healthy; your body is God's Temple"

Still, I have trouble recognizing myself in the mirror
80+ pounds had been lifted from my body
"You are not fat!  You were created to be healthy; your body is God's Temple"
Friday, 6 a.m., in front of my dresser


I encourage you to try this exercise for yourself.  You may be as surprised as I was at how profoundly the result will impact you, and what depth of soul will be experienced in the process.

When Was the Last Time...

When was the last time the following songs were top-10 radio hits?

• "Everybody Wants to Rule the World" by Tears for Fears
• "I Wanna Know What Love Is" by Foreigner
• "One More Night" by Phil Collins
• "Saving All My Love for You" by Whitney Houston

When was the last time the Kansas City Royals won the World Series?






When were the following toys introduced?

• Teddy Ruxpin
• Care Bears
• Pound Puppies

When was the last time this ring was worn on a regular basis?









The answer for every question is the same: 1985.  That's 26 years ago!  That's more than half of my lifetime (so far) ago!  Friends, no matter how one views it, that's a L - O - N - G time...

I bought that ring in Santa Fe, New Mexico after my first year in college.  But within six months after purchasing it, I had gained enough weight to make it uncomfortable when on my finger.  It became increasingly difficult to take off, and I reached the point that I wasn't sure if I could even get it off after putting it on, so I quit wearing it.

It disappeared into a keepsake box and remained packed away until a few years ago when we moved to our current location.  I was quite excited to find it again, but knew there was no way it could go on my finger.  But that didn't stop me from trying.

It didn't even make it past the first knuckle join on my ring finger.  It really didn't even fit on my pinky finger.  So I put it into a drawer and forgot about it again.

As I began to lose weight this year, that ring occasionally came out of the drawer "for a test fit."  Each time, it came a little further down the finger, but not enough.  Finally I told myself that I would not try again until I broke through the 190 pound mark.  Over this past weekend, I finally did so, and VIOLA!  it fits!!

In some ways, the success of fitting this ring on my finger is even more significant emotionally than walking my daughter down the aisle last month weighing 198 pounds.  I didn't expect that to be true.  But putting on this ring effectively "erases" my adulthood obesity.  It's like God has reset my biological clock back to that 18 year old kid, but now with the wisdom and commitment of adulthood to proper nutrition and exercise.  It's also a validation of Jesus' words,

"Have faith in God! I assure you that whoever says to this mountain, ‘Be lifted up and thrown into the sea’—and doesn’t waver but believes that what is said will really happen—it will happen. Therefore I say to you, whatever you pray and ask for, believe that you will receive it, and it will be so for you." (Mark 11:22-24)

I have believed that God will be honored through my body, that God will give me the enthusiasm for exercise and proper nutrition, and that I will lose weight and gain strength through this process.  And as a side benefit, I now can wear something that I thought would forever be beyond my grasp!  Just goes to show, "With God, all things are possible!"

Getting to Mare Ligure, part 3

Last time on "Pursue Holiness," our daring adventurers had successfully achieved their beach objective, but the plot line was left unresolved ... how are they getting back?  No train tickets.  No open train station.  No knowledge of the language.  And worst of all ... blistered feet!



The adventure continues ...

We walked into the center of Vada and discovered a very pretty piazza anchored by the city hall.  The contrast of Vada's quaintness with Florence's business continued to amaze me.  All in all, I really was enjoying myself even though there were more questions than answers for our travel needs.

As we walked through the piazza, I discovered that the street name was the same name that I had written down the address for the tourist information office.  Hey!  Maybe we can still get in?  What time is is?  16:45. (That's 4:45 for Americani)  Yikes!  They might be closed or closing soon.  Quick, find the address!

The doorway in front of us was numbered "4" and the address we needed was "307."  But Italian addresses don't follow American formats.  In the US, one would expect a three-block journey from the first address to the second, and also crossing the street to get from "evens" to "odds."  Italian addresses have no standard format.  One can only generalize - they usually are sequential.  They usually go up as you leave the origination point.  That's about all that one can rely upon with Italian addresses.

