Homily: Solemnity of Mary, the Mother of God

Good Morning!  And Happy New Year!

It’s so good to see so many of you here today.  Of course, I am curious and have a lot of questions.  But I don’t want to embarrass you or myself, so I will try to phrase them in the most general way possible.  You don’t even have to raise your hands; just nod you head.  Okay, Question Number 1:  How many of you have either personally, or have known someone in your life who has made a New Year’s Resolution?  Okay.  Great.  Now, did any of those resolutions ever concern losing weight and getting into shape?  Or involve giving up something—like smoking or drinking alcohol?  You know, this is a great time for gyms and health clubs.  In January, everyone else has to deal with credit card statements from Christmas and all of that.  But the gym folks are counting on people buying year-long memberships and then quitting before February.  So they’ve got eleven months they can spend here on the beach in Santa Barbara, or in Kauai, or someplace else.  It isn’t fair, is it?

 Now, let me ask you:   how many of you, one year later, can honestly say that you have kept your New Year’s Resolution from 2013?  (No hands).  Thank you!  Now I don’t feel so bad.  Because I didn’t keep my resolution either!  So I don’t feel so bad.  Experts tell us that it takes a great deal to make a resolution stick.  We make resolutions as an act of our wills, and then, to our sorrow, realize sooner or later how weak and wobbly our wills really are.  We just can’t do it alone.  We are told that one of most important things we can do in making a resolution is to tell everyone about it, so they will hold us accountable.  Even more importantly, though, we need a support system, people around us who will encourage us in our decisions and help us to start over again if/ when we slip along the way.  We just can’t seem to make this sort of promise and keep it.

Our faith tradition gives us an entirely different perspective on making promise, though.  It actually turns our conventional wisdom upside down.  We are not so concerned with keep promises as we are in allowing Jesus, our Promised One, to keep us!  It’s not a matter of making up our minds and having our own will.  Rather, it is a function of surrendering our will to God and trusting that, just maybe, God might know what is better for us than we ourselves think.

That’s why it’s so instructive to enter into the sense of the Gospel of Luke today, on the Solemnity of Mary, the Mother of God.  Mary made and kept her promise to God, but the Promise of God in Jesus also “kept” Mary, enabling her to trust God ever more deeply through the struggles of her life throughout her life.

Most of the stories we know about Mary come to us from the Gospel of Luke.  We have a very solid tradition which tells us that Mary shared her stories with the community of Luke and that they were subsequently included in the Gospel text.  It makes sense, doesn’t it?  How else would we know what we do about her? 

It’s as if we can hear her own voice in the “voice” of the Gospel, as she pondered all that had happened to her:  “There was the moment when the angel Gabriel asked me to be the mother of the Savior.  And I had to just stop for a moment to try to think it all through.  And all that it would mean to me.  Then, I went to see my cousin Elizabeth and the baby (John) leapt in her womb when we met.  And now, with the birth of the Child and these shepherds barging in out of nowhere—looking bad and smelling worse.  But when they saw Him, Jesus, they were absolutely transfixed and transformed.  And I had to stop and think again—ponder—about what all of this has meant.  How the promise of God has been unfolding in my life in ways that I never expected or could ever imagine.”

Mary’s narrative continues throughout Luke and the Acts of the Apostles.  We can experience her impressions and reactions to significant events throughout her life with Jesus, as she “ponders” in retrospect:  “Then, there was the day Joseph and I took the Child to the Temple for His name day and circumcision.  And Simeon told us that He would be the ‘rise and fall’ of many nations.  And how he turned to me, then, and predicted that a sword would pierce my heart.  I had no idea what he meant that day, but years later, when our Son was about twelve and we went to Jerusalem and thought we had lost Him.  Then, I remembered what Simeon said and I was worried sick and devastated that we had lost Him.  But then, here he comes skipping along like nothing had happened, and when He told us the things he had said to the scribes, I thought to myself:  “Where did He get all of this?  We didn’t tell Him these things?  He couldn’t have picked it all up in a place like Nazareth.”  Again, I really had to stop to think.  And ponder.”

