... in Amboise, former home to kings

Greetings all,

The weather's been uncommonly cold, even for the middle of winter. Three inches of snow covers the land since yesterday afternoon, sadly, not the beautiful winter-wonderlandy kind, no, the gray dingy kind under a low gray sky. After struggling through 8 kilometers of slippery unbroken trail along the left bank of the Loire this morning, I finally came out to a road, dangerously unplowed, and promptly accepted a lift into Amboise, my planned desination for the day. Walk 8, take a ride for 20... in these conditions, there's no shame. On the bright side, since I'm wearing nearly all of the clothes I've brought, I'm carrying next to nothing :-)

My early arrival has given me time to take a tour through the castle. Among other French royality who lived here for centuries, Charles VIII is prominantly featured. I notice in the carvings and paintings of him, he's always shown with scallop shells around his collar - big sign he was a pilgrim to Santiago. Maybe yes, maybe no, but scallop shells symbolize St James.

I'll go in search of the parish priest - the curate in Blois gave me the heads up that the parish here has pilgrim lodging. Excellent. I look forward tomorrow to arriving in Tours. I read that the Amis de Saint Jacques meet in a pub in the old part of town on the first Wednesday of the month. Grand and happy coincidence.

Amboise has a nice little cybercafé with a scanner - so here are a few paintings attached - that's the St James' Tower in Paris, an interesting gargoyle in Suévres - the devil on the shoulders of a monk, and a nice room with a fireplace in the Amboise château...

A pilgrim?! - EEK!!! A pilgrim?! - Cool.

It's not always good. On Sunday morning, I walked through a small town on the Loire - a château, a former abbey, now a 5-star hotel, closed for the winter. Just past dawn, which is to say around 9 am, I went into the church. The abbey is long gone, so the once grand abbey church is now a parish church. The fact that it was formerly an abbey is evident - 11 arches around the apse. I was alone. There was no heat. Nonetheless, I took off my pack and set down my walking sticks. With an information card in hand, I learned about the art and carvings, about the history and significent events of the church. Lots to learn, lots to see in the dim light. It was gorgeous.

After a while, just as I was collecting my things to leave, an old woman came in. I assumed she was a kind person, but when she saw my backpack on a pew and looked over my clothing, I could see she jumped with full abandon to the wrong conclusion. Right there in the apse, she started shouting at me, so loudly I expected lightening to strike at any moment. She shouted and ranted, threatening to call the gendarmerie, the police - shouting that a church is a sacred place, not a campground for vagabonds! I tried to get her to calm down, to explain what somehow my scallop shells failed to do. I'm a pilgrim, not a vagabond. If she had a broom, I'm sure she'd have been hitting me with it. She was relentless. Fine, call the gendarmerie, save me from her. I had a stamp from the chambre d'hôte from the night before 10 kilometers away, I had done nothing wrong.

I was saved by the arrival of another old woman. The first nasty bag holding me by the arm shouting to the newcomer that she'd caught a vagabond, clearly wanting some glory. The new woman took one look at me and smiled - Bienvenue, madame pèlerine, would you like a stamp for your credencials? Sure, why not. I now have proof of my visit to Our Lady of Beaugency. Pray for our parish when you arrive in St Jacques, would you? Of course.

A few hours later, further on in another village, just after I finished painting a frosty bucolic scene of the Loire valley, a couple pulled up on the one-laned road. Pilgrim to St Jacques, would you like to lunch in our home? Oh, yes! (Sundays are difficult days to find anything open and I often don't eat.) I was welcomed into the village home of Odine and Phillipe, who wish to make a pilgrimage to St Jacques soon, now that the last of their children have left home. Utterly kind. Pray for us in St Jacques? Most definitely.

Can it really be the hair?

My search for a warm, dry place to sit one afternoon was hampered by a locked village church. The reason some of the churches are locked and other not are varied - some churches hold precious relics or priceless art, some are completely unattended, some have notes on the door with the keybearer's address, usually on the same square. About half, in my experience, are unlocked, but it happened one cold, raw day, the village church was locked. There was no café or bar; the school and mayor's office locked, too.

At the edge of the village, I saw a light on behind steamed-up windows of a 'Coiffure'. The Christmas decorations around the bay window invited me to peek my head in the door. I saw two women smoking cigarettes and chatting away, a small dog with a bow on top of its head wagged its tail at me. I explained that I just wanted some place to sit for a little while. They invited me in graciously. The older women got me a cup of coffee, the younger took my hat and gloves to the radiator.

