Eva on the Via Francigena (and beyond)

Song of the Day: Gloria — Umberto Tozzi

“Gloria (Gloria) / Chiesa di campagna (Gloria) / Acqua nel deserto (Gloria) / Lascio aperto il cuore (Gloria)”

This is a song that I have long associated with Rome — it was the first song I listened to on the cab ride in from Fiumicino when I moved, over a year ago now. I had thought it might be today’s song. And when I heard it playing in a bar when I stopped for a coffee, with the barman loudly singing along, I figured it was fate.

Note: I know this one is coming a bit late. I walked into Rome a few days ago, but have struggled to finish up the writing. I know that posting this last blog will, in some ways, mark yet another end to this journey. So, I’ve been pushing it off it while I enjoyed my time in Rome and visited friends in London. But heading back to the States now, I know it is time to close the loop. Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read this blog and follow along on my journey. In the lonelier moments on the trail, I was bolstered knowing that there were people out there cheering me on.

My last morning….wow. I woke up a few minutes before my 5:45 am alarm, somehow, and with Phoenix’s “Rome” still stuck in my head I went about packing. It was strange knowing that this would be the last day of a routine I have followed basically every morning for 3 months: patch up my blisters, pull on two layers of socks; fill up my Camelback with the appropriate amount of water and re-connect the drinking tube; put my iPad in its waterproof case and layer that in at the back of my pack; pull any laundry still drying (none today, of course) and shove it in my red dry-bag, rolling that closed while squeezing out the air; that goes into my pack alongside the blue dry bag with my towel and sleeping bag liner; throw all toiletries in my green dry bag, close that and pack it on top of the others; close the top of my pack. Pack up all cords and my eye mask into another zip lock, place that inside the inner compartment of the “brain” of the pack. Close the top of the pack, confirming that my credential is still in the top pocket where it belongs. Fill up my water bottle and shove it into an outside pocket, and strap my sandals to the outside of my pack. Lace up my shoes, throw the pack on my back, adjusting the waist and chest straps. Do one last scan of the room — don’t forget my poles — and head out into the early morning light.

It was surprisingly warm this morning, and humid. The moon still hung high in the sky, peeking out between the branches of an umbrella pine. I left the nuns behind me and hung a left onto the Via Cassia sidewalk, stopping briefly at a coffee shop for a final cappuccino and slice of cake. Then I continued along the Via Cassia as the sky began to brighten. Once again, this is a section whose downsides I thinks are a bit overblown. Yes, of course it was not as scenic as crossing the Val d’Orcia. Yes, there was some trash on the sidewalk and cars going by quickly. But, it never felt dangerous, and anyway— this is more accurate to normal life in Rome! So I powered along, singing along to up-tempo songs to keep the pace: “Roam” by the B52s, “Changes” by David Bowie…

At a certain point I did run out of sidewalk, and I’ll admit that the road walking is not exactly pleasant. I stepped aside onto the trash-lined grass as cars and trucks rumbled along. Well, what can you do. After maybe 200m the sidewalk reappeared and I once again returned to my carefree speedwalking. As I crossed from La Storta to La Giustiniana, the next suburb over, I had the strangest sense of deja vu. One of the intersections reminded me of Allston (Boston), of all places. If that wasn’t enough, across the street was a wine bar named 1636 — I discovered that my brain still first connects that year with Harvard’s founding, and to Boston itself. I smiled to myself, amused by the idea that a year that feels so ancient for Americans, does not feel all that long ago in the span of Italian history. I wonder what it was meant to commemorate in this context.

I stopped in another bar for a coffee and bathroom break. As I was fiddling with my pack, a man came up to me and asked (in English) if I was a pilgrim. Surprised to be running into an American in this neck of the woods, I said I was. He introduced himself as Peter, who has been living in Rome for 14 years as a science teacher…but on the side he is also a skipper, marine biologist, and a baker. And, he is also a former pilgrim (or is it once a pilgrim, always a pilgrim?). He walked the Way of St. Francis with no money, maps, or anything a few years ago. I think I’ve covered my perspective on the no-money approach to the pilgrimages, but either way it was clearly a very memorable experience for him. He left me with some parting words: “You learn on the road that every step is a choice. And that things happen for a reason. You can feel the energy emanating from the trail. Just remember that.” I thanked him. As I was preparing to go, Gloria came on the speakers in the bar, and the barista began singing along. I smiled, tapped my feet and hummed as I downed a decaf macchiato, said my thanks, and left.