“And then, years later,  there was this wedding we went to in Cana.  And I noticed how they were running out of wine and I thought, well, this couple is going to be really embarrassed.  And I turned to Him and mentioned it to Him.  And when he started to react, I just gave Him that look, and He helped.  I had no idea He was going to turn all that water into wine.  But when I saw what had happened, I just had to stop and think. And ponder.”

“Of course, He broke my heart.  And more than once.  Once, I went to hear Him preach and when someone told Him I was waiting outside along with some other family members, He came out with this, “Well, my mother and brothers are those who keep my Word,” and, of course, I was stunned and hurt.  And then I thought it over and realized, okay, He doesn’t belong to me anymore—if He ever did.  Now He belongs to everyone and I’ve got to step back and let Him go.”

“The worst part, though, was when they came to arrest Him.  And then tortured Him, mocked him, and put Him through this phony show trial before they marched Him off to His Death. When I stood at the foot of that Cross, I felt myself dying right along with Him.  And it took everything within me—everything—to hold onto that last slim thread of the promise God had made to me about him even before He was born.  I just wanted to die.  Right then and there.”

“And then, finally, when I was sitting in the room with His friends.  Friends?  Almost all of them had run off and abandoned Him when He really needed them.  But, never mind, I was there.  And then, all of a sudden, I felt the warm rushing wind of His Presence and Spirit.  And then, and only then, I finally was able to put together everything I had known and experienced about Him and realize how little I really new or understood from the very beginning.  It all had to play out over His lifetime and mine.  And I had to think it all through, carefully, until I saw the sense of it.”

Mary pondered.  She made a promise.  She kept her promise.  And God most certainly kept His Promise to her.  In Jesus.

And so it is with us.

Homily given at St. Barbara Parish, Old Mission Santa Barbara, Santa Barbara, California.  January 1, 2014

Corpus Christi 2013

(From the bulletin of St. Barbara Parish, Santa Barbara, California) 
Dear Parish Family,
Peace and all good!  This weekend we celebrate Corpus Christi—the Feast of the Body and Blood of Christ. We take the time now — on the cusp of summer and vacations—to reflect upon the extraordinary mystery of God’s Love expressed in the Eucharist we share.  Not coincidentally, our meditation hearkens to the celebration of the First Eucharist at the Last Supper on Holy Thursday.  Our Holy Week liturgies are so intense and imbued with meaning and emotion, however, that we really need to take a moment to unpack the significance of the Eucharistic event separately.

“There is something almost sacred about people coming together to share a meal.” The summer issue of my college alumni magazine was all about food, and the opening line of the lead article began with this casual  comment.   “Almost sacred?” I thought to myself.  Hmm.  I’d propose that the sharing of a meal is always sacred-- always  contains some element of the transcendent,  thank you very much.  Especially when we as a family of faith come together to share the banquet in which Jesus is both our host and Host—quite literally—in this most extraordinary outpouring of His Love and Life (Body and Blood).  What more can be said— the mystery is so ineffable, so precious, so absolutely central to our identity as Catholic Christians that we would cease to exist as a community without it.

The words, motions (and emotions) of the Liturgy of the Eucharist both retrace and re-echo the forms of the traditional Jewish berakah, the prayer of blessing before meals intended to sanctify the physical act of nourishment: “Blessed are You, Lord Our God, who brings forth bread from the earth…. Who creates the fruit of the vine.”  But then, in the words of Consecration, we are moved into a realm of experience and contemplation in which prayer becomes the springboard to sacred mystery, the Sacred Mystery of Christ’s being and becoming really and truly present in the breaking of the bread.

St. Paul’s description of Eucharist (1 Corinthians 11) is both solid and succinct.  In this first scriptural account of the sacrament, nothing is wasted in the melding of word and gesture:  take, break, thank.  Words and gestures amplified in Luke’s account of the feeding of the five thousand, which unequivocally foreshadow Jesus’ self-giving in the Eucharist.  However, there is an unavoidable and even bothersome hook to this account:  “Give them some food yourselves,” Jesus tells His disciples--and us. (Chapter 9: 13).  Notice, however, He is the one who performs the miracle; they (we) are the ones to distribute his bounty and blessing.  The implications for our shared ministry are clear:  Christ gives Himself to us, Body and Blood, so that we might share the One we have received with others—becoming food for others just as He has made himself food for us.

