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Educating for Sanity: Empathy
It has been a hard ten days. The turmoil in this country, the barrage of executive orders, the anger and accusation is exhausting. To be clear, I reject bigotry of all forms. I am saddened by the targeted attacks on public servants and the incivility on display by government officials. Most of all, I am disturbed by the absence of empathy.
I have spent my whole life as an educator. I taught government and history. Later on, in addition to overseeing curriculum for social sciences I also led school climate and character education initiatives, ensuring that school spaces were the very best environments to teach and learn. I have volunteered with a variety of organizations to help lift up humans in need.
So to say the current climate in America is disturbing to me is an understatement. Instead of wallowing in despair or engaging in unproductive arguments, I have decided to do what I have always done. Teach. Volunteer. Mr. Rogers told us “In times of trouble, look to the helpers”. I have come to realize that we must be the helpers. It is our time. Therefore, I will try to take a relevant topic and make it more accessible in a non-partisan , non-sectarian way.
Having said that, in the spirit of transparency you should know that politically I am a centrist and have been a registered member of both the republican and democratic parties at various times in my life. I have never been a single issue voter and I am not a loyalist to a party or individual. I take policy issues on their merit and compare them to deeply help American core values as embodied in the constitution. You should also know that I am a Christian who strives to follow the ethic of care modeled by Jesus. Therefore, a central concern for me is always the greater common good over narrow self interest. Perhaps that is why I find this particular time in our history so incredibly confusing. As an act of sanity, let’s reason and learn together. I want to start with the subject of empathy, which is noticeably lacking in our national discourse.
Empathy is commonly defined as being able to feel with someone; to be aware of and sensitive to their experiences and feelings. Empathy is an essential skill in forming and maintaining relationships. It helps build understanding and trust. Empathy starts with conceptually walking a mile in someone else’s shoes. This taking on the perspective of others and considering alternative interpretations of events and action can help us humanize each other, improve understanding, and take action for mutual benefit.
- Cognitive empathy. Cognitive empathy is the ability to understand how someone else feels and to work out what they might be thinking.
- Emotional empathy or Affective empathy. Emotional empathy refers to the ability to share another person’s emotions. This would mean when you see someone else who is sad, it makes you feel sad.
- Compassionate empathy or Empathic Concern. Compassionate empathy is when you take feelings to actions. It goes beyond understanding and relating to other people’s situations, and pushed an individual to do something.
All humans are capable of empathy, and a person’s capacity for empathy can increase or decrease based on habits. As children, stories help us consider the emotions and needs of the characters and become more aware of the expansive human condition. Likewise, listening to others perspectives and seeking to understand a point of view other than your own can lead to greater empathy. Spending time in unfamiliar communities or with people outside your circle can also improve your empathy.
Empathy is an emotion that helps us experience other people as fully human with thoughts, feelings and needs that may be different than our own. Being empathetic does not negate our own needs, but rather puts us in a common space where we can promote and protect the rights and needs for all.
When individuals lack empathy, (apathy) they may not realize that their actions can affect others. Worse, they may understand that their behavior impacts other people, but they may not feel remorseful about it. When individuals are apathetic they may act in selfish or vindictive ways without realizing or caring if that hurts others.
At the Nuremberg trials a psychologist said that “evil is the absence of empathy.”In 2016, former President George W. Bush said, “At our best, we practice empathy, imagining ourselves in the lives and circumstances of others. This is the bridge across our nation’s deepest divisions.” A few years later former President Barack Obama said, “The biggest deficit that we have in our society and in the world right now is an empathy deficit. We are in great need of people being able to stand in somebody else’s shoes and see the world through their eyes.”
They were not wrong. Today, we live in a deeply divided country where lack of empathy is on full display daily. The harm caused by the failure of individuals and our elected officials to see each other, to feel the fear and hope and need of the diverse communities of Americans, and to seek common good for all is evident. The question now is, do we have the courage to be empathetic? Do we have the fortitude as “we the people” to demand the common good for all people? Or, will we continue to silo in our echo chambers of social media and continue to ignore our fellow citizens?
Abandoning empathy has catastrophic results for a country. History tells us that when groups pursue extreme self interests and lose sight of the common good hunger, ignorance, poor health outcomes, income inequality, loss of liberty, genocide often follow ….the list goes on and on and quite frankly causes me anxiety as I think about it. Apathy tells us that “they” are not like me, therefore I don’t have to think about them. “They” are not like me so they don’t deserve my consideration. “They” are not like me so we will take what we can for ourselves. There is not enough to go around so I will make sure that I am on top and “they” will just have to deal with it. This, unchecked, sounds like America first, the rest of the world doesn’t count. America is only for “us” (insert your group of choice here)therefore our views are the only ones that really matter.