So of course we went the wrong way to find "307" along the piazza.  We wound through the entire piazza only to end up six doors away from our starting point - if we'd traveled left rather than right!  But still, I found it!  However, there didn't seem to be much activity at that address.  The windows looked rather dark.  And if there were an "office hours" sign, I didn't recognize it.  (Wouldn't it make sense to put a tourist office sign in English?)

I pulled at the door, and WHOO-HOO, it opened!  We went inside and came upon an animated conversation between a woman sitting behind a counter and two men.  One of the men was on our side of the counter, the other man was to the left side of the counter.  I couldn't tell if he was a visitor or a worker.  They were speaking Italian, and I was unsure whether it was a heated argument going on, or simply an exuberant conversation.  I was wise enough not to attempt an interruption.  After all, I didn't want either the heat or the exuberance turned against me!

We waited for their conversation to end - which seemed like an eternity, but probably was only four minutes.  The first man left; the second stayed.  A new conversation started between Man #2 and the woman.  I still was unsure whether he worked there or not.  They both ignored my wife and me.  I stayed quiet.  Finally, he left, but her phone rang.  She talked on the phone, and it seemed to be an extension of the conversation with the first man.  At least I recognized some of the same sounds coming out of her mouth. (Note to self: get a better grasp of the language when traveling off the "tourist" path).

After what seemed like the second eternity, but was probably only six minutes, the woman looked up at me and asked, "Si?"

I responded, "Parle Englese?"

"Yes."

"Oh, good!"  I breathed a huge sigh of relief.  I had really hoped to be able to explain our predicament in English!  I proceeded to tell her our experience with the train station clerk in Florence and how he only gave us tickets for our travel to Vada, not our tickets returning from Vada.

The first question out of the woman's mouth: "Why?"

How should I know?  That's just what he did.

"He should have known that the Vada station is closed."  she said.

"So how do I get tickets?" I asked.  "Do you issue them here?"

"No.  You'll have to go to Cecina and get them from the ItaliaRail agent there."

"OK.  How do I get to Cecina?"

"You can take the bus," she said.

"Good.  Where is the bus station?"

"The bus stop is just down the street."

"So how do we ride the bus?" I asked.

The lady gave me a look that I interpreted to mean, "What?  Are you stupid?  You get on and sit down!  How else would you ride a bus?"

I rephrased my question.  "How much does it cost, and where do I buy tickets?"

Comprehension dawned.  Her face cleared.  "It costs 2 Euro per person, and you can buy the tickets here."

We gave her the money and then asked when the bus would arrive.  She replied, "It will be here in about 15 minutes.  And that's good because you need to get to Cecina for your tickets before the train back to Florence leaves."

Oh, then we needed to hurry.  So much for the idea of getting dinner.  We thanked her and walked to the bus stop.  Once there, I looked at my watch and saw that I still had 10 minutes before the bus arrived.  I asked my wife if she wanted some water, at least, while we waited.  That seemed a good idea, so I retraced my steps to a small market about half a block away.

I got the water, came out of the store, and saw the bus coming down the street towards us.  Yikes again!  I can't afford to miss that bus!  I hot-footed my way back to the stop, wincing with each blister-tortured step.

God truly does work in mysterious ways.  While I was getting the water, another man came to the bus stop.  As the bus approached, he waved to get the driver's attention.  The bus slowed down, pulled over, and stopped just as I made it back.  I am not certain, but I think without that fellow traveler to wave the bus down, we would have been left behind.  I am certain that neither my wife nor I would have thought to wave at the bus to ensure that it did stop.  So I breathed a silent prayer of gratitude as we boarded.

If you read my first blog post about this seaside adventure, you may recall that Cecina was one of my options for finding a beach.  I had ruled it out, however, because I wanted a more authentic Italian experience.  Now, I don't think one could get a more authentic Italian experience than boarding the intercity bus.  Not a single tourist-looking person aboard!

The distance between Vada and Cecina is approximately 6 miles.  As we made our way southward, the bus made several stops - both to allow passengers to board and to let passengers off.  After the second occurrence, my wife and I reached the conclusion that the bus stopped because passengers pushed the "next stop" button at their seats.  That was a scary thought.  How will we know to ask for our stop?