So, every meal, every sharing becomes a share in the Eucharist we have received and are to become.  Don’t ask me how it happens, but it does. You know as well as I do that something is changed—no, we are changed in the breaking of the Bread.  Changed and charged.  Strengthened and sent.  To bring, be, and become Christ for others:  Go ahead: “Give them some food yourselves.”//

Note: St. Barbara Parish (Old Mission), Santa Barbara, California, where I am currently serving as Pastor.  It has been quite a while since I’ve written a blog entry.  Someone asked me the other day—“Why don’t you start again?” and I thought:  “Well, why not?”  So here I am and here it is.  PS:  "Monstrance" image from book cover  Poems by Sarah Klassen –ct

GraceLand Assisi

Today is the last day of our 24- day Assisi Study Experience.  A bunch of the people from our group are down at the Basilica of St. Francis to take a look at some of the artifacts (including the saint’s autograph) in the library.  Not me.  I’m sitting in my room at our pensione, the Casa Papa Giovanni, looking out the window at a perfect, perfectly grey morning.  Praying for rain. I’m so sick of the perfection of Umbrian land and townscapes.  Let it pour!  We need a little, momentary misery to wash over this all too perfect place.

What do you say on the last day of a three-week pilgrimage experience?  How do you wrap it all up into a tidy package with a pretty pink bow?  Or not.  What image offers itself as a suitable summary of so many power-filled and individuated experiences?

The first image that comes to my mind is that of –well,   Graceland.  Yes, as in Elvis’s Graceland.  Memphis, Tennessee.  Let me explain.  Some time ago, a friar friend was telling me about his road trip across the country.  “I started out early from New York so I would be sure to get to Graceland before dark,” he told me.  Wait a minute.  Graceland?  As in the epicenter of  Middle American tackiness?  “Yes.  I really wanted to go to Graceland.  I’ve always been a real Elvis fan….  Really, it was great.”

I did not pursue the matter, secretly convinced (now as well as then) that my brother-friend was a little off on this point.  Well, whatever.  We all have some parts of us that are a little off.  But, Graceland?  You’re kidding, right? 

Hmmm.  Well, come to think of it, why not.  Why not drive a long—a very long distance—to visit and do homage to the ground of one so loved and admired?  Was not our “land” “graced” by his presence and music and life?  Why not go to the place where The King lived and died.  The place where he created his music and shared it with the world.  This man who clearly has touched the lives of so many people—and continues to do so even in death—that his home is second only to the White House in terms of the number of visitors it receives each year.  And why should I be such a snob, who am I to mock people’s fascination and fixation with Elvis.  Hello, I’m in Assisi, Italy!  What’s this place all about, after all, if not about fascination and fixation with St. Francis?

It’s true.  Assisi is the “grace land” of Francis and of St. Clare.  Each year, its permanent population collectively prepares and braces itself for a steady stream of the pious, the curious, the aesthetically driven, and even the ambulatory bored.  Two million of them, as a matter of fact—twice the number of annual visitors that stream into Memphis-- eight full centuries after the birth of Il Poverello, the little Poor Man of Assisi?  What does that say about this place?

I read somewhere that the Irish talk about the ‘thin places’—the cracks in the surface of our waking, walk-and-workaday worlds where the numinous breaks through.  Where one can most certainly  imbibe the soul-searing, life altering scent and sense of—the Other—or dare I say it—of the Divine? I believe there are such places. I am a convinced and convicted romantic and seeker on that score.  Such places—physical, palpable, protean—the direct experience of which calls and reminds us that our lives are made of  mystery as well as mud.  For my money, the Holy Land (all of it), Lourdes (minus the commercial schlock), Chimayo, New Mexico, and  Croagh Patrick in County Mayo, Ireland—are such places.  Part of the discovery for me has been that in addition to their spiritual attractiveness, they are also actual.  They’re on the map; they do, in fact, really exist.  And at the same time they are also (and ironically) finite and reserved.  (Once you come down from the mountain, pass the city limits, the magic stops). But most importantly, they are graced—they all lead to Somewhere, Something, Someone Else.  Assisi has become for me another such truly “graced land”.

One of the gifts of Grace Land Assisi for me has been to experience a sense of healthy dis-illusionment with its saints—to see more clearly their real limitations.  Francis and Clare of Assisi are not the answer; they—indeed any and all Christian saints-- can only ever point towards The Answer—a living and loving God whom they worshipped with their entire being, and with whom they longed to unite.