Lack of empathy also has a profound effect on individuals. It leads to miscommunication and misunderstanding as there is no attempt to understand perspective of others. In its worst form it exaggerates perspectives in order to belittle or discredit. It damages relationships as the lack of understanding makes it hard to connect. It is exhausting and demoralizing to be in distress and feel like no one cares or to have an important perspective but no voice. Especially is you are mocked, targeted, and belittled. (This crosses apathy and enters the territory of the bully or tyrant).
So what are we to do in the face of this empathy gap? Individuals should read widely and seek human connection. This does not mean to subject yourself to ridicule, targeted communication or incivility. Social media may not be the place to engage. As an example only: This week in light of the acceleration of immigration action, I have watched several videos of migrant workers to understand their stories and to understand their work contributions on a human level. I have looked at statistics for American immigration including crime statistics. I have familiarized myself with legal rights. I read the official policy statements of government officials. I have looked historically at ways Americans have gotten it right (usually bi-partisan) and the many ways we got it wrong in order to speak against past mistakes. I have talked with schools with high immigrant populations to listen and support leaders under a high amount of stress trying to do right by families. I read op Ed pieces from states that had been overwhelmed by immigrant populations that they felt ill-equipped to deal with. I also endured a ridiculous amount of propaganda and bigoted speech trying to get to facts and understanding of perspectives. It is not an easy exercise trying to cultivate an empathetic and reasoned response instead of an emotional reaction. We need better solutions. Immigration has long been a complex problem. Solutions are never easy. Democracy is always messy, but we must start from a place of empathy. And Americans have to work together along with the people who are most impacted to find systemic, humane solutions.
Politics is always the a combination of power and choice. The wise government seeks to hear many voices in order to understand how choices affect individuals. A good government seeks to use power to make choices that advance the greatest good. A just government acts with compassion to protect minority rights even as the majority rules.
Empathy matters. It is up to the people not only to speak, but to actively listen to one another. As an act of citizenship, find another citizen and spend time really listening to their needs (not their opinions about the “other”, but really listen to their hopes, their values, their experience). You may be surprised and you will be strengthening connection through empathy. You will also be strengthening the building blocks that ensure the common good.
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It Is Messy Sometimes
Today, while waiting for a Dr.’s appointment, I saw a funeral notice and tribute for a former professor/ church leader. As I saw the texts of support and accolades, I was instead taken back to a major life lesson he delivered.
I was a freshman in college and enrolled in a psychology with professor “b”. I was doing well with straight “A”s first semester and a solid performance in second semester. Despite that I was called to the professors office for a “meeting”.
Memories are a bit fuzzy with specific details, but a remember him leaning over and touching my arm with a kindly smile. He told me we were meeting because he cared about me and he couldn’t help but notice that I was at the top of my class and outperforming my classmates. I said thanks, and that I had been working very hard.
What came next was a slap in the face. He gave me a pitying look and said that was why we were meeting. He wanted to help me. It seems I was outperforming the young men in my class. And they would not like that. I would never get a husband if I didn’t change my behavior and know my place. Mrs. degrees apparently come with strings and I should play the game.
I sat there and couldn’t breathe. I didn’t speak. It was incredibly silent. I was dismissed with a warm smile and assurances that he really cared about me. I left confused and angry.
I had been raised to work hard. I had been convinced that education and hard work were virtuous and to do less was a waste of God’s blessings. I enrolled in a Christian university to seek wisdom (both secular and religious). And as I sat in the darkness of my dorm room, I was confronted with the reality of misogyny from an unexpected source.
Maybe I wouldn’t have noticed all the little signals in my environment without that confrontation. Maybe my life would have taken a different course. Instead I stayed one more year at the school. I was told often of things I could not do because I wasn’t a man. I abided by the curfew of the women’s dorm, even though there was none for the boys dorm. I laughed off, when I was told I would be beautiful if I lost weight (I was an athletic size 10). I made great friends, learned as much as I could, and reluctantly moved on.
I would not be a renowned biblical scholar. I would not serve in church leadership or work overseas. I would not do many things I thought I would do. Instead, quietly, I found my vocational calling. I chose a career where learning and hard were valued and rewarded. I learned not to confuse one person’s opinion with God’s. I learned to listen more closely and to trust myself.
