Barb Voyage!

EX-STREAM-LY BLESSED

Determined to visit the town of San Giovani di Rotondi, where one of my favorite Franciscans lived for most of his life, Padre (now Saint) Pio, I embarked on what I knew would be a day of adventures.  I have been researching for two weeks, trying to plan a day to this Holy Shrine, but the internet turned up bizarre train combinations, and after three trips to the Roseto Station, one with Carolina’s help, I finally figured out what to do.

Let this be Italian travel lesson Numero Uno.  When planning to get from Point A to Point B by train and/or bus, have a paper and pen handy.  There are streams of combinations!  By “playing” with the automatic ticket machine, stopping and starting over several times so as not to hold up the line of seasoned ticket-buyers, I managed to line up my trek.

I needed to get from Roseti Degli Abruzzi to San Giovani di Rotondi.  In all, I bought a roundtrip train ticket (4.80 EU) from Roseto to Pescara, a train ticket from Pescara to Foggia and back (57 EURO), and prayed I’d catch a roundtrip bus between San Giovani and Foggia, as the almighty internet told me I would. 

When you board a train in Europe, you have to stick your ticket into a validation machine first.  I remembered this at the last minute, and asked a young traveler if I was correct in my assumption(not in so many words).  She said “yes” and pointed out the machine, but I had problems getting it to work.  She figured out it was broken.

New friends!

The pretty sixteen-year old with half “dreds,” half shaved hair, offered to run through the under-train passageway to validate my ticket for me.  Upon her return, I thanked her, and we struck up a conversation.  It continued on the train, as she told me about her day ahead on the beach in Pescara with friends, her attendance at a special school where she is studying to be a restaurant manager, her appreciation of my openness and friendliness, and her eagerness to practice English.

We both agreed that Roseto is a small town with a small town attitude, that we both love Paris and Rome, and that we both plan to go to Australia one day.  We also decided that traveling is the best way to learn and grow, and that “open” is better than “closed.”

Two other eaves-dropping young students moved over to our seats and talked with us as well.  They were both studying English and Spanish in a Language School in Pescara.  Though the two lovelies were much more “bookworm” - appearing, the four of us got a long as if we were all cut from the same mold.  Perhaps we are.

Roberta was a delightful traveling companion who, having about 30 minutes to spare while waiting for her friends to arrive in Pescara, walked me across the street to an eatery.  The White Bakery is an all-American restaurant.  I had 2 eggs over easy, 4 pieces of toast with apricot jelly, yummy home-fried potatoes, and enough bacon to construct a miniature piglet.  And a free bottomless,  continually streaming cup of coffee - American style!

Roberta stayed with me til my food got delivered, and then was off to have a day of fun and sun on the sand.  We managed to get a “selfie” in.  Articulate, modern, determined, and delightful, I have high hopes for that girl.

I had enough time to wander across the central square into the Church of San Antonio (Patron of Lost Things), and walk down a shop-filled street to the Lido-front. Pescara's umbrella-dotted expanse of soft white sand, modern plazas, and Miami-like hotels and lidos, is a grander scale than quaint Roseto. 

A modern sculpture along 
the sands of Pescara

Pescara on the whole is quite large and urban.  I’d definitely return for a weekend for more of her city-like action, mood, and style.  

Since I was back at the station with plenty of time to spare, I grabbed a cappuccino for a much needed "jolt" for the rest of my journey.  As I sat on a bench on Binario (Platform) 7, two minutes before my train to Foggia was to depart, I realized I was the only one on the platform.  Then the announcement came,

"Numero del treno tre sei tre otto è programmata la partenza binario di tre in un minuto."  Train #3638 was departing platform #3 in one minute!  I ran down and under and up, leaping onto the train, my backpack almost getting stuck in the closing doors!  Talk about a miracle!

The ride, once I took a few deep breaths of my mint essential oil for emergencies, was more of the same;  farmlands on the right, miles of beach on the left.  Lambie (my puppet I carry along in case "we" get to talk to Hazel and Violet). and I took it all in, especially enjoying the tunnels.  One after another, arched windows on the "sea-side" of the long tunnels, shone streams of light, revealing the pristine, deserted white sands and turquoise water. 