I went forward to the driver and told him we needed the stop for the train station in Cecina.  I was so flustered at this point, that I forgot to even ask whether or not he knew English before using English to say what I wanted.  God is still good.  The drive did speak English, and he said he would let us know when to get off the bus.  Grateful again, I returned to my seat and told my wife the good news.

It turned out that we didn't need the driver's help.  By the time we came into Cecina, I recognized the road signs indicating the train station (pictures really help!) and saw the station as we came around the corner and approached it.  Unlike Vada's train station, Cecina's station was in the heart of town, quite easily accessible.


We walked into the station, and the agent window was still open.  We waited our turn and then approached the man at the window.  "Parle Englese?"

"Yes, I speak English," he said.

I then told my story about the Florence station.  I finished, and the agent asked, "Why?"

"Touristi Americano!  Stupido!!" I said.  Really, I wondered privately, how should I know why he didn't give me my return tickets?

The agent looked at my reservation sheet, and he examined our out-bound tickets.  "Who wrote this?" he asked, pointing to where the train conductor had "stamped" our tickets after we had failed to do so with the ticket validation machine in Pisa.

"The conductor from Pisa did that." I said.

"Why did you not stamp your tickets?" he asked.

"I did not know that I was supposed to do so." I said.

He gave me a look that I interpreted to be something like "why don't you learn how our system works before you try to use it!  Now you're giving me your problems and I don't want to fix them!"

He turned to another man in the office and spoke in Italian, gesturing to our paperwork and towards us.  The other man responded, and I couldn't tell if this was animated or agitated conversation.  Eventually, the agent turned back towards me and said that he would give me our return tickets, but that we had a problem.

"What is our problem?" I asked.  How much worse was it gonna get?

"Your tickets are from Vada to Florence, but you are no longer in Vada.  You cannot use your Vada tickets in Cecina," he replied.

"So what are you telling me?"

"You must buy tickets from Cecina to Vada."

"But I'm only in Cecina because the Vada station is not open.  And I had to come here to get my tickets."

"You should have got your tickets in Florence." he said.

LORD, give me PATIENCE!!!!! (a silent prayer before responding)  "I realize I should have gotten my tickets in Florence, but the agent did not give them to me."

I anticipated the next question.  "Why?"

I decided that I couldn't win an argument for free passage back to my original turn-around.  "OK. How much is the train ticket from Cecina to Vada?"

"One point six Euro."

Amazing, the bus cost more than the train!  We bought our tickets from Cecina to Vada, got our tickets from Vada to Florence, and confirmed the departure schedule for the train we needed.  We had just over an hour before the train arrived.  Good!  Let's get some dinner!

Cecina is a little larger than Vada.  Maybe three times larger.  But as we walked through the town, we discovered a disturbing fact about Cecina.  It has LOTS of children's clothing stores, but not many restaurants.  And worse for us, the restaurants we did find were closed.  We walked past a pizza place that seemed more "fast food" than "authentic Italian" food.  And after exhausting all other options, finally went back and split a slice of pizza.  It actually was pretty tasty.  Even better for us, the gelateria was open, and so we enjoyed dessert.  Italian gelato, a.k.a. ice cream, is an incredible experience!  Highly recommended!!

We finished our meal and walked back to the train station with plenty of time to spare.  We were just about to board the train when my father-in-law called me and let me know that they had dinner left-overs waiting for us at the apartment should we be hungry when we arrived.  Given the limited dinner we had just eaten, I anticipated his soup and crusty Italian bread would be a real treat - no matter how late it was when we finally got there.


The train ride home was almost three hours, and we enjoyed a tremendous Italian sunset, just at the time when the train tracks gave us sea views to the west!  We took several photos through the car windows, hoping that a few would turn out well. (I think they did!)

We pulled into the Florence train station about 22:30 (10:30 p.m.) and walked back to our apartment - another 20 minutes walking.  So ... 27,849 steps.  13.18 miles.  1665 calories burned.  And that's just the foot traffic!  Add five hours of train, and thirty minutes of bus.