I continued on the Via Cassia, needing to quickly dart across at a crosswalk to rejoin the VF signs on the other side of the road. This proved more treacherous than expected — a good reminder to keep my wits about me — as a scooter appeared out of nowhere from behind a car and nearly mowed me down. I jumped back out of its way and then safely arrived at the other sidewalk.

Soon enough, the Via Francigena turned off the Cassia and I was headed downhill into the Insurgherata, an overgrown green space sitting here on the edge of Rome. I kicked my way through the narrow and overgrown trail which was lined with all sorts of thorny, spiky plants. I had worn pants today, despite it being a bit too warm for that, because I would need to have my knees covered to get into St. Peter’s — now I was even more glad for the decision.

Eventually the path opened up and I was wandering next to a wide field. I could hear the barks of a large dog in the distance — still somewhat traumatized from my run-in before Campagnano, this put me a bit on edge. I also saw, for the first time, places where wild boars had dug up the track. It would be just my luck to have some sort of wildlife run-in while closing in on the end, but thankfully it was just me, the birds, and the slight smell of sewage. After about an hour in this park, the path curved sharply uphill towards a series of apartment blocks — into the city for me.

Stepping off the gravel and onto asphalt, I was greeted with an extremely steep uphill through the neighborhood of Monte Mario Alto. Leaning heavily on my poles, I trudged up. At one point, I stopped for a moment to turn back and see where I had come from. “Di là! Over there!” I heard from the heavens. Looking up, an older lady was hanging out of her window watching me. I smiled and waved, thanking her and saying I knew the path but just needed a second to catch my breath. She smiled and gave the Italian hand signal for “wow, that’s a lot” — kind of shaking your hand at chest level — and I laughed and nodded. With that reinforcement I turned again and charged uphill for the remaining few blocks until I arrived at the busy Via Trionfale.

I had expected to feel overwhelmed with the sights and sounds of a big city upon arriving in Rome. But honestly, I was just going with the flow — I’ve been in so many urban industrial outskirts, dodging trucks and speeding cars, that being on a busy urban thoroughfare didn’t fase me. I weaved between slow walkers, and then passed a bakery that had the smell of fresh bread wafting out onto the street…I paused, backed up, and then decided to enter. I ordered a piece of focaccia with potato and rosemary, and got to chatting with the cashier. He asked where I was from, and how long I had been walking for, and was astounded to hear I had walked here from England in 3 months. I laughed. It is pretty crazy when you say it like that, I guess. “Let me send you with some sweets, to give you energy to get you to St. Peter’s!” He shuffled over to the counter and filled a bag with some small pastries. I thanked him profusely for his generosity and continued on, stopping briefly to carefully place everything in my pack.

After one more big road crossing where the Trionfale intersected with a highway, I was cutting through a proper neighborhood. It was after 9am on a Tuesday but the businesses were bustling: coffee shops full of middle-aged people sitting at tables and chatting, a stylish older woman glaring at my hiking outfit while ordering from the butcher, people darting in and out of tabaccherias. I smiled, watching these examples of everyday Roman life with some bemusement.

Then, suddenly, it was off the road and back into nature for me. I turned off the street, cut down a small road next to a large grove of olive trees, and then was faced with the entrance gate to the Monte Mario reserve. In addition to various other signage, there was a large one in block letters: ATTENTION: WILD BOAR. I groaned and continued on.

In the end it was another boar-free jaunt through this forested, hilly section. I passed a few owners of off-leash dogs as I followed the rocky trail up and down. I listened to my walking playlist — I had put it on shuffle as I entered the Insurgherata this morning, and had been using it to help me reflect on the journey as different songs of the day played. I could see a clearing ahead of me and realized I was coming up on my first view of Rome. I paused the music and pushed up the hill.

Before me, just beyond the trees, was a wide view of Northern Rome. I haven’t spent much time up here, but even so I could quickly pick out some landmarks: Ponte della Musica, the destination of a long bike ride early in my time living here; Ponte Milvio, nearby the wine expo that Maddie and I went to in June (or was it July?); the Parco della Musica stadiums where I saw the Lumineers on a hot summer night. My heart swelled with emotion, and I let out a sort of laugh-sob. I’m here! Well, almost!