When "we" arrived in Foggia, I was lucky (pr blessed) enough to catch an immediate bus to the Shrine.  Well, almost immediately.

I saw S. Giovani R. across on the front of a bus which was in line to continue through a traffic light outside the station.  I ran over to the driver’s window and questioned,

“San Giovani?  Padre Pio?” since I had already learned there is a little town called San Giovani very near to Roseto, I thought I’d better be specific.  The bus driver pointed to a far curb, motioned “on the right,” and then proceeded through the light, only to pull up at the very spot to which he sent me.  When I attempted to board the bus, he yelled emphatically,

“Biglietti!  Alla bar!  Ristorante!”  and pointed across the street.  This was the second time since I arrived in Italy I was sent into oncoming traffic to buy a bus ticket! Round trip, 9.80 EURO. 

Italian travel lesson Numero Two - except for a few local in-town buses, you need to pre-purchase tickets, usually at a gas station, restaurant, or bar.  Just look for a sign that reads “Biglietti - SITA.”  The bus driver kindly waited for me - without a smile.

Train Ride

The seaside part of the ride was glorious.  The Umbrian countryside and “forest” reminds me of central and southern California and Los Padres National “forest.”  As the bus climbed the olive-tree-laden mountainside, cactus and brush slowly gave way to lush, tall pine trees.  

After only four or five stops along the way to pick up or drop off passengers, we arrived directly in front of the Shrine Center.  Thankfully, the girl in the seat next to me, whom I informed I was going to see Padre Pio, spoke enough English to tell me to “stay on bus.” 

“Padre Pio fermata,” she said, and I remembered that, in music, fermata meant to slow way down and pause.

Upon disembarking, I decided to bypass the cluster of “chiosko’s,” (kiosks) loaded with Padre Pio paraphernalia.  I would not let the sight (and meaning) of them taint my intended spiritual encounter.

1920 - alone on a hill

I took pictures of a lot of paintings, hoping to see one by my friend’s father, which was supposedly hung years ago in the main original Church.  I don’t think I found it, but I did see awe-inspiring depictions of the Saint’s life, his parents, his home, the Church in the 1920’s and 30’s, and artifacts from his miraculous years.

I became interested in Padre Pio purely because of my mystical curiosity.  Discovering that he bi-located, I began to read about him and ask him for intercessory prayer.  I had a Holy Card (a small prayer card) with his picture on it.  

One morning, when my youngest son was about five, he saw the Holy Card and said that he had seen that man before, in his room, in his dreams.  I didn’t think much of it, until I learned more about this intriguing Saint of our time, who has often manifested through dreams.  

I had visited the National Padre Pio Shrine in Barto, near my parents’ home in Bethlehem, PA, and brought a larger photo home for my son to hang in his room.  My eldest daughter thought the picture was creepy, because if you looked at it one way, it was Padre Pio, and another, it was either Jesus or Mary.  Nonetheless, my son, for whom the gift was intended, hung it above his bed.  I decided that one day I would go to San Giovani.

              

Thankfully, there were very few “pilgrims” on my day there.  As I had wandered the Churches (there are essentially, three), I was continually in the presence of an older woman with a cane.  

When we both entered the new large, modern Basilica, she asked me where Padre Pio was.  Honestly, I had already visited the “crypt,” so I thought his bones were in there.  I told her that the sign here says, “Corpo,” which means “body,” so let’s go down to the “Chieza Inferior,” (lower Church) and have a “looksie.”

I hurried ahead, as I had a bus to catch.  As scheduling would have it, I was to have a mere fifty minutes to visit the entire place, in order to get home before I turned into a pumpkin. 

Seeing how built up the area was, though the original town is quaint, with narrow streets and shops,

The New Takes 
the Forefront

A New Modern Basilica 
for the "masses"

I knew that Padre Pio would be disappointed.  A man dedicated to a life of poverty, following in the Rule of St. Francis, I doubt he would have approved of the thousands of dollars poured into a new Church built around the old one, and now an additional gargantuan modern Basilica, to accommodate the faithful, an extreme media outreach to raise more funds, and a gold-encased crypt to hold his dead body.