Mix in the gorgeous countryside, quiet tree-lined roads, walking along the Mare Ligure with pizza, gelato, soup, cathedrals, baptistries, and the company of my wife through it all.  Life doesn't get much better than this!!

Getting to Mare Ligure, part 2

In the previous post, I described the mistakes I made in making arrangements to travel the Italian regionale trains.  All I wanted to do was experience the "real" Italy, put my feet into the Mediterranean Sea, and enjoy some together-time with my wife.  I indeed accomplished all those goals, but ...

Before going on, I must digress for a moment to help set the context of what happened when we reached Vada.  In the movie, Fiddler on the Roof, there's a scene where Tevye is waiting at the train station with his daughter, Hodel.  She's on her way to Siberia to join her husband, Perchik, who was arrested in a protest.  The train station seems to be in the middle of nowhere.  It's one small building surrounded by countryside.  It's a lonely, removed-from-everywhere station.

I've just described my first impression of the train station at Vada.

From my research on Google prior to the trip, I knew the station was outside of town.  What I didn't appreciate until experiencing the reality of it first-hand was how far the station was outside of town.  But my immediate concern in Vada was getting the tickets for our return to Florence.  Once they were in hand, I could deal with getting to the beach.

My wife and I got off the train at the Vada station, along with perhaps two others.  We needed to respond to 'nature's call' so the first order of business was to find the toilets.  Success.  Feeling much relieved physically, I went to to door of the station to get our tickets.

Problem.  The door was locked.  OK, I thought, the door on the left is what I have to use.  Locked.  Hmmm...  Where are the other people who got off here?  Gone.  In the time it took us to use the facilities, the other people disappeared.

So maybe I have to go around to the other side of the building and enter there.  We walked around to the front of the building, but those doors were also locked.  The whole building looked deserted.  I was really starting to feel the Tevye experience!

My wife and I looked at one another and determined the only thing to do was walk into town and hope there's someone there who can help us.  We set off on the only road leading away from the station (really glad that there wasn't a choice to be made there!) and towards the town.

In retrospect, I really blew it by not taking any pictures of our walk.  The contrast of this road with most of our walking experiences in Italy was amazing!  Florence was crowded, noisy, sometimes hot, and one constantly faced the possibility of being run down by scooters, motorcycles, and small cars.  The road to Vada was quiet, tree-lined, and instead of four-and-five story buildings surrounding us, we were surrounded by gardens, sheep and goat herds, an olive tree grove and small vineyard.  It was so beautiful and relaxing!

At a bend in the road, a signpost indicated several destinations of interest in Vada.  One sign said "informazioni turistiche" with an address.  That's hopeful!  A tourist information office ought to be able to tell us how to get our return tickets! So we followed the signs into town.  


Coming into town, we walked into a round-about.  These are intersections that rather than forming an "x" or "t" become an "o" with roads shooting off from it in several directions.  The round-about had a signpost and the informazioni turistiche sign was still there with an arrow pointing the way.  But when we got to the next signpost, the informazioni turistiche didn't appear.  Uh-oh.  We must have taken the wrong street from the round-about.


We could either retrace our steps and try again, or forge ahead but with a different destination in mind.  I really wanted to see the beach and walk in the water.  The signpost showed "white sand beach" spiaggia di sabbia bianca, was three km away.  OK, let's go there, I suggested.  My wife agreed, and off we went.

The spiaggia di sabbia bianca signs were more easily followed because they skirted the edge of town, and I began to recognize some of the area from photos I'd viewed online before coming.  Yes, there were the Roman pine trees - beautiful trees with trunks that shot up 20-30 feet before branching out.  They provided a welcome break from the sun beating down on us as we trudged along.


Finally, we arrived at the promised beach.  A few cars were in the parking area, and a campground with several trailers and the Italian version of RVs was next door.  We walked around a building that appeared to be a store/restaurant and successo!, there's the sea!!


