It took four hours to find a place to stay tonight. Imagine Woodstock being in town. How was I to know?

Hotel San Carlo is my landing point. I walked down the street for my first food since the croissant this morning.

 
A total of 65 miles on the day and I’m so tired I don’t care any more.

Magazine cover: Michelle Obama “Back to Cook at Home”

These fellas made my day today.

Antonio (L) and Constantine

I was getting close to Milan, but it was late. It’s easier to stay in the small towns with welcoming churches and more affordable room rates. I took a random turn and ran into this fruit stand with a ridiculous pile of fresh cherries.

Antonio welcomed me into the shade. He grabbed a handful of cherries and shoved them into my hands. I had to pull them up to my chest just to hold them all.

It was “charade conversation” at its best. I got the message across about bicycling Milan to Genova to Rome to Pisa, up to Parma. Antonio held his head and made the finger-circle gesture for crazy. “Mama Mia,” he said, then invited me to a fruit snack.

Constantine was his wing man. The pair offered me shade, a place to sit, and using a pocket knife, he sliced open a ripe melon. Constantine handed over a full liter bottle of drinking water. Antonio was bold and old. He asked my age, if I was married, and whether or not I had children.

He had seven children and was 71 years old. Constantine straightened signs that had fallen down in the wind. He acted as a translator and, when he stretched, a big hair watermelon belly fell out from under his shirt.

What’s been amazing on this trip is the people that have the least seem to give the most.

Leaving my new favorite community of Caravaggio.

After 7 a.m. mass (I wore my scarf as my favorite watchdog priest was on the altar), I stopped at the neighboring cafe for breakfast; an espresso and a croissant.

“You have to visit Bermago before you go.” It was Marisa at the neighboring table. “Make the time; it’s only 20 kilometers.”

With that, she starts drafting a map, writing down directions city by city, guiding me to my destination.

Marisa

The tree-lined streets are cobblestone, so I shimmy, shake and rattle my way out of town.

Bermago is on my “to do” list today, and then on to Milan.

On all the tours there is one experience and story that really has an impact — this night at Santuario S. Maria del fonte is it. 

Lights out at 10 p.m. sharp.  It was a peaceful sleep.  Per my direction I said I would arise at 6 a.m.  

I was quiet even with all the wood doors; they must close every hallway door at night.  I could hear my cleats on the marble stairs echo though the halls. 

I gently sealed one more door before scooting to my bike, held safely overnight in the yard, and then a nun in full white habit steps out. 

She was a larger nun and amazingly stealth for her size. Her hands were folded under her robe and she looked stern. It was a little Steven Spielberg but in a Sound of Music sort of way. 

Sister Armanda

“Bonjourno,” she said in full voice, like it was time for everyone else to get up anyway. 

It was Sister Armanda.  All the nuns must have been put on notice about the house guest. 

She rattles off some cheerful Italian and then mimes sleep putting her hands together and resting them under a head tilt. “Si, si buono, ” I reply. Then she points to the door and says “bicicletto, ” then shoes me away. 

I reorganize and am soon rolling out the rig. Sister Armanda is at the door. I take a moment to pass her a note and a donation for the night. She takes the note. “Italiano!” she said with enthusiasm. I had Googled English-to-Italian translation the night before and wrote a thank you note they would understand. Then I forced the money and said, “donation.” 

“Coraggioso” (courageous), she said, holding her arms up for effect.  

Sister shuffled to the double wood doors .  I noticed she wore support stockings and her swollen feet tested the seams of her slippers. 

“Ciao,” she said with a hearty so-long waive. I walked my bike to the gated entrance. 

Early morning street sweeper

The street sweeper was already noisily on duty and the church bells were ringing out a crisp hymn. The sun cast a bright yellow brush across the trees and the gold cross atop the sanctuary stood watch on another new day. 

I love Italy. That is all.

Surprised there was a full-length mirror in my room at the sanctuary. Prepping to leave for the day. I made the bed, though I know they’re going to strip it. You can tell the care with which everything is done here.

I look at this picture now and through the eyes of the priests all I can see are those darn knees.

I’m about 20 miles outside Milan and since it’s almost 5 p.m. I figure it’s best to start scouting out a place to stay. Once I get to Milan, it’s going to be a big city and an expensive zoo. Although I still have a lot of steam left in my engine, I might be running on fumes in two hours and generally the campgrounds are 30 kilometers from where I land.

I jump over to a restaurant where men have gathered outdoors. My note is not well accepted.

I move to the library where the clerk points me in the direction of the sanctuary.

You can’t miss it,’ said the librarian. She wore a somewhat dressy t-shirt from the Hard Rock Cafe.

I pedal to the end of the street, which dead ends at the sanctuary; it’s no small outfit.