We celebrated Eucharist at the tomb of Francis.  One of our team leaders,  Friar John Quigley, preached.  His words really spoke to my experience:  Coming to Assisi as a pilgrim is not about leaving for home as a ‘better’ person, he told us.  It’s not about becoming a more perfect friar, a more committed and dedicated member of our religious family or faith…. Will there be Franciscans in heaven?  Would Francis (or Clare, for that matter) be available to us then in an earthy, recognizable way, habits and all?  I doubt it, unless it would be an expression of a God condescending to our human weaknesses.  Besides, it doesn’t really matter  No!  

What does matter is that Francis was a human being who was, throughout his life, completely himself and at the same time completely focused upon Christ.  The Christ, the Son of God, the Second Person of the Trinity, whom he grew to love with all his heart and soul-- and with whom he identified ever more completely through the course of his all too brief life.  Taking on Christ, taking Christ into himself, being taken himself into  The Christ—fully, utterly, madly, passionately, endlessly.  So that in the gift of his stigmata, Francis received into his body the imprint of the wounds of Christ Himself.  Christ bleeding into and through Francis, in and through the centuries, into and through our broken, longing world.

So, we are called (and perhaps, as believers, it is our not so secret longing) to walk with Francis and Clare, not as demigods, but as trusted companions.  We ought to long,  then, not to be like Francis, but rather, like Francis to be more like Christ:  “sine proprio” – without anything of our own-- possessed without possession by the presence and love, joy and compassion— of Christ  Crucified and Risen.

Jesus left his mark on Francis and Francis and Clare, in turn, have left their mark upon this “graced land” of Assisi.  People talk about the ‘spirit’ of Assisi and I believe there is something to that.  Here, on a day to day basis, folks seem to slow down, quiet down, behave a bit more politely, more respectfully here than in other places along the tourist trail.  And besides, Francis and Clare themselves are here. Literally.  Their enshrined tombs like bookends to demarcate this sacred space.  Their spirits are here as well.  Found not only by friars and nuns in their cloister, but by every dreamer in every breeze.

What do I take home with me at the end of this pilgrimage?  Strong memories, vital  impressions, genuine in-spiration from the beauty, strength, and Mystery of this Graced Land:  Assisi. //

Francesco Il Santo: An Exhibition in Rieti

Francesco Il Santo/ Francis the Saint
Rieti, Italy
June 16 – November 4, 2012


This panoramic exhibition of artifacts and artworks inspired by the person and persona of Francis of Assisi represents a concentrated effort to situate the saint historically, aesthetically, and spiritually within the context of his presence in Italy’s Rieti Valley. This region, situated midway between Rome and Assisi, is second in importance only to the region of Assisi in terms of Franciscan interest. Rieti and its environs describe and preserve the ambit of Il Poverello’s intermittent residence and ministry here during the period 1209 – 1225 (just a year before his death). Subtitled “Capolavori nei secoli e dal territorio reatino/ Masterpieces through the Centuries and from the Rieti Region” this show articulates in a decisive way the impact of the presence of Francis here over the past eight centuries.


Exhibitions which attempt to consider the role of the sacred in art are not infrequently perilous adventures. The curator must always be aware of the multivalent nature of the works represented: their historic, cultural, aesthetic, and spiritual interest to the contemporary viewer. In this particular case, the curators are frank in acknowledging the complex and protean nature of the figure of Francis as one who has perennially inspired the creation of numerous works of art “interpreted in different stylistic variations that … spiritually share the expressive intensity with which the figure of the saint is inseparably connected.” This show— involving more than 100 artifacts and works of art—accomplishes its task in a persuasive and balanced way which is both informative and inviting.


Distributed as it is over three venues in the city center Francesco Il Santo showcases works relating to Francis which are organized according to specific themes: the development of early Franciscan culture and spirituality, or francescanesimo (the Fondazione Varrone); specific work produced in the Rieti region (the Diocesan Museum/ Mueso dei Beni Ecclesiastici), and, finally, representative masterworks by Italian artists from the XIII to XXI centuries expressing Franciscan motives (Civic Museum/ Museo Civico). The viewer is able, then, to move easily from site to site, taking in the works either in sequence or as independent modules.