There was another famous view coming up, the first view of St. Peter’s, so I left this view behind and headed back into the trees. After another 20 minutes of walking, I re-emerged briefly on Via Trionfale and then re-entered Monte Mario reserve through a different gate. As I marched uphill on the path, a man coming the opposite direction with his dog stopped me. “The path is closed,” he told me, “some trees fell down. You’ll have to find another path.” I thanked him, but decided I wanted to investigate for myself just in case — and to see if I could still see St. Peter’s. After stepping over one downed tree, I found that his reporting was accurate: the trail was blocked with a locked gate. Behind it, I could see over the neighborhood of Prati to the iconic dome of St. Peter’s, which hangs over the city. I had expected this to be a really emotional moment, but in reality…it wasn’t. I snapped some photos, admired the view, and then switched to problem-solving mode to figure out what to do next. First, I was tired and my hips were aching — I needed to sit for a bit — and second, I needed to find a way to get off of this hill.

I solved the first by walking further uphill toward Rome’s observatory, which also sits on Monte Mario. Nearby was a wide belvedere. I couldn’t see the Vatican, but I had views to the Vittoriano in the distance, and the same mountains I had gazed at from Formello yesterday. The one bench was taken by a group of teenagers, so I leaned my poles and pack against a tree and pulled myself up onto the fence at the edge of the Belvedere. I sat up here and enjoyed my focaccia and pastries, and cracked open a bottle of aranciata I had bought for the occasion. I sat for awhile on the fence, watching the view and thinking about what to do next. Once I had a plan, I decided to move on, texting Nathan about my updated ETA.

I headed back downhill to the Monte Mario gate. As I turned a corner I was surprised to see a familiar figure in a blue raincoat. “Domenico!” I cried out, throwing both arms in the air. “Ciao, Eva!” he replied, similarly surprised. I jogged down to him to tell him about the trail closure, and my plan to take Via Trionfale. He nodded — he lived in Rome for two years so knew the city well — and said he was headed up to the Belvedere I was coming from for a break. I wished him well, and in case I didn’t see him, thanked him for everything.

Leaving the park, I followed Via Trionfale as it wound its way downhill, It had no sidewalk and no shoulder, so I found myself darting back and forth across the road to make sure I was on the outside of blind curves. After a few minutes of this, I saw an unexpected red-and-white Via Francigena marking at the top of a set of steps. I remembered that, until a few years ago, the VF had followed Via Trionfale all the way down — the addition of Monte Mario (and the Insurgherata) were relatively recent. This must be an old marking. Because this was no longer the trail, the stairs were almost completely overgrown with tall grass and weeds, but I carefully picked my way down and re-joined the road where the sidewalk began. I was in Prati. I texted Nathan another ETA, and he started to head towards St. Peter’s from the hotel, where he had been checking in. I was a bit stressed as to whether he would make it in time, but at this point it was out of my control, and I knew I needed to focus on finishing out the walk. Besides, central Rome is not very big.

I now loosely knew where I was — when I first moved to Rome I had been living in an apartment in Aurelio, on the other side of the Vatican, so was over here a lot — but decided to pull up Google maps to search for the fastest route. I was aware that it was already almost 11:30, my initial ETA, and that the Vatican offices close for a long lunch break.

So, I marched down Prati’s busy and well-heeled streets, under large sycamore trees with yellowing leaves. I almost got hit by a van that sped around a turn against the light as I was crossing, and darted across the street. What an end that would make! But, no damage done, I continued on, now firmly in familiar territory. There was the tailor who shortened the sleeves on my burgundy blazer — and over there, the Stefanel shop where I bought it. I passed the massive Trionfale market — the largest in Rome, full of all sorts of delicious goodies — and soon found myself at the back of the star-shaped park behind Castel Sant’Angelo. It was sunny and surprisingly warm in Rome (in fact, I think I got a bit of sunburn), and I stopped at a fountain to have a few sips of cold water and splash my face. I was almost there now, and wanted to make sure I had my head fully in the game. In the meantime, Nathan texted me a photo — he had arrived and was waiting for me at the obelisk in St. Peter’s square.

One of my favorite places in Rome, a small bar called Bibliobar, is right here on the lungotevere next to Castel Sant’Angelo, by a series of Parisian-style stalls selling souvenirs and books. I often would come here for a coffee or a spritz to sit and people watch, the light filtering softly through the leaves of the sycamore trees which bend gracefully over the Tevere. I headed to Bibliobar for a coffee, chatting briefly with the barista. Then I walked over to the wall of the lungotevere and leaned against it. 3 months ago I had come here to say goodbye to the city. Now I was back. The wall was warm from the sun, and the heat radiated up my arms as I leaned. I looked at St. Peter’s ahead of me, Castel Sant’Angelo directly to my right, and to my left the curve of the Tevere that would take me home (well, not home anymore) to Trastevere. Now, suddenly, the emotions welled up again. I felt my eyes start to water as I thought about not just the last 3 months that have brought me here on foot, but the last year of life in this city. I have been so incredibly lucky to have the opportunity to get to know Rome. And now, things are going to change.