As I reflect today, I see that the good professor had a positive impact on many people based on their tributes. He also caused harm. Despite his unwanted “helpful” hints, I perused a life of learning which ultimately turned out better than I could have ever imagined. It is messy sometimes.
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“Ice”olated
I am in the post- Christmas doldrums. It happens every year. I get all excited in the build up to the holidays. Family fun and endless games, fill the house with laughter. Trees and decorations light up the rooms with colorful sparkle.
And then, everyone goes home and the decorations come down. The January sky is grey. It is cold and hard to reestablish healthy routines. This year, it seems impossible due to endless ice and snow.
I know we have been blessed. Unlike other family members we have not had lengthy power outages , furnace issues, or leaky roofs. But we are house bound nonetheless. I feel trapped in a grey alternate reality.
At first, I enjoyed a few extra days of leisure. Slowly taking down decorations and cleaning the house, I filled the days with hustle and bustle. The next few days were spent reading and puzzles. The next few were spent in aimless wandering from chair to window to chair. I spent a long time chatting with my avian visitors who come to the window for a free meal. Finally, as always happens when I am idle too long, I began to fret about random things that don’t even matter. I am officially “ice”olated.
I just made up the term, but I like it. Humans are made to be social. Psychologically, we have three basic needs. We need to feel belonging. (Right now, I miss my wider community.) We need to have autonomy. (Being stuck inside and unable to get out of the driveway certainly doesn’t foster feelings of choice and independence.) And finally, we need to feel competence and that we are making a contribution . (While I made some awesome soda bread and managed a week of zoom meetings, I feel really unproductive). With all of my basic needs taking a hit, I am definitely “ice”olated.
The funny thing about “ice”olation is that while you know you need it to be over, you also dread its end. I crave the return to normal and yet rejoice when the days meetings were cancelled due to another round of snow. “Ice”olation means a longer morning coffee time. ..A chance to blog…not having to find shoes.. “Ice”olation also means I have to also think of how I am going to fill up the hours of the day, because endless screen time is damaging to my health. I have worked, read, scrolled, and watched my limit.
Praying for a thaw! I am terrible at doing nothing. If I can’t get back to normal soon, I may be forced to organize my sock drawer or alphabetize my spice Hope the rest of you are safe, warm, and coping with your “ice”olation better than I am.
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Another Christmas….
I am up early this morning. Another Christmas when I can’t sleep. Waiting in the glow of Christmas tree lights, I give thanks for the family sleeping under my roof this morning.
Another Christmas Eve is in the books. Everyone gathered and all the cars in the driveway, I finally relax. My version is to putter endlessly in the kitchen. This year, I made turkey with all the trimmings and a fluffy toffee cake iced in freshly whipped cream.
Before dinner, we headed to Christmas Eve service. Another Christmas whereI am eager to celebrate the birth of Jesus. I love tradition and singing carols to celebrate and spread more joy. This year, the service was dark, slow, and detached. Or maybe that was just me…longing for more joy to the world and less existential anxiety that seems to creep into every modern service. I remember years of bright lights and singing children. This year the monotonous background music, the strange animation and the darkness of the room made the overall effect most melancholy. The speaker talked about hope in a way that did not feel hopeful. Just before I fell asleep in the church (embarrassingly), we were back in the car and headed home.
At home, I filled the house with light and joyful music. Another Christmas Eve with family and fun. My mother in law was here, in a jaunty snowflake cap. Cancer may have claimed her hair, but not her Christmas spirit. Unfortunately, my parents couldn’t make it this year. My Dad is resting after his cancer treatment. He has to be ready for the big show later today when we all descend on their house. Another Christmas where health concerns linger.
Another Christmas Day. Another Christmas to make memories. I contemplate years past as I wait for everyone to wake. Anxious for it to start, yet not wanting it to end. It is the same each year….and in the waiting I encounter the meaning of Christmas. The world waits in anticipation of joy and laughter and belonging. We celebrate God’s gift and we eagerly await reunion. We are happy, sad, excited, underwhelmed, overwhelmed, tired, and energized. We are alive.
Another Christmas …. Another blessing…
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All Good Things Must Come To An End: Travel Goals
The end of a trip…sadness of leaving a new favorite corner of the world….happiness to be heading home. Despite the fact that I hate air travel (to be specific, I hate the hoops you have to go through at the airport), travel day is always exciting. We leave Lesa early in the morning and make the one hour drive to Malpensa. Surprisingly, there are no delays and we arrive to the exact location on the first try.