I know many find this strange, or disdainful, or even barbaric, but I will save that discussion for another day.  No taxidermy comments.  Herein, I am merely recounting my personal experiences and opinions. Of course, I would rather have met him when he was alive, but then I wouldn't have seen a saint!  Or would I?

A few other people were there, each having his or her own personal response to being in this place.  I wouldn’t say I felt Saint Pio’s presence, but I will say, I had a feeling wash over me of the impact and severity of his suffering, his message, and of the miracles worked through him.

That moment, when I laid eyes on the dead body of this Saint, was not cheap, nor commercialized, nor disrespectful - it was sacred.  He could have been in a pine box or this thick glass encasement, but no matter, it was the body of a Saint, his face and head perfectly preserved, said to be inncoruptible, his hands beginning to decay, almost fifty years after his death - the hands that had bled with Stigmata for many years.

Upon seeing his body, I froze.  My knees went weak, and I began to cry profusely, tears streaming down my face.  They wouldn’t stop.  It felt as if a damn had broken, and years of pain came streaming out.  Once again, the “gift of tears.”  

After spending a few tearful and prayerful moments at the glass tomb, I sat in a pew and prayed.  I think I was mostly crying because I thought of how pathetic a creature I am to think that my problems warrant miraculous intervention.  Nonetheless, I beseeched, and I begged, and I bawled.

It was then that the woman with the cane finally arrived, stood alone in front of the body, and began to weep.  She drew her sunglasses down off her head to cover her eyes.  Her back and shoulders shook as she held a palm up to the glass surrounding the body.

I stopped praying for all my people and my problems - and prayed for her - intensely.  Perhaps she had received a cure via Padre Pio’s intercession, or perhaps she was praying for one, but either way, she was having a deeply emotional and spiritual communion.  

This precious woman had hobbled a long laborious distance to come to this very spot at this very time.  Her tears blessed me enormously, and made me think of how small my burdens are in comparison to so many others.  It didn’t hit me until later, that maybe my tears may have blessed someone as well.

Padre Pio was no stranger to suffering, but especially tended to the suffering of others, specifically children, who gave him the most joy.  He was instrumental, physically and spiritually, in the miraculous hearings of many people, both during and after his life on this earthly plane.  He named the hospital he built next to the Church, Casa Sollievo della Sofferenza (Home for Relief of the Suffering).

Blood Stained Altar Cloth

I headed for the bus stop with my heart and mind in a suspended state of gratitude and awe.  This guy was absolutely amazing during his life here on this earth.  Though the mystical and the miraculous occur through many conduits, religions, and means, I am most drawn to my Catholic experience and study of these things.  Whether this affinity is because of my upbringing, or because of a Greater Director, it is what I choose to expound upon and be blessed by.

Padre Pio, who received the Stigmata (Bleeding Wounds of Jesus Christ), led a life of servitude, prayer, and acceptance of suffering as a channel to know God.  I sat before the very Crucifix before which Padre Pio received the Stigmata, but didn’t know it was “the” one!  It is in the choir loft of the “old Church,” and is a dramatic depiction of a crucified Christ.  I took a picture of another one.  Then I ran for the bus.

But first I  succumbed to the mayhem, making a quick stop to buy myself a Padre Pio bracelet to match my San Gabriele one.  I said a silent prayer thanking God for China and asking him to bless their country and Italy and the US as well.  Everywhere, for that matter.  But honestly, what would we all buy if it weren’t for China?

Wiping my tear-y, sweaty brow, while waiting with another woman for the next bus, I began to ponder what I would do if the bus didn’t make it back on time for me to catch the train back to Pescara from Foggia.  

I snapped a picture of a nun shopping, then walking across the street in her habit.  I explained to the woman next to me that I loved seeing nuns in habits, and that every time I do, I pray for them and for more vocations.  I like seeing the “visible sign” of people’s vows, if not for the sole reason that you know you can ask them directions and not be afraid of getting mugged.  She agreed, and we struck up a broken English     slash Italian conversation.  

She told me her bus and train schedule, and I shared my concern about mine.  The end result?

“You’a never gonna make it!” she laughed.  I laughed with her, threw up my hands and said, “It’s outta my hands-a!”

That’s when the adventure really began… 

Mother Theresa Mosaic in Basilica

Lambie prays at Base of the Way of the Cross