I wanted to find an uncrowded beach, and that's exactly what we discovered.  I was amazed.  It's a very warm day, perfect for hitting the water.  But there were perhaps a dozen people along a stretch of beach that was easily a mile long!  Clearly, there were times that this beach must be much busier, because we saw hundreds of umbrella stands and beach chairs folded away in anticipation of crowds.  But they weren't there that day, much to my pleasure.

The Mare Ligure is a subset of the Mediterreanean that extends from halfway up the Italian "boot" towards the coast of France to the northwest.  Unlike most ocean beaches, the Vada beach was not sandy from crushed seashells but rather from crushed rock.  As we walked along the beach, I found several small stones to take home, but nary a seashell.  The water itself was a gorgeous deep blue, and the perfect temperature to wade along.

We walked the stretch of beach towards the north until it reached a bend where the pine forest extended down almost into the water.  The sun was hovering in the west, and the breeze off the sea was quite pleasant.  We took some photos to mark the occasion, but then our tummies started rumbling.  We walked back up to the building hoping to enjoy a nice sea-side dinner.  Alas, the "restaurant" portion was not open, and the only food available was the snack variety.  Not what we wanted, so I just bought some water and we decided to head into town.  

As we walked back towards Vada, I discovered that we had walked to the furthest beach.  In effect, I made a triangle - 3 km from the train station to the beach, and then 3 km from the beach into town.  Only now, my feet were wet from the sea, and I'd already walked across Pisa.  

Note to self: don't wear footwear for a 20-minute beach excursion when also walking through city and country for six or more hours!  My sock-less feet in canvas shoes were beginning to blister!


More to come in part 3!

Getting to Mare Ligure, Part 1

27,849 steps.  13.18 miles.  1665 calories burned.  Those are the figures reported by my pedometer once I returned from my greatest Italian adventure: the quest to put my feet into the Mediterranean Ocean.  Even more specifically, the portion of the Mediterranean known as Mare Ligure, the Ligurian Sea.

I have had the opportunity to wade in the Atlantic Ocean, the Pacific Ocean (both on the west and the east), and the Gulf of Mexico.  So I didn't want to miss the chance to add the Mediterranean to the list while in Italy.  But I also didn't want to go to a turista destination - I hoped to see the "real" Italian beach.  So I ruled out going to Viareggio, Livorno, or Cecina.  They were all listed in my Italian guidebooks, so I suspected they would be the places americano would go, not italiano.

So using the wonders of modern technology to explore Italy before ever getting there, I used Google Maps to explore the coastline, found train routes and schedules on ItaliaRail.com, and planned my excursion to the beach.  Vada!  That's a town that doesn't show up in the guide books.  Google did turn up some nice photos of the area, and some people had posted reviews of their experiences there.  And the train would take us there!  Whoo-hoo!  I bought tickets for the regionali train for my wife and myself that would also let us take a side trip to Pisa before going on to Vada.

We bravely set forth to the main train station in Florence.  We were scheduled to take the train from Florence to Pisa, then switch trains to go on to Vada.  However, I didn't have the actual train tickets - all I had was a confirmation voucher showing that I had paid for tickets.  When we arrived at the station, I was clueless how to turn the confirmation into real tickets.  We got into the line for the live agent window - the VERY LONG line for the live agent!  But there were also computer kiosks that people could use to buy tickets.  My wife suggested I go see if they could be used for our purposes while she held our place in the line.  Good idea - so off I went...

First, I watched the people in front of me attempt to use the machine.  The first people I saw were tourists like me, although they were probably from Japan rather than the U.S.  (At least it sounded like they were talking in Japanese to each other).  They were clueless about the machine, so I learned a lot about what NOT to do.  Finally, they got their tickets and moved on.  The next person was either Italian or an experienced tourist.  He was in and out so fast I lost track of what he actually did.  Phooey!  No help there.

Finally, I asked the gentleman in front of me whether or not he "parle englese?"  He held his fingers close together and said "piccolo".  I pointed to my confirmation and asked if I could retrieve my tickets from the kiosk, pointing to the machine.  He responded, "Si, I think."  And then he took his turn and was gone.