We booked a rental car from the main terminal so drop off would be easy. Oddly, the car agency didn’t open until 7:00 am. We have an early flight so we drop the keys in the drop box and hope for the best. We navigate up steps and through the terminal. Of course our airline is at the furthest possible location.
We arrive panting, only to find a long, long line into a back room where the American based airline counters are contained. I walk to the front of the line and around a corner and discover a board that says which passengers are allowed to enter the check in area. Our flight is eligible so I retrieve my husband and we skip the line. I try to tell as many people as possible which flights have entry, as many people were in line with no idea they were allowed in since they couldn’t see the entry board and were in line behind people who were waiting for a later flight.
Check in was easy, but we are directed downstairs and back across the entire airport to the U.S. security lines. Advanced technology allows us to leave everything in our bags. The security line is efficient and we are through in minutes. But now we have to walk the entire length of the airport for the third time to find our gate. We have now walked somewhere between three or four miles. My backpack is loaded with my computer and all the treasures acquired during our Italian holiday. It is heavy! We trudge on.
We arrive at the gate and sit. Our fellow passengers hack and cough like there is an epidemic. No one even bothers to cover their mouths. I retrieve our masks and we put them on. I have no intention of getting sick, especially since my sister in law got Covid on her flight home earlier in the week. The lady sitting next to me looks insulted that I have masked as she continues to cough. I ignore her sighs as I am not the problem in this scenario.
I settle into my seat after boarding for the long flight home. I don’t usually like window seats, but this plane has two seats side by side a window and an aisle. Normally we both claim an aisle seat but this is an unusual opportunity to sit together without someone stuck in the middle.
Before I know it, we are flying over the Alps. Just days ago, I was walking trails at Gornergrat. Today, I say farewell from the air. Different views, equally impressive. Soon we are over the water and I am searching for something to watch on in flight entertainment. Hundreds of choices and nothing looks appealing…perhaps a nap.
Before I know it, we are back in the USA. For the first time in a long time, we are met with smiling employees who welcome us home. They are calm, cheerful and helpful. The passport control agents are equally pleasant. I am happy to be home and even happier that our fellow passengers who are visitors are greeted with respect and courtesy.
The short flight home from Atlanta was over quickly. Our baggage came quickly and the shuttle was waiting at the curb. This may have been the easiest re-entry process within memory. We were in the truck and headed home without delay. The last hour is spent on the highway headed home. Each milestone is one step closer. My bed..my bathtub…my birds….my coffee pot……are calling. It is good to be home.
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Last Day Is Always Bittersweet: Travel Goals
Our last day in Italy. Where did the time go? We decided to stay fairly close to home as we needed to pack and prepare for a morning flight. Although we had connected trains in the town of Domodossola, we had yet to visit. It seemed like a great destination. The town sits next to the River Toce in the Ossola valley in view of the Alps.
The drive to Domodossola was easy, and I was able to check in for our flight in route. We started the day at the Sacro Monte di Domodossola. I have come to love the mountain chapels with the carved biblical scenes. It seemed a fitting end to the trip.
We parked and walked uphill toward the chapels. The signs were confusing and we couldn’t find the starting chapel. Eventually, I discovered that half of the chapels were downhill and half uphill. I wanted to do them in order, a true pilgrimage.
My husband thought I was crazy to walk all the way down the mountain to town, only to have to walk back up. But I was determined. I wanted a true reflective pilgrimage walk as an end to our time among the sacred mountains. My chauffeur said he would wait for me…so I set off downhill.
The chapels started at the bottom of the mountain in the town. The citizens of Domodossula went about their business ignoring the two chapels in their midst. What was common place to them, held significant meaning for me. A giant dog snarled and pushed his body through a fence as far as he could warning me away from the house next door. I was startled but walked up the steps to the chapel.
The chapels here followed the stations of the cross. The way is steep up the mountain. So steep that sometimes I have to lean forward and push hard into the climb. The area between chapels is parkland with trees and Alpine views. I thank God for our time in Italy with each step. For the beauty of nature, for the ancient wonders, for the people in our lives, for the joy of discovery in our travels, for our health and safety. Step after step carried me upward.