Out of occupational habit, obviously, the younger woman studied my hairstyle as we talked about my pilgrimage. She probed at it and arranged it - natural? she wanted to know, the color, the waves... and you wear a hat all day?! I'm lucky that I don't even need to brush it or blow dry it after a shower - it just always goes into place, regardless of the type of shampoo, no gel or mousse needed. She was heavily made up herself, with big complicated hair. Attractive, in a fashionable sense. I could never be a pilgrim, she concluded, I don't have the hair for it. It takes an hour every day to get my hair just right.

Who knew? Could simple hair be key to a pilgrim's life?

Meet the Mayor

There are times when I've just want a warm place to sit and rest for 10 minutes. A side-benefit of a long walk in winter, maybe, but I seek places indoors whenever possible.

A city has plenty of cafés and bars, of course, but standing in a village square, options are limited... the mayor's office, of all places, is a strong candidate for a place with a seat and heat - 'Mairie' in French. Sometimes the hours it's opened are very restricted - to Wednesday afternoon, often, when school's out. The school and mayor's office often share the same building.

If people are there, though, my experience has been that they're always happy to receive a visitor to their corner of the world - usually offering a cup of coffee and cookies or homemade cake, and warm conversation.

The mayor of St Fiacre, a village named for the Saint, patron of gardeners, who lived and died there, could not be more proud of his dominion. He opened the church for me and gave me a guided tour; he took me to the only place in the village for a cup of coffee, and was a bit embarrassed that it's so skanky; he introduced me around - a pilgrim, from America; he took me to the grand residence of the local Count, who was entertaining guests for the holidays, so we didn't ring the bell (I'd have loved to have met a Count!); he told me all of the details of Fiacre's life, death, and beatification with great enthusiasm. if anyone is in north-central France the first weekend of September, this mayor puts on quite a festival for the Saint.

I've met many happy mayors and others who work in the village hall. The reception has always been positive, the experience delightful. Meet the mayor - it's a terrific way to discover Europe.

Two Woman in Chartres

I made it to Chartres in time for New Year's Eve. It was a bit of a push, but I was interested in being in a city of size rather than in a little village - easier to find a place to stay. Foiled, a bit, though; the pilgrim lodging was closed for the night and the next, the priest's house had no room, and the kind nuns at the convent strongly urged me to find something else. They care for the aged infirmed, and aside from a piece of cake at 7:30, there would be no celebration but sleep.

Happy workers at the tourist information center stayed a little beyond closing time and found a room at a brand new, reasonably priced hotel for me. That set, I went to the famed Cathedral. The very first impression is that it could take a decade or more to just look at all of the carvings and stained glass themes, longer to really understand the meaning of them all. If Christian and classical symbols could fill an olympic-sized swimming pool, what I know could maybe fill a wineglass.

Standing mesmerized in front of the ornately carved screen that surrounds the choir, I was approached by a woman with two small children. The way I was dressed, my backpack, walking sticks, and scallop shell, wide-eyed, she wanted to know if I'm really going to St Jacques. Yes, by foot. She held my forearm with both hands. The Virgin protects you, she said to me, but whether it was a statement or a question, I couldn't tell. Either way, it's hard to know how to respond appropriately. I go with an open heart, I said. She gasped, and reached out to another group passing by. Before an instant passed, she had a small crowd gathered explaining that the Virgin is protecting me on my way to St Jacques. Everyone reached out to touch me, Bon Courage, Courageous, La Vierge... The woman told me she would pray for my safe journey and asked if I would pray for her in St Jacques. Her mother lies dying, she said, pray for her. Okay, of course.

An American couple sidled in, the woman in a fur coat, wanted to know in a heavy Long Island accent what was going on as she touched my arm like the dozen other people. I explained briefly - I'm a pilgrim to Santiago. Are you a celebrity, she wanted to know. No, just an ordinary pilgrim. Why does everyone here touch you? I don't really know... it just makes them feel better, I suppose. This woman with the children believes I'm being protected by the Virgin Mary. They touch me and wish me a safe journey. But why you, the American woman demanded to know. Because I'm taking the winter to walk from Germany to western Spain... it's difficult; some people find it inspiring. Well, how does it work, she pushed on, do they give you a map and tell you where to stay? It sounds expensive. There's no they, I just figure it out as I go. It's been done this way for centuries. Well, if you say so, she concluded and wandered off with her husband in tow.

The first woman with the children circled back to me, now that I was free again. What can I do for you, Madame la Pélerine? Her question was so genuine, I wished I could think of something. I need nothing now. I've eaten, I have a place to sleep tonight, I walk toward Orléans tomorrow. I'm fine. It's all good.