I got up to the computer screen and noticed that there was a language option.  Great!  I could get it to read in English rather than Italian.  I know computers, so this should be a piece of cake!  I switched to English, and saw the option to "Retrieve ticket" and punched it.  The computer asked for my PRN. 

PRN?  What's that??  Oh, there it is on the confirmation form...  I typed it in and hit "continue." An error message came back.  In Italian. 

Hmmmmm.  No clue what it's telling me.  Maybe I mistyped the PRN.  Hit the back button and try again.  Error message.  Is it the same?  I don't know, still Italian and I didn't look that carefully the first time.

I glanced at my watch and discovered that it's past the time for the train we were scheduled to ride to leave.  Maybe that's the problem, so I tried the PRN for the return trip from Vada back to Florence.  Error message.  Yes, I think it's the same one as before.  Try one more time.  No good.  I began to feel like the Japanese folks that I saw earlier: clueless, and cluttering up the line.  So I gave up and returned to my wife.

Thankfully, her line was moving while I struck out at the kiosk, so we were slightly closer than before.  We got to the window, the agent spoke English, and he understood my problem.  I gave him the confirmation sheet.  He typed in the PRN and the computer spat out tickets immediately.  He handed them to me and said "Pronto" - which can mean a lot of things in Italian, but in this context meant "Next!"  I got the message and we moved away.

Glancing down at what I received, I discovered that we only had tickets for our outbound travel.  Florence to Pisa and then Pisa to Vada.  Because these were regionali train tickets, they were good for any train at any time going to and from those specific destinations for the next 30 days, but they could only be used once.

As we walked out to the trains, I discovered my next problem: I didn't know how to read the schedules posted on the walls to figure out which train departed from which track at what time to which destination.  Fortunately, a train employee was available to direct us to Platform 6.  We got to that platform, but nothing indicated that the train was heading to Pisa, nor when it was departing.  But we got on board anyway, found a conductor and he confirmed we were on the right train.  Success!!

 We left Florence and headed to Pisa without mishap.  Once in Pisa, we stopped to figure out the train schedule - this time with much greater success.  We learned that we had three options for getting to Vada and I carefully wrote down the time, train number and platform.  Then we explored Pisa and thoroughly enjoyed our time there.  I'll write about that experience more specifically in another posting.

We were ready to move on to Vada in time to catch the 2nd option.  Got on board the right train and departed on time.  No problem!  I felt the flush of successfully mastering the Italian train system.

Then the conductor came through the car requesting to examine our tickets.  Problem.  There is no stamp on our tickets, she said.

I don't understand.  What stamp do I need?  I already bought the ticket, why do I need to buy a stamp?

Ticket Validator that I did NOT use!

Through some interesting conversation - and a very helpful seatmate across from us - comprehension dawned.  I don't buy the stamp, I validate the ticket by inserting it in a ticket reader, which puts a date/time stamp on the ticket, BEFORE boarding the train.  Regionali tickets are good for up to 30 days, but I must validate the ticket with a date/time stamp to show that I'm using the ticket for that specific trip when a conductor asks to inspect it.  Otherwise, someone could buy one ticket and then use it multiple days.  Boarding a train without getting its validation stamp invalidates the purchase.  The conductor can demand immediate payment of the highest fare or kick the passenger off the train at the next station for failure to pay/stamp the ticket.  YIKES!!!

Fortunately, this conductor was very understanding.  She recognized that we were guests in her country who had failed to follow directions, and so she showed us grace.  She wrote out the date/time stamp and initialed it without making us pay again.  She also told us how to find the correct machine to stamp our return tickets.  I didn't say anything about my lack of return tickets to her.  Things were already too complicated!

And the adventure isn't over .... Stay tuned for part 2!!

What Goes Up Must Come Down

Saturday was an incredibly active day.  It started with an early morning exercise program called "Climb the Dome" - the incredible dome of the Duomo in Florence.  It's official name is Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore, and to climb the dome, one must walk 463 steps UP, plus another 463 steps DOWN.

All the guidebooks suggested going to do this as soon as it opened to avoid standing for hours in long lines.  We followed that advice and were very glad that we did.  Not only did we avoid lines, but we also were able to linger in choice spots along the way - something that could never have happened were we to be part of the "herding" that necessity dictates when dealing with huge crowds.

