SIDE-TRACKED

SIDE-TRACKED

Picking up fro where I left off, the lady at the San Giovanni di Rotondi bus stop was right - I did not make my connection in Foggia - by a measly four minutes!  I walked up to the ticket window and produced my pre-purchased ticket, doing my best to ask if I could use the ticket on the next train.

“Partido!” he said, vehemently. “It go!”

“Tell me something I don’t already know,” I thought.  “Yes, treno prossimo - altro biglietto?  O questo?”  (next train - another ticket?  Or this one?)  He proceeds to tell me to go to information, then waves me off with a “hmph!”

As I turn around to look for the information booth, I see the nun whose picture I discreetly took at the Padre Pio bus stop - the shopping nun!  She had been on my bus back, reading a Prayer book, praying a large rosary, and holding a finger rosary the whole trip.

Another good thing about nuns in habits, is that you can always count on them to help you.  I immediately approached the diminutive woman in pale blue regalia,  and began to speak, when she blurted out in perfect English,

“Where are you from?”

“Oh my gosh, you speak English!” I exclaimed, making sure not to use the Lord’s Name in vain.  “I’m from Santa Barbara, but live in Mexico.  Where are you from?”

“New Jersey!” she said, and then, when I told her that I was originally from Pennsylvania, I had delivered my ace in the hole.  We chatted it up a bit, until she pointed to the information window two over from the original guy, and offered to help me.

As I stood at the unmanned window, a man in the second window motioned for me to go to the guy in the first window!  Sister Maria went to work for me with her fluent Italian “nun” charm.  Eventually, a figure appeared at the information window.

As it turned out, I wouldn’t have to pay any more money, but my ticket would be changed to the only alternative route that night, which would stop in the town of Termolo for two hours and arrive in Pescara after the last trains and buses to Roseto.  

I would have to deal with the "Pescara to Roseto" problem later, trusting in God, of course, along with my willingness to live by Hebrews 13:12:  "Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby, some have entertained angels unawares."

Sister Maria happened to be on her way to thirty days of study in the town of Casino (ironic, I thought), followed by an eight-day retreat, all in preparation for her Solemn Vows.  This 28 year old, soon-to-be-permanent member of the Franciscan Sisters of the Immaculate, had been in the convent in San Giovani di Rotondo since she was 17.

“Sisters of the Immaculate?” I said, “Immaculate what?  Heart?  Conception?  What?”  She laughed hysterically and said that only a true Catholic would think to ask that question, but that indeed, it was just “Immaculate.”

I really liked her spunk, and was impressed with her commitment.  One of three girls, all members of the same Religious Order, she had come from a large Catholic family in northern New Jersey.  I felt a twinge of sadness when we were forced to part, she for her holy time, me for my question mark.

Termolo.  With each tiny, deserted, farm town train stop, I prayed that Termolo would have more to offer.  My prayers were answered - again.

With two hours to play, I headed straight for the water.  This high-walled town juts right up to the beach, with a long concrete boardwalk, a few Lido’s, and steep steps to cliff-hovering hotels and apartments.  “Lambie” and I basked in the soon-to-be-setting sun, realizing that here, like Santa Barbara, the sun would rise and set on the same beach.  

Tremolo, however, is north-facing, whereas Santa Barbara faces south.  A couple and their beagle took it all in, as I photographed them, in envy.  I explored a bit, only to look up toward the south, and see the high stone walls of a medieval tower, barely hiding the steeple of an ancient Church.  

The 11th century Swabian castle is one of 747 in Italy.  I walked up the hill to catch a glimpse up close, hoping I would have enough time to find the Church behind the walls.  

After scurrying around the thick-walled village, I finally came upon an arched entryway fit for a King and his Calvary. 

It was truly stepping back into time - Medieval time.  Cold stones, the smells of fresh bread and sounds of townspeople seeping through cracks and around corners.