A couple were standing in the arched entryway. The woman gives me a finger wag and an audible “tsk tsk.” I pull out the note about biking for Alzheimer’s and she changes her tune and points me to an open door across the garden.

That’s where I find Sister Sara Amelia. She’s in her late 80s, dressed in a white habit and robe, with those soft nun shoes.

She sends me along my way. I run into a pair of priests and the note gets another workout. Nobody has anything reasonably close to an English vocabulary, so it’s a lot of “follow me” waving.

Rev. Gabriel makes a couple unanswered phone calls, then finally leads me to a hall where I can stow my bike.

Sister Sara re-enters the picture and it looks like I’m her assignment. She shows me the bathroom, and then a small prayer room. She speaks Italian; I nod like a dope pretending to understand. She continues to lead me down the long hall and to the automated cafe machine. I think it’s sweet how she’s trying to make me so comfortable.

Sister Sara leaves and I start to unpack, but I’m quickly distracted by food. About 20 minutes later I head to the bathroom to clean up. Half finished, the door opens and sister Sara has tracked me down.

“Camera” is what it sounds like she is saying. A quick sprint and I’m by her side. We take an elevator up one floor and she opens Room 102. Looks like I have a more comfortable place for the night; bed, bathroom and Bible – what more do I need?

“Seven o’clock,” she says, as she points to her watch and mimes eating…then she’s off.

Right now it’s 6:45 p.m., so was she inviting me to dinner or breakfast?

It was dinner. They sat me at a table by myself. The priests ate in a room by themselves, and the nuns did likewise – all behind closed doors.

A skinny guy with cigarettes on his breath served me. I was right by the kitchen. It was very “Downton Abbey.”

The Sister keeping an eye on me has her hands full.  🙂

I came downstairs after cleaning up and the priest walked by saying something obviously negative. The nun took me in another room where my bike was. She fast-talking in Italian, kind of getting exasperated, then pulls down her eye….like a spy signal.

Oh my, God. It’s the knees again. I can’t find my trusty scarf, so I get my pants.

When I walk in for dinner, the priest hangs back to give me a look, seeing if I measure up.

Dinner was hot rice soup and a hard roll.

One priest, Rev. Gabriel from my earlier encounter, sat behind me. He was at a table alone, too.  I waited for Rev. Gabriel to eat first. I wasn’t going to look back, so I just listened for the clink of silverware or the murmur of a prayer – you’d think somebody would pray, right?

I said a prayer in my head. Soup was getting cold.

No conversation. It felt like I was eating in the principal’s office. He could watch me. I felt it a violation to snap a photo of my food at that moment.

After the soup, the main course was a cut up potato, a halved hard-boiled egg, and a bit of raw tuna.  Feels like a Friday menu that’s desperately close to running out of ideas – but I’m not complaining.

This is a truly unique experience, and it isn’t over yet.

After dinner, Sister Sara stumbles upon me in the courtyard. She points out things of note and I take pictures. Sister indicates she should take a photo of me in front of the Blessed Virgin statue. We work through a couple mishaps, some shots of unsuspecting feet and the push of a wrong button. Finally, sister gets it right. We review. She’s clipped off 18 shots of me; the last few look like I’m telling a kid, “OK, that’s enough. Give me the camera now.”

I take a short video and play it back for Sister, and she is beyond thrilled! It’s a true reaction and I know she’s never seen cellphone technology before.

Sister takes me for a tour of the chapel and shows me some unique paintings, including a wall mural of Pope John Paul. She seems to indicate he visited the sanctuary once. Here is a short video of my tour:

I’d better wrap up; lights out at 10 p.m.

Thundering in the distance; am I being warned about this post?

Found this on my way to work today. Just one of the decorative roundabouts in Italy. 

Headed to Milan. I liked the way the clerk at the front desk said, “That’s far.”. Like I’m not

going to make it.

Logged 15 miles so far this morning, taking a break with Nutella on toast in a vineyard in

 Italy. What am I doing? Oh yeah….following my dream. OK …..calm down.

MANTOVA, Italy – Logged almost 52 miles today from Parma to Mantova. Good roads and nice weather, but it felt like I was stopping every 15 minutes to ask for directions and then two minutes after that to seek clarification.

Finally landed around 7 p.m. in Mantova and sat down outside a church near a center square.  (see story on Father Giorgio and my animal neighbors HERE).

After getting settled in, Rev. Giorgio brought in Julia. Julia was 21 and well versed in English. “You are in Colle Aperto and you’re camping in our Sunday School room,” she said. Julia spent 10 months in New Zealand, and that’s where she honed her English skills. Studying to be a nutritionist, Julia soon introduced me to her friends Mattia and Marco, both 17 years young.

Both claimed to have poor English-speaking ability, but they did just fine. My checkout time is 7 a.m. as class gets under way at 8 a.m.

Headed northeast tomorrow to Castiglione as I make my way to Milan.