My husband was waiting for me where I had left him. He had been watching others struggle up the mountain and was happy he hadn’t joined me. But now we climbed together to the cathedral. School groups were having a tour by the priest so we quietly took in scenes of the crucifixion in the side chapels. We climbed stairs on the exterior to visit the tomb of Jesus. More stairs took us to the mountain summit that overlooked the Ossula Valley. A small prayer garden and the walls of an ancient castle occupied the mountain peak. The Sacro Monte again delivered a peaceful and joyful morning.
We headed into Domodossula unsure of what to expect. After securing parking near the city center (a minor miracle), we walked into town. I made a quick stop into the local church and then we found a nice restaurant. We ate outside on the square where I fell in love with the town. It was bustling with people going about their lives. Big enough to have energy, it still felt quaint. Modern enough to have amenities, ancient enough to have deep cultural roots. English was limited, so we were immersed in Italiano.
After lunch, we spent the next few hours exploring on foot. We walked past schools and churches. The autumn trees were bright against the backdrop of mountains. At the far end of town, we found L’Officina di Chocolate. We had to walk up a driveway and enter what looked like someone’s back door. Inside was an art gallery of chocolate. The owner sculpted handmade chocolate into tiny masterpieces. The boxes were themed: doctors’ tools, sport’s equipment, the nativity, legal emblems, wine supplies. There was chocolate in more themes than I could process and each set was more beautiful than the last. After spending a lot of time admiring the skill, we made our selections and said our good byes.
Reluctantly, we left Domodossula. We decided to drive back through the country. The sun was shining and it was our last day so meandering seemed like the best choice. The tiny road took us to Vogogna. It is a tiny town in the mountain valley that time forgot. There were four other cars in the small parking lot just off the roadway. Three old men sat on a bench watching the cars go by. We could see a castle on the hill but could not see a way to get to it.
We set off on foot to the Main Street by the city water fountain. The streets were winding and ancient. We were in a land time forgot. We walked uphill to a footpath by a stream. A small bridge took us over the water and into a church. Candles lit the dim interior at the feet of the Madonna, confirming that at least one other person had been this way recently.
We followed the path to the castle walls and walked along the perimeter. It was formidable in its day, a sentinel against invaders. The trail continued over the mountain, but we headed back through the empty town. No stores that we could see, only massive and ancient homes conjoined in stone. An old woman came out with her broom to watch us pass and then swept the dust behind us. It was as if Italy was telling us it was time to go.
We made on final stop in Arona. The lakeside walk (lungolago) was brisk and beautiful. We can never agree on a restaurant. I am a foodie and my husband has traditional tastes. After passing dozens of restaurants, we ended up back at an old favorite.
I tried to savor each bite. We don’t know when or if we will be back this way again. But we do know that north Italy will always be in our hearts.
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Meandering: Travel Goals
With just a few days left in Italy, we drove over to Ivrea. We had driven through town earlier in the month and I was charmed by the town. It seemed like a good place to explore. The hardest part of exploring unknown areas in Italy is navigating parking. We tried a parking lot next to the oldest part of town, but it was full. After a few attempts we drove on down the road, and found the biggest parking lot we had encountered in all of Italy.
We set out on a walking tour of Ivrea. First, a trek uphill to the castle. Perched on the hill overlooking town, the castle commanded attention. Unfortunately, it was not open, so we had to admire it from the outside. A cat ran in and out of the gate as if to tease us. He could go in. We could not.
Next door, the cathedral Santa Maria Assunta was open. Its crypt held impressive frescoes situated between white plaster archways. Soft music played in the background. We stumbled around on uneven surfaces, finding partial frescoes in darkened corners.
Back outside, we wandered downhill to the central piazza. Oddly, every store was closed. At mid-morning on a Monday this seemed strange so I began looking for posted store hours. Every store in town was closed on Monday! Shopping was clearly out of the question.
So we kept walking all the way to the river. A small park included a statue of a hand holding an orange. Once a year the entire town has an orange battle. Nets are put up to protect observers. Each neighborhood in town forms a team and pelts the other teams with oranges. Pulp and peels fill the streets. A unique and strange local custom.
The river was high. Kayak runs lined one side of the channel. A sign proclaimed the 2024 world canoe championships. Waterfalls and rapids made the river both challenging and beautiful. We walked across the bridge and through the park next to the paddle sport course. The rapids were visible all along the park trail. Eventually we found a footbridge to take us back across the river. Ivrea was a beautiful town and a great place to spend the morning…..even if nothing was open.