The dome was built with steps between the outer and inner walls.  At certain places, the interior features catwalks that follow the perimeter of the dome's circumference.  I didn't feel comfortable taking pictures inside the cathedral because a mass was taking place in the side chapel at the same time we walked through the main dome.  I did take some pics from inside the steps (as seen above) and LOTS of pictures once we reached the top of the dome and were able to be on the outside looking down on Florence below.

Looking through a keyhole window halfway up the steps

View of city below

Dome on left is Santa Lorenzo

The Campanile (Bell Tower) next to the Duomo

My mom-in-law along the balcony

Close-up of people on the Bell Tower

Looking across the Arno Valley to San Miniato al Monte

After a short break for breakfast and a detour to the Mercado Santa Lorenzo to assist my brother-in-law and sister-in-law with negotiating the purchase leather jackets, my wife and I took a walking tour detailed in one of our Florence guide books.  It suggested allowing two hours to complete the walk.  Using Google maps, I got a projection of 45 minutes.  I figured the difference was in allowing time to linger at points along the way.  When my wife and I were actually done, we spent almost five hours!
The walk took us to the south side of the Arno River, crossing on the famed Ponte Vechio - a bridge lined with shops on both edges.  It was the only bridge crossing the Arno that was not bombed by Allied forces in WWII as they invaded Italy from south to north in 1944.  The Ponte Vecchio initially was the primary fish market.  But the Medicis decided that the smell was too unpleasant during the summer months, and their home was too close to the bridge to escape the smell.  So they ran the fishermen out and invited the goldsmiths in.  To this day, if one wants to see gold, silver and other precious metals and gems, the Ponte Vecchio is the place to go.

Florence is almost two difference cities between the north and south sides of the Arno.  The north is significantly built up with streets, houses, churches and other buildings.  The only green spaces are the interior courtyards of the larger buildings and most luxurious apartments or hotels.  On the south side, the hills are predominant, and there is a lot of green space with trees, gardens, and flowers.  The largest garden is behind the Palazzo Pitti, the last and grandest of the Medici homes.  Called the Bobili Gardens, it became a model for combining formal and informal plantings throughout Europe.  We chose not to go inside because we knew just the garden alone would probably be two+ hours, and we had several other places to see.  Besides, one must save a few things for the next time, right?

Doesn't look steep, but it is!

City Wall on the left looking downhill

From top of hill looking northward

Still going downhill - a LONG way down!

Finally, looking back to where we started

 We went up and down the hills, following the remains of the ancient city walls to reach the Church of San Miniato al Monte (Church of Saint Minias on the Mount).  It is up on a hill so high that one can look DOWN on the top of the Duomo's dome on the north side of the river.  Our guidebook said the view would be spectacular from there - and they understated the truth!

San Miniato al Monte - on top of the hill, naturally

San Miniato's Bell Tower

The Duomo is the huge dome just right of center

 

View across the piazza and back towards Florence

View from the cemetery behind the church

One surprise at San Miniato al Monte was that a wedding was happening in the church during our visit, yet we were still allowed inside!  My wife said that the wedding party had to know that their service would be observed by tourists when they made their arrangements.  I said that if I were the priest in charge, I wouldn't allow it.  I found it to be disturbing and detracting from the sanctity of the experience.  Given the Roman Catholic belief that marriage is one of the Sacraments - an even higher theological standard than what we United Methodists hold - I am flabbergasted that they allowed it!  Obviously, I didn't take pictures...

Me and my wife soaking up the sun

I took LOTS of pictures of the cemetery behind the church.  Unlike the church, which dates back to 1018 to enshrine the remains of St. Minias - beheaded for his faith in the 3rd century by Emperor Decius, the cemetery was opened in the mid-1800s. People - rich people - decided that one of the ways that they could honor their loved ones was to build what I call "pianissimo chiesa" (little church).  They really did look like what one would build if one wanted a child's playland church.  These little buildings were incredible, like miniature cathedrals.  The architectural variety was amazing, and most of them were very pretty.  However, I'm not sure if i found them to really be beautiful.  For me, beauty points beyond the initial visual impression of something to the deeper, more profound experience of the meaning behind the visual impression.  The deeper meaning that I took from these homes for dead people is that they were worth more dead than alive.  I don't think that was/is the intent - but it's what my own background brought to the context as I looked at them.