Testimonianze della Storia/ The Historical Testament (Fondazione Varrone) features artifacts from the early Franciscan era starting in the XIII century. Here, for example, is the simple homespun habit of Blessed John of Parma (XIIIc)—an early Minister General who, in spite of his subsequent beatification, was once suspected of heresy and placed under house arrest at Greccio for more than thirty years. Here also are representative ecclesiastical codices of the period, as well as reliquaries, church silver, and devotional “instruments” (including the notorious ‘discipline’) which convey a sense of the penitential movement Francis inspired and shaped.


Opere dal Territorio reatino/ Works from the Rieti Region. This segment of the exhibition involves the display of some 22 pieces, primarily paintings, on display at the Diocesan Museum (and former papal audience hall). The works range from the XIII to the present century. Some have been made available for public viewing for the first time, while others have been recently restored in connection with this exhibition. Included here are both anonymous/unsigned works such as a Croce dipinta (XIV s) or San Francisco piangente (XIX c) as well as works by better-known figures such Manfredi ca.1615), and Manenti (ca.1638). Also featured are works by artists of more contemporary renown such as Stefano DiStasio. DiStasio's San Francesco nel lago di Piediluco 'vede' il Natale di Greccio"(2003), is representative of the "Anachronomismo" tendency in some  contemporary Italian expression, juxtaposing as it does elements of an historical narrative, contemporary composition, and a stylized, surrealistic rendering.

There is also an exceptional piece of textile art—a wonderfully preserved chasuble from the XVIc-- on display. What unites these diverse works expressively is their shared, often quite literal depiction of the saint. In all of these works, the figure of Francis never addresses the viewer directly; his gaze and focus are constantly and continually riveted on the Lord, the obvious object of his devotion.


This same fixed and fixated focus is evident in the “masterworks” section of the show, appropriately entitled “Capolavori nei secoli/ Masterworks through the Centuries” and on display at the Civic Museum/ Museo Civico. Here, signature works by artists of national and international reputation demonstrate the consistent stream of artistic output in Italy over the past eight centuries employing the figure of Francis as its common thematic focus. Those familiar with artistic renderings of Francis will instantly recognize the San Francesco paintings by Margarito d’Arezzo (1260-75) and Cimabue (1280-90). These works are not only devotionally significant pieces; they also provide emblematic portrayals of the saint which are arresting in their honesty and directness. Francesco, Il Poverello, was not known to have been a particularly handsome man. These pieces in particular, produced so close to his lifetime, set the template for future representations of the saint, which depict his identifying virtues of poverty and humility.


There is an impressive sense of continuity in these assembled works, demonstrating that artists over the centuries the appeal and allure of the life and legend of Francis. Italian artists, in particular, have persistently sought to capture something of the essence of Francis the country's patron saint: There is the stunned and stunning pose of Francis in ecstasy/ San Francesco in estasi (1606-07) by the school of Caravaggio, as well as the twilight pathos of Alessandro Magnasco’s Cristo crocifisso e San Francesco (1720-1775), and the poignancy of Tiepolo’s San Francesco in meditazione (c.1713). All of these works seek to capture something of the sense of a man so completely consumed by the spiritual journey. Francis the saint is both transfigured and transformed through his suffering and identification with the crucified Christ. Francis the man struggles mightly in the quest-- a man whose body can scarcely contain the greatness of his soul and his longing for God.


This is an excellent exhibition, and one which serves as a significant guide and companion to an exploration of  the Rieti valley itself. Nearby Greccio, Poggio Bustone, La Foresta, and Fonte Colombo—are all Franciscan shrines of great significance to seekers and believers alike and deserve greater exploration—as does this significant exhibition.


For further information, including exhibition catalogue (EU50-): www.francescoilsanto.it


Key to artwork featured (top to bottom):  Cimabue, San Francesco (detail), 1280-90; Margarito d'Arezzo, San Francesco, 1260-75; Habit of Blessed John of Parma, (XIIIc., second half);  Chasuble (w/ detail), wool and linen, XVIc., first quarter; Stefano Di Stasio, San Francesco nel lago di Piediluco 'vede' il Natale di Greccio, 2003; Caravaggio school, San Francesco in estasi, (1606-7); Giambattista Tiepolo (attrib), San Francesco en meditazione,(ca. 1713).  View of Rieti Valley.