At this point we were hungry and needed a bathroom. We found a restaurant called the BBQ cafe. We decided it was worth a try, mainly because it was one of the few places actually open. It sat on the pilgrimage trail (a hundred mile trail that followed the route of a monk). Decorations in the cafe honored the traditional dress of pilgrims walking the route.
It became clear that no one in the restaurant could speak English, so I asked for a menu because I read Italian much better than I can speak it. The waitress said no menu. I said menu. She indicated they only had three choices. I asked to read them and she showed me a notepad with three handwritten choices: chicken, hamburger steak, or pork cutlet. The cook was an Italian granny who apparently made only a few things each day. We chose grilled chicken with seasoned potatoes. It was simple and filling.
Since nothing in Ivrea was open on Mondays, we headed toward home and stopped in Biella. I had read you could take a funicular up the mountain to the old town. So we parked in a parking lot labeled funicular parking. Unfortunately there didn’t seem to be a funicular within sight. Google maps indicated that we needed to head up some stairs and across a parking lot. We blindly followed directions and eventually approached a building at the side of a hill.
We reached the funicular and looked for a non-existent ticket office. Confused, we watched a local woman push a button and enter the funicular car. She told us to get in. I asked if we needed a biglietto (ticket). She said no, pushed a button and we started up the mountain. We were in a free, self service funicular! The view was incredible, but we were in shock. We had ridden several funiculars in Italy, all with tickets and operators. It occurred to me that the funiculars at Bard Castle in the neighboring valley were all unmanned. Maybe it was a regional thing? Here you can drive your own train.
We walked the old town. A number of beautiful villas were now hotels, apartments, and schools. An older man with a guitar on his back entered a beautiful villa with a sign indicating a music school. A small cafe enticed us with gelato. Wool shops sold goods and had signs celebrating the communal wool production of Biella, past and present.
After a nice visit, we were ready to descend the mountain. We ran into a couple wandering around the funicular station looking confused. We were now the pros. We confidently pushed the button to enter the car. Once inside, I selected piano (lower) level. The car started off down the mountain. We were now veteran funicular operators.
It was a beautiful ride home. The sun glistened off the snow on the alps. Monte Rosa rose gloriously in the background. After days of rain, it was nice to ride in sunshine. In fact, the sunshine was so delightful that we walked to the lake once we were home. The water level was very high, covering rocks that we had used as seats just a few weeks before. The usually trickling Erno River was now raging. The beach was empty, except for a gaggle of geese. A white goose adopted me and followed me around. I stopped to take her picture and she waddled in for a close up. I’m really going to miss the unexpected encounters that Italy constantly provides when we leave in just a few days.
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Pavia, A Study In Honoring Tradition: Travel Goals
Today we ventured to the Italian city of Pavia. Home to one of the world’s oldest universities, final resting place of St. Augustine, and the Southern seat of the Dukes of Milan; Pavia has a long and interesting history. The Castello Visconteo di Pavia was our first stop. Built in 1360 by the Lord of Milan, the castle hosted Petrarch and other notable Italians. Lovingly restored by the city of Pavia, the castle is now home to a civic museum.
The bottom floor of the castle was full of broken statues and pottery. An ancient crematorium, filled an unusual exhibit space. I didn’t know how to feel about standing next to the ovens and urns.
I loved that the museum rescued pieces from the rubble of ancient churches and historic sites damaged by time and war. The best surprise was a wonderful fresco rescued from a demolished local church and preserved on a specially designed wooden frame. Walking under the half dome I experienced a rush of color. Paintings depicting the four “doctors” of the church jumped out of the frame. Scholars recognized in a town of ancient scholars.
The second floor of the museum had an incredible collection of medieval and renaissance art. It also had random items, like a preserved ladies shoe from the 1300’s. I was left speechless at the colorful renderings of all aspects of life.
Another unexpected treasure was a portrait of Anne Boleyn done by an Italian artist hired during her lifetime. The portrait shines like a photograph, capturing a wistful looking young woman in an overly large white starched collar. More galleries continued with 1800’s portraits, landscapes, and even impressionist paintings.
Finally, the upper attic floor was dedicated to the world wars and Risorgimento or the Italian reorganization. Pavia played a leading role in the movement. As a former history teacher, I was very interested in the artifacts, especially the “red shirts” that identified Garibaldi’s followers. They were even more vibrant than I had imagined.
When we had enough museum time, we ventured over to take a peak at the university which sprawled across the town. We grabbed a slice of pizza on the walk back to the car. The local Gorgonzola was heaven, even if the slice was cold.