The Romanesque Cathedral on the town square (behind the fortification walls), is dedicated to St. Mary of the Purification.  Not only was it open, but it was full of people celebrating a Mass with at least two dozen priests and the Bishop.  I stayed for a few moments, after listening to a beautiful choir sing the “Gloria.”

After quick glimpses of the narrow streets, many business run from small stone caves in the walls, and delightful cafés and bistros, I high-tailed it back to the station, Lambie in tow.  My heart was leaping at the luck of this re-routed day.  

The detour to Tremolo provided a highlight that begs me to return to this rustic town - a place I would have never known, if not for Padre Pio and the lady with the cane.  

I still had a hurdle to jump, needing a prayer to be answered, or a stranger to help me - how would I get back to Roseto tonight?

As I waited on the proper Binario (platform), the woman next to me asked me something about the schedule.  When I told her that I was a stupid American who didn’t speak Italian, she laughed, and began to practice her quite-decent English with me.  We sat together on the train to Foggia.  Her name was Anna, like my mother, Ann.

She noticed my Padre Pio and Saint Gabriele bracelets, and asked if I was religious.  I told her that, as far as I knew, I was.  But more than that, deeper in my being, I was spiritual - perhaps a mystic - intrigued with a realm beyond the physical, and always truth-seeking.  

She then began to tell me stories of her mother’s and young daughter’s spiritual dreams.  In one, Padre Pio came to her mother and told her that a miracle would happen in her daughter’s life.

“I prayed to God before an image of Padre Pio, and I cried very much,” she told me.  “I thanked Padre Pio for giving me a miracle, even before it happened.”  Shortly thereafter, Anna discovered that, after trying unsuccessfully for years, she was "expecting."  She named her son Mario Pio.  Three years later, she would also be blessed with a daughter, Desiree Concetta, now five.

By the time our train arrived in Pescara, we had bonded, and she promised to help me find a taxi or bed and breakfast for the night.  Her significant other, the father of her children, with whom she lives and is “eternally engaged,” came to pick her up at the station.  Little Desiree Concetta (always said in full), was in tow.

“What is your name?” the darling squirt asked.  Their part time Scottish neighbors have a five-year-old as well, and the two have been swapping languages since they were toddlers.  I conversed with the eager chatterbox as Anna imparted my dilemma to Claudio.  Moments later she said,

“Claudio will accompany you to Roseto tonight. with his work car.”  I was flabbergasted. But not sure what "accompany" entailed.

“You prayed,” she said, “and this is your answer!  But first you must come to our house.”

Their small two-bedroom apartment was in a complex just blocks from the Blue Sea Restaurant along Pescara’s shoreline, where artsy giant lamps with red acrylic shades light the boardwalk.  Though exhausted, and concerned about my friends waiting for up me, I obliged their hospitality, and sat on the patio with the family, including a 23-year-old nephew who had been babysitting.

"Taralucci" and wine are a typical Italian snack.  The men rolled cigarettes, while Desiree Concetta sat on my lap sharing her electronic kitty cat game, eating the pretzel/breadstick flavored "rings," dunking them in the wine. 

I then whipped out my six dice from their pouch, and taught the bunch "One-Four-Twenty Four."  After a few rounds, it was time to go. Anna and Desiree Concetta came along, the the four of us squished into the front seat of Claudio's work truck, the little girl perched on my lap.

Pescara to Roseto by car takes about forty five minutes.  I repeatedly thanked them, as they refused my offer of gas money.  I promised both to visit them before I leave the country, and to pray for their intentions.  Anna’s, I know, is to marry. 

“Not so much for the man,” she had told me, “but for God.  I want to be free to receive Communion.”

I snuck quietly into the villa around 11PM, grateful that Carolina hadn’t waited up for me, although she later told me, she had hoped I was on each of the passing trains that lulled her to sleep.

Tired but wired, I sat out on the balmy terrace and wrote until 2AM, at which point, instead of pushing the light switch, I pressed the doorbell.  No answer (wink).  I awakened no one, and I fell sound asleep, thankful for being side-tracked.

Manmade "jetties" 

The Fishing Pier at Sunset