On the Way to Rieti: Lost, Lost, Really Lost, and then Found

I sat with a few other members of our Franciscan study pilgrimage to do some faith sharing. The topic: What have we learned so far from our experience? Have there been any “A-ha!” moments of insight so far?


Well, what have I learned so far-- after one week into this 21-day experience is that nobody has the whole picture, but that everyone has a piece of it. And the more pieces I have access to, the richer my experience and the better off I am. Let me explain myself a little by telling you about my experiences (plural) of getting lost and found one recent afternoon.


We were at the Franciscan shrine in Ponte Colombo—the beautiful and still-secluded wooded hillside where Francis wrote his Rule for the order he was founding (approved in 1223) I noticed a poster on the message board announcing “Francesco: Il Santo”— a special temporary show of artworks and artifacts relating to Francis of Assisi on display in Rieiti, about three miles from where we were staying at the Centro de Spiritualita di Madre Cabrini in suburban Quattro Strade.


I got very excited and spread the word among my fellow travelers. Would they be interested in coming along during our free time in the afternoon. “I might be interested….. I’ve got to fold my laundry….Oh, I’m so tired, I need a nap. You go. Tell me if it’s interesting and maybe I’ll go tomorrow…” So. This Little Red Hen was prepared to trek on alone when one of our companions, Margaret, offered to accompany me on the adventure. I eyed her skeptically: a grandmother in ankle-length dress, no hat for the blazing sun, and flat shoes, no socks. Only a purse and a water bottle for the journey. This ain’t gonna work….. Margaret insisted she would be fine (and she was). Oh, what the heck, never mind, let’s just go.


I had heard that there was something called the Cammino di Francesco—a posted walking path stretching the 150 miles from Assisi to Rome. Right now, we just needed to access the tiny slice of the Camino which would get us to Rieti without having to hassle with the main highway. So, first, I did what any self-respecting world citizen of the 21st century would do. I went online to get Mapquest directions. Then, I asked Sister Franca, who was working in the kitchen, for directions. With Sister Franca, I tried to test one of the fundamental operating principles of travel here: If I pretend to speak Italian, people will pretend to understand me. In doing so, I ran up against a basic assumption The World has about travelers: That when you (honestly) tell people you speak only a little bit of their language, they (honestly) think you really know a whole lot. So I was able to follow her directions as far as “You go down the drive, turn right, and then you come to the sign for Aqua Martina….” And after that, I / we were totally lost. Brother Conrad, fluent in Italian, came into the picture to help with the translation. With his good help, we got a bit more information, “… but I’m not exactly sure what she’s saying,” he confessed. “Her directions are so complicated. Anyhw, good luck.”


At the end of the drive, we ran into a young couple on their scooters. They confirmed the part of the directions we understood from Sor Franca. Ten minutes later, an older man in his front yard gave us another bit: Turn right at the next corner. Great. After that, we suddenly found ourselves on somebody’s suburban shortcut as cars whizzed by us at 50mph. And no sign for the Camino. But we kept trudging, bravely chatting along, gobbling up our 8-ounce water supplies in the blazing afternoon sun. Onward! Lots of cars, lots of curves, and no human beings. Our spirits began to flag when we passed a ‘descanco’—a homemade memorial to the victim/s of a fatal accident at that very location.


Buses (plural) passed us in the opposite direction. None of them going anywhere close to where we were headed. An elderly couple sitting in the shade of their garage came up to the gate and gesticulated eagerly. What are they saying? That we’re going in the wrong direction. Oh. Well, should we take this bus that’s coming now?


He who hesitates is lost. The bus slowed down, then decided to pass us up. Trudge on. Another farmyard. This time, a teenager hanging out in his car, listening to the radio, probably dreaming of getting his license (and out of the farmyard) soon. “You are headed in the wrong direction,” he told us. Oh really? Well, could you fill our water bottles? Sure. By the way, I noticed a sign to a sanctuary for Padre Pio. How long would it take to get there? On foot? About 3-4 hours. Oh. Thanks for the water. Mille grazie.