Notice the details in the facade, the fresco over the arch, and the mosaic over the door

A row of "Little Churches" in the cemetery

A little city of little churches - just for dead people

Incredible architecture - but who really enjoys it?

San Miniato seemed about being the church for dead people than the living, for the touristi rather than the congregation of the faithful.  Maybe I'm reading too much (or too little) into this.  I don't really know.  One thing I do know, if my kids/grandkids were to build one of these pianissimo chiesi for me, I'd come back to haunt them!!

Juxtaposing Old and New

Friday was a more relaxed day in terms of scheduled agendas.  The only hard and fast event scheduled was a noon guided tour of the Davanzati Museum's upper floors.  The Palazzo Davanzati dates back to the 13th century in it's initial construction.  It was expanded twice - by adding additional floors above the existing ones.

It's unique in Florence for two reasons:  1) It focuses more on the domestic life than the other museums in the city, and 2) It was almost lost to dilapidation and neglect until rescued by a wealthy collector of Tuscan Renaissance pieces in the early 20th century.

Very little of what's on display actually came from the Davanzati family.  They got caught on the wrong side in one of the many coup attempts against the Medici.  They were evicted from their home and the family was then lost in the tides of history.  Their palazzo was converted into the offices for the Royal tax collectors.  Graffiti was written all over the walls by those waiting to pay their taxes, and even the clerks used the walls for short term notes.  When the house was restored and transformed into a museum, they left several examples of the graffiti on the walls for us to see.  Unfortunately I can't post any photos because I was not allowed to take them by the staff.  So only a couple of pics from the outside are below.

The most interesting aspect of the house from my wife's and mother-in-law's perspective was the collection of laces and needlework from the 11th-16th century.  They liked it so much that they've talked about coming back because they weren't able to see it all.  My father-in-law enjoyed seeing the kitchen.  As a certified chef, he takes great interest in all things culinary.  How we prepare meals is surprisingly little changed over the last 600 years.  The processes are similar, the tools used to do the processes are not.


For me, the most interesting aspect was how much of the architecture of the house was focused around defense.  The ground floor was used as a courtyard for horses and carts and the garrison of soldiers.  The first floor (what we'd call 2nd floor in the US) was the primary public space used for entertaining guests.  The next two floors were used by the family and their servants.  The kitchen was on the uppermost floor to reduce fire hazard and smoke going through the rest of the house.  Below ground, they house had an enormous cistern to collect rainwater from the roof.  The house was also strategically placed over a well, so their water supply was completely self-contained.  That was important in a day when enemies could besiege the house or enemies could attempt to poison the water supply.

The original building was built to resemble what I call a "square donut."  It was completely open to the sky in the center, with gutters and drainpipes to gather water from the rooftops and empty into the cistern.  There originally were no stairs connecting the floors to one another.  Instead, they used ladders that could be pulled up to prevent attackers from easy access to the upper floors should they gain entrance to the ground level.

It's hard to fathom the kind of life these people led - being so conscientious of mortal danger on a daily basis.  We take the freedom from fear for granted most of the time.  That kind of life is only in other parts of the world, or in other types of environments from our own.  Ironically, this freedom is perhaps the most precious and simultaneously least appreciated of all freedoms that we cherish.

I give great thanks to the men and women in our military forces who do so much to protect us.  I also give great thanks to those who serve as police, sheriffs, firefighters and other personnel who do so much to protect us and respond to emergency situations.  I am grateful to live in a place and time where personal differences are settled either in reasonable conversation or in a courtroom rather than with knives, swords, and cannon.

And most of all, I am thankful to God for the peace that comes from knowing that whatever may happen to me, my security is assured through the acts of Jesus Christ.  I know I am a child of God, and my eternal home is even more secure than my temporal one.