Just a few miles up the road, we stopped at the Certosa di Pavia, a monastery. Founded in 1396 as a mausoleum for the dukes of Milan, it was built to rival Milan’s famous and publicly built duomo. Today, just as in prior centuries, it is the home of Carthusian monks who farm the surrounding land. They grow rice and keep bees.
We had trouble parking, as we followed the gps to a road we weren’t allowed to drive. We turned around and backtracked to a parking lot that was doubling as a small lake. Since the car didn’t sink, we parked and walked to the impressive monastery that dominated the landscape. We queued to get a ticket from the machines. It cost zero dollars!
The sanctuary looked beautiful but the mausoleum and high altar were behind iron fences. We tried to look into the dark side chapels and peer through the bars into the incredible interior. A security guard leaned over and told me a monk was coming and we could go in with him in a few minutes. At least, I am pretty sure that is what he said. Everyone only spoke Italian. I stood next to some grannies in wheel chairs who were eagerly waiting. They were very excited and I trust the judgment of grannies. They know stuff.
Sure enough, within minutes an elderly monk appeared and the gates were opened. All fifty or so of the visitors were invited inside to follow him on a tour of the interior spaces. No matter that we couldn’t understand a word he said. We followed him into the sacred and restricted spaces. When the crowd smiled, we smiled.
I tried to stay to the fringes because I wanted to take advantage of the viewing opportunities. I also wanted to make sure that we weren’t asked any questions. After about an hour of understanding every third or fourth word, we finally ended the tour in the residential quarters of early monks. Each small room was cozy and had a private garden.
I understand the appeal of a simple life in a beautiful place. Caring for bees and rice fields, the monks were rich in contentment. We could all use a dose of that.
We visited their small shop and bought homemade soaps and candy. The hard candy was tasty with a soft center. It was a beautiful unexpected treat.
As we drove home, I reflected on the community pride and strong traditions evident in Pavia. The citizens sacrificed to restore their castle and turn it into a civic museum. They rescued fragments of art out of the rubble of war to honor their cultural roots. The celebrated learning and promised free university to those willing to study. They preserved ancient buildings, but modernized interiors without damaging the architectural integrity. The monks lived a quiet existence of simplicity and splendor as they had for centuries. Food was prepared with fresh, local, and natural ingredients just as it had been forever. Americans have a lot to learn about tradition, civic pride and quality of life.
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Regroup: Travel Goals
The only thing stranger than receiving company while traveling abroad is sending them off while you remain. After our whirlwind week together with the extended family, we were exhausted. Everyone (except me) slept late. We starts the day slowly, sharing coffee and pastries. And we reluctantly said our goodbyes. They were headed to Milan to spend the night near the airport to be ready for a very early departure. In a weird way I wanted to leave with them, but I was glad to stay here in my little house for the few more days we had left in Italy. I always feel the separation from family deeply. I think it is just a symptom of feeling so full of good feelings when we are together.
It was raining heavily and by the time the family left it was later in the day. My husband and I decided to just piddle…you may recall that I use this word when I want to wander aimlessly. We started on the “pedestrian only” streets of Arona, aka the shopping district. I didn’t want to buy anything…just to go window shopping.
As the rain picked up, we found a pastry shop. Cappuccino and a cannoli can do wonders for my mood. We met a lovely American couple who were vacationing in Arona. It was nice to chat with fellow Midwestern residents. Midwest “nice” is always a welcome encounter.
It was funny that we also found the exact shoes that we had walked across Milan to find for my brother. We also found a shop selling pipes next door. Both siblings could have found their wish list purchases not twenty steps from where we ate dinner (not once but two times!) I guess we should have walked down that street earlier. It could have saved us a few miles in the rain.
Eventually, we headed to the suburban area of Dormeletto. The road was lined with all sorts of Italian stores. It was fun to just wander around the shops and see how the Italians live. Families out for a Saturday afternoon filed in and out of a variety store where you could buy everything from pet food to pizza cutters. Next door a designer outlet sold sweaters that cost more than some of our furniture. We are not sure how people afford to dress if those are the discount outlet prices. In a more reasonably priced row of stores, my husband gave in and bought the fancy Italian sneakers he had been eyeing the entire trip. I had no more room in my suitcase for purchases sadly, I just browsed..