Okay, we’re out of here. Should we find some shade and wait for another bus? How about if we hitchhike? How do we do that? It will work better, I told Margaret, if you try instead of me. Just stick out your hand and thumb. Like this? Screeech!!!.... Door opens, into the back seat. Grateful gesticulations in Spanitaliano. Americani. Locos. Perdidos/ lost-os. Smiles. Then zoom….. reducing our travel time from hours to less than five minutes.


Sorry, I’m not going to Rieti. I have to let you out here. No no, that’s great. Where’s here? In front of the gelateria, across from the parish church. In Quattro Stade. Exactly where we started out more than an hour ago. Okay, now what. Let’s keep going. How about the bus? What does the schedule say? Let’s wait in the shade; if it takes longer than 20 minutes, let’s walk home. No. Let’s get a gelato first and then walk home. Okay. Deal.


Truck, truck, car, truck, bus (no, another truck). Bus! Right! Rieti? Si si si. Cathedrali? No no no. Stazione de busses? Si? Cuanto cuesta? 3 euros, but don’t pay me now. My colleague will come in about five minutes. Great. Grazie…. Five minutes later, bus stazione, no colleague, no fare. Grazie. Now what?


There’s an exhibition poster. Let’s follow it. An Italian man walking down the hill: keep going up and up. Bilgeterria. Okay, grazie. Ticket office. Benvenutti. 10 Euros, please. Three shows, three venues. You can use the tickets until November. Grazie! Actually we just have one hour. Today. Okay, first, go to the Diocesan Museum. Over the square, to the left, across the piazza, next to the Cathedral. Clear! Great! …. Here’s the cathedral. No exhibition signs, just a red “T” (Franciscan tau?) and an arrow. Through the entrance to the underground parking garage. Up a flight of stairs. Up two more flights of stairs. Into a darkened, unlighted room w/ paintings all around. This must be the place.


And so the rigamarole continued. From the first venue to the second, to the third (top floor of the municipal building). Eureka! Beautiful show, but we were followed by an excited curator: “I love America! California! Facebook friend, Burbank, maybe September. Maybe. Hollywood! American boyfriend! Maybe maybe. I so excited!


Show’s over. Get home. Buy ticket. Tobacco shops. No ticket. Tia, where do they buy tickets? On the square. Tobacco shop Number 2. No tickets. Cluster of corporate t-shirted people. Tickets? Bus stop? Four Italians, four different answers until one gentleman guided us physically to the corner: Tobacco shop. Buy your ticket there. Tobacco shop Number 3. Ah! Tickets! 90 cents each. Schedule? I have one, but it’s for winter. Oh. Bus stop? Well, you have two options. Grazie grazie. Did you understand anything he said? Of course not, but I didn’t want to be rude. Where do we go? The bus stazione where we got off.


Bus stazione. Tobacco stand Number 4. Tickets? No. Bus stop. Outside, next to the police booth.
A one-way street. Only interurban buses pass: Roma. Wanna go to Roma? Let’s wait 20 minutes then take a taxi. Good. Fifteen minutes. A teenager gets out of his car. Great. He won’t know anything. Try anyhow. Bus stop? Number 423/424? You’re in the wrong place. Straight ahead two minutes, turn right at the fountain. Grazie. Two minutes. No fountain. Three grandmothers on a park bench. Si si si. Straight ahead. Duay minuti. La Fontana. Grazie. Duay minuti. Bus 423 is turning the corner. Hey! HEY!! Stop! Wait for us! In perfect American. And the bus stops.


Quattro Strade? Si si si. Ahhh. Let’s just relax now. What are we going to tell them when we get back? Well, we don’t have to tell them everything. Just the part about hitching a ride, then finding a bus. And then, the great exhibitions. Right. That’s our story…. Off here? Aqui? No…. you missed your stop? Madre Cabrini? Ahh, next stop!
Ahh. Grazie. Off the bus, back to the gelateria, Slow stroll home.


How was your trip? Great exhibition! Great exhibition! Gosh, what you missed?
Oh? I knew I should have gone. Yeah, you should have come along.


I counted. We asked a total of 22 (!) people for different directions within the space of four hours. My Italian direction asking vocabulary is now perfect….Everybody had a piece of the story. But nobody has the whole thing.//