And this journey — this adventure that I have spent 5 years planning and looking forward to — this is over, too. 1,000 miles of road are behind me. Dark stone English churches and wide open French fields. Swiss lakes and mountains. Hot sun and thunderstorms, electric shocks and angry dogs. Tuscan hills and Piemontese plains. And all of the people I have met, all of the pilgrim dinners and sad sandwich lunches and unexpected glasses of wine. All behind me. All that is left ahead of me now is the 500m of the Via della Conciliazione, lined by columns leading up to Bernini’s Colonnade.

I looked around at the tourists around me. Mobs of people ebbed and flowed. I got a few looks from people who walked by: with my massive backpack, my hiking poles, and my tear-streaked cheeks, I’m sure I looked out of place. These people have no idea, I thought absently, that I’ve walked here from England. Of course not, why should they? Pilgrims make up just a drop in the bucket of Rome’s massive tourist economy. And who cares, really — in the end, I did this journey for myself. I don’t have anything to prove, to a lanyard-wearing guided tour group or to anyone else. I’ve done it. I knew that I could make it here when I set off from Canterbury, and I was right to believe in myself. And, crazily, looking back with rose-colored glasses, individually none of it was really all that hard. All I did was get up and walk, every day, for 88 days. Through the good and the bad, the heat and the sun and the rain, all I had to do was keep lacing up my boots and keep walking.

And now I’m here. Amongst the tourist mobs, under the hot October sun. And it’s time. I had thought at one point that I might have mixed feelings about getting to this point — that part of me would want to keep walking, to turn around and go the other direction, to prolong the existence of this period of my life, this adventure, for just a bit longer. But no, now I was sure: it was time to finish.

There was construction on the normally busy road that rings Castel Sant’Angelo, which Nathan had warned me about. I skirted around the fences and weaved through visitors until I once again faced the columns of Via della Conciliazione and the dome of St. Peter’s. I snapped a quick photo, took a deep breath, and started walking. I joined the throngs headed in this direction — ahead of me was a sea of bodies packing into St. Peter’s square. But I had my eyes set higher. I marched on, waited for a traffic light, and then continued. At Piazza San Pietro I squeezed through a security gate, and began looking for Nathan. I spotted him in a green hat sitting on the base of the obelisk, looking right at me. I waved. He looked at his phone, then around the square. Then back at me. I waved again with both arms, poles swinging. Nope — he still couldn’t see me. I texted him: “You were right the first time — look again.” I jumped, waving both arms, and watched as he grinned in realization.

I started walking towards him, darting past tourists and keeping one eye on the Basilica. When I reached him, Nathan gave me a hug, and asked me how I felt. I told him the whole thing was sort of unbelievable. And it is!

After a few photos in front of the Basilica I headed over to the security line. There was a line of people waiting to get in that wrapped all the way around the square — but lucky for me, pilgrims get to skip the line. As I was talking to the guard, Domenico walked up. We embraced and congratulated each other, and I introduced him to Nathan. Domenico turned to me and in Italian, murmured “it’s crazy that he is so tall, no?” I laughed and, after handing my pack and poles to Nathan, headed through security. Domenico and I went through the metal detectors and then into the cloakroom just to the right of the Basilica. There, a man in a blazer (the cloakroom attendant) pulled out two blank testimoniums, wrote our names and the dates on them, and stamped our credentials. This relative lack of fanfare was unsurprising — the sense I get is there is a real ambivalence at the Vatican to pilgrims coming through. After all, many of the pilgrims doing this walk (and the Way of St. Francis, which also ends in Rome) are not doing so for religious reasons. Why should the beating heart of the Catholic Church go out of their way to make a fuss just because we’ve walked so far? Anyway, all this to say that I didn’t take this personally. I said goodbye and thank you to Domenico, who was headed out to Castel Gandolfo, and then made my way into St. Peter’s.

It had been 7 years since I last visited St. Peter’s, and I realized I must have forgotten much of the experience (I remember being quite faint after the crowded Vatican Museums on a July day, so maybe that is why). But, of course, the church is spectacular, bigger than any other church I’ve been in by orders of magnitude. Everything is gilded, airy, and light. I navigated through the mass of people to Michelangelo’s Pietà, carved from Carrara marble. He may well have returned to Pietrasanta to specifically select the block this was made from. Then I walked a slow lap around the church, admiring its light-filled domes, its gargantuan sculptures, and once again its scale. Of course, this was not the St. Peter’s that existed when Sigeric made his way to Rome, but for any pilgrims who would have made their way to Rome in the 1600s, they would have been astounded by the experience of walking into this church. I paused for a few more moments, flipping through my credentials and thinking about the ground I had covered. Then, I stepped back out into the sunlight.