Italians have a weird fascination with the American West. We had someone tell us earlier in the trip that they thought America was full of cowboys. There were Western connections all over Italy. Maybe from the days when “spaghetti westerns were filmed in the Italian countryside. There were several “American-style” steakhouses near us. All with western themes. This day, we tried The Old Wild West Steakhouse. I had a surprisingly good smash burger, and had fun looking at their “old west” decor. We even had to exit and enter through a covered wagon.
On the way home we stopped in Meina to have a look around in the rain. We tried to visit the local museum. Nothing was open, so after a short walk we called it quits.
The day ended with a whimper. The rain and the busy week finally caught up with us. We headed home where I curled up with a book, and a hot cup of tea. Eventually we settle on the couch for a James Bond marathon. Sometimes you just need a day to regroup.
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In search of the Shroud: Travel Goals
You can’t visit Turin without wondering about the mysterious shroud of Turin. The shroud first appeared in France in the 1300’s and was claimed to be the shroud that wrapped the body of Jesus after his crucifixion. While a bishop in the late 1300’s and dozens of scientists have called it a fake, the faithful have considered it a holy relic from its first appearance.
The shroud was purchased by the Savoys in the mid-1400’s and was moved to Turin in the mid-1500’s. For centuries the shroud sat in a marble cask in the Savoy chapel under the golden sun. Over the years historians and religious leaders have tested and argued and tested some more. Some claim the shroud was painted. Some claim it was sweat or blood that made the famous impressions.
We knew the shroud had been moved, but to which chapel? We first visited the Chiesa di San Lorenzo. The small church was awash in marble and frescoes. After sitting for awhile in order to take in the beautiful atmosphere, we followed a sign to the shroud exhibit. Was this the shroud?
My brother followed a priest into the sacristy, but was diverted by a parishioner with a friendly smile. No entry for guests.
This church provided full “true” copies of the shroud. There were explanations in Italian that I am sure were interesting if google translate would have worked with the glare on the glass. Instead, I nodded and smiled at the lady who pointed and told me all about the Holy Shroud, also in Italian. Despite listening intently,I determined that we would not find the shroud here. But we did find our first friendly faces in Turin. That was a welcome development. Whether the shroud is real or not, I can’t say. I can say it is clearly real to the adorable ladies who took the time to share with us….even if I only understood every fourth word.
Our last stop was the Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist. This large church opened into the cappella inside the royal palace. Each alcove contained priceless works of art. Marble columns rose into the sky. It was impressive.
I found my favorite religious artist Ferrari had a chapel in this Duomo. I swooned over the elaborate gilded altarpiece. A small gift shop sold religious items including images of the shroud. I bought a small cheap ring with the face of Jesus (shroud image). It was a perfect, cheesy souvenir.
Nearby was the chapel of John the Baptist. A small glass case was said to hold a bone fragment of the martyr. John loomed large in a painting above the relic. He pointed to the sky, victorious. His mother looked down approvingly from the heavens.
I lingered in each chapel. The larger areas of the church were more crowded. My peace was broken as children argued with their parents. One crashed behind a barrier and pouted in hiding until a security guard chased him away. The parents whispered fervently, but seemed unable or unwilling to control their children. I moved on.
At last, we arrived before the chapel of the Holy Shroud. A small group of worshippers sat in silent prayer. Behind the chapel a golden altar rose in front of the windows of the royal chapel above.
Under a simple cloth covering beneath a bed of thorns, the shroud lay in a covered cask within a climate sealed glass room. A copy of the famous face was enlarged above. Candles burned to the side of the chapel. It was a place of reverence and fascination. It was clear who had come to worship and who had come to satisfy curiosity.
I felt a bit guilty snapping a few photos with so many people in prayer. So I took my snapshots and then sat amongst them to pray.
Prayer books were open for those in need of comfort. I stopped to read the prayers in Italian. I could make out most of the familiar passages. We watched a video about the shroud and eventually said our farewells to the Duomo of St. John.
It was time to leave Turin. The traffic had picked up since we entered town early in the morning. We drove through the square and down the tram tracks to exit town. It didn’t seem correct, but we followed the locals and the GPS directions. Cars appeared out of nowhere. While we waited for a green light at our turn, eight other cars appeared around us. They passed us in the median and turned directly into our path to beat us onto the one lane ahead. To say Italian drivers are aggressive is an understatement.
At the end of a long day and a long drive on the autostrada, we stopped in Lesa for a good meal at La Riva. The quaint restaurant on the waterfront had eggplant stuffed pasta that was delicious. Good music, family, and good food. In my opinion, the perfect ending to a day.
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Prisoner of Hopes 