I met Nathan again by the basilica, and saw Graham and Carol walking nearby, testimonia in hand. I flagged them down and congratulated them, and offered to take a few photos of them. After also getting a photo with my testimonium and trying to call my parents (forgetting they would still be asleep), I stopped at the pilgrimage office outside the walls of St. Peter’s for a final stamp.

I turned to Nathan and asked if he wanted to get lunch. “Sure,” he agreed. “Should we walk?”

Final mileage: 14.44 mi
Walking time: 6h 27m
Elevation gain: 921 ft

Total mileage walked: 1,048.48 mi
Total journey length: 88 days (79 walking, 9 rest days)
Total elevation gain: 80,355 ft

Epilogue: I’m not sure if I will write more posts — I hope, eventually, to put together something helpful regarding packing and planning. And obviously it has taken me a few days to write this post — I wrote most of it the day I walked into Rome, October 31. But I’ve struggled to find the right way to finish it, to close out this journey. I spent a few days in Rome, back in my normal weekend routine from my time living in the city, and am now in London visiting friends. I am still processing the end of the journey and the re-adaptation to “normal life.”

So, I will just say this: thank you to all of those who have supported me along the journey. To my parents, my brother, and my extended family, who have tracked my daily progress and provided much-needed jokes and support along the way. To Nathan, who dropped me off in Canterbury, picked me up in Rome, and helped get me down from the Appennines — but more importantly, who provided comfort through the ups and downs every step of the way. To all of my friends who have supported me through reading this blog, through well wishes, or — in the case of Shefali and Alberto — through in-person visits. To Sam, who was our fearless guide and pace-setter up and over the Alps.

To all of the wonderful pilgrim hosts (of whom there are too many to list by name) — the family home stays in France, the parish and monastery accommodations across the trail, and the teams of Italian volunteers who live in and manage the Italian hostels — this trail could not exist without their hard work and dedication, and I was astounded time and time again by the ways that hosts would go above and beyond to make pilgrims feel at home. To the many, many shopkeepers and “trail angels” who were willing to look after a young woman — occasionally lost, wandering through towns and countryside — who plied me with gifts of fruit and pastries, and who would send me off with a few kind words when I needed them most.

And to the fellow pilgrims who I met along the journey — if I am missing your name I apologize, I promise that I have not actually forgotten you: Krista, Giulia, Terry & Ken, David, Kerry & Andy, Beatrice & Daniel, Antonio & his crew, Leigh & Anne, Swiss Patrick, Kevin & Anja, Daniel, Joanne, Mariella, Monique & Alain, Giordana & Corrado, Genji, Michelle & Peter, Eugenio & Enrico & Domenico, Marisa, Manuela, Floris, Denis, Jan & Richard, Sergio, Domenico, Ken & Jeremy & Joanna & Ruth & Ian, Franco & Luca, Jen, Stephen & Kaye & Michelle & Penny, Graham & Carol. This journey would not be the same without the experience of meeting fellow travelers, swapping stories, and comparing blister-treatment strategies. I apologize to those of you I had to converse with in broken French, but thank you all for the many interesting conversations and the company along the way. May all roads bring you to Rome. And, of course, to Patrick, my longest-running walking buddy and the third of our group of Alpine explorers. I do feel that walking across the Alps together does bond you to a person for life, at least a little bit. Thank you for the support when I needed it most. It has been a honor to be both your rear guard and advance scout.

To all of the prior pilgrims (modern day and medieval) who came before me and made this journey possible. More specifically, to the many modern pilgrims whose blogs were both reference points and sources of escapism from the drudge of daily life as I dreamed about undertaking this journey. I hope that this blog can, perhaps, serve as a similar resource to at least one other person.

And of course, once again, I am grateful to all of you for reading this and sticking with me throughout my walk. I hesitate to say this is the adventure of a lifetime, as I hope to live a life full of adventures like this — but I think it’s safe to say that this has been one of the greatest experiences of my life so far. It’s been an absolutely unforgettable journey, and I will hold these memories close to my heart forever. Maybe I will come back to this blog for another long journey, but in the meantime, I think it’s time to hang up my boots and give my feet a rest. 3 million steps later, I think they’ve earned it.