The Pilgrim
I was dog tired, the end not only of a long day but also of a long “vacation.” It is hard for me to call it one because it was a whirlwind of activity racing from museum to point of interest to historical monument to everything possible during my ten days in Europe. I slumped into a window seat of my 17-hour transatlantic flight in the last row of the plane, hoping there would be vacant seats to be able to sprawl out and get some sleep.
I soon learned that it was a full flight when two gentlemen piled in next to me. They were solo travelers like me. I feigned sleeping already before the plane was to take off, cradling my head in my sweater in the corner of the bulwark and window. I tried my best to tune out their conversation, but could not help hearing them exchange names and destinations - all of which I immediately forgot figuring there was nothing in it for me.
Once airborne, I perceived two different voices talking together. The voice closest to me was soft and slow. The farthest was louder and spoke more animatedly and loudly.
Before I could doze off the loud one was rattling off all the sights he had seen.
The Louvre, Eiffel Tower, Latin Quarter, Notre Dame, Versailles. He sounded like me. In fact, his list of a dozen matched mine to a one. Then he ranted about the expensive restaurants, the stuffy waiters, the crowded metro, and the rude shopkeepers. In fact, this list matched mine as well. As much as we matched, I began to hate him. Just shut up so I can get some sleep.
Before I could doze off I heard the softer voice next to me say something that pricked my ear. “I spent two months bicycling.” The louder voice cut in and cursed the annoyingly rude bicyclists who got in his path and slowed the traffic. That was the last I heard before I fell fast asleep.
Midway between Europe and North America I stirred, stiff with a kink in my neck. That’s just great. I sat up and noticed the loudmouth was snoring, but the passenger right next to me, the bicyclist, was wide awake. I groaned loudly as I sat up, turning by neck side to side.
“Sternocleidomastoid,” he proffered, then he added, “Put pressure like this…” demonstrating two fingers on his own neck…” and turn your head up and to the right, like this.”
Still groggy and aching, I did what he said. “Keep it up for a minute or two, then stretch like this.”
I did as instructed and in a short time, I was feeling much better. “Thanks, Doc,” I offered my hand, and he shook it. “How much do I owe you?” He laughed. “Not a Doc. But you can tell me about your trip.” He leaned forward in anticipation.
I was ashamed to tell him that I ran from every same old boring tourist attraction that everyone and his brother-in-law did, like the boring piece of shit snoring next to me. I was certain I didn’t want to drone on about it any more than he already had.
“Did I hear you spent two months bicycling?”
“Yes.”
“Tour du France?”
He chuckled. “Not the kind of tour you’re thinking of. But yes, I toured France. Slowly.”
“Why would you want to do that? Riding a bike for two months… slowly. Sounds boring.”
He looked up at me, with a bemused, quizzical look…as if to say ‘What planet did you come from?’
I looked up at him with my similarly disposed mug. I felt the disconnect, but at the same time one that felt much better than the hellish one-upmanship with my boorish bore on my right.
“Why?” I asked.
“A bike connects me to the ground. Also to the sky, and to the weather, and to the movement of the sun. It slows time, and gives me space.”
“Space for what?”
“The cycle path makes space for everything. Space for meaning, space for purpose.”
“Did I hear you say cyclo-path… as in ‘whack-a-doodle?”
“Yes,” he chuckled, “that’s me, I suppose.”
“No disrespect, Doc.”
“None intended, I am sure. Monsieur Whack-a-Doodle has a real ring to it, and I am privileged to be held in such high regard.”
I was not certain whether or not he was mocking me. I probably deserved it. I could have just let it go, turned away, and pretended to go back to sleep. But something was bugging me. I was not so sure it was him.
“You know, Doc, that I did Europe in 10 days.”
“And…?”
“C’est tout.”
“Well…yes then you are done.”
I got poked, wondering whether he meant to say what I knew I felt …or not. Before I could decide, he spoke.
“Riding a bike is slow, but a good kind of slow—for me at least. It gives me time instead takes my time. People react very differently to a person on a bike than a person on a tourist bus. Particularly in Europe, especially in France.”
“I found them a nuisance.”
“That is your choice. I started at Normandy and spent a week riding on the bluffs of Omaha Beach, and the surrounding countryside. I almost got stuck in Mont St. Michel as the tide began rolling in. I avoided the tourist buses and the large groups. The French were, to a one, gracious and welcoming. My guess is that upon seeing me pedaling with my panniers full of gear, although a stranger, I was no threat. They saw me as another human making his way, slowly, respectfully honoring the fallen. I remember a conversation in the Allied soldier’s cemetery with an older French gentleman, Jean Claude St. Marie. He was graciously patient with my broken French. Before we parted, he thanked me and the brave Americans who gave their lives to aid his country. I can’t tell you how many farmers offered to share a meal with me, or a camping place in their barn. My time in Normandy was a pilgrimage, not only a chance to honor the heroes, but a quiet, slow meditation.”
He paused as if to see if I was still tracking his story. He could see I was following what he said. He continued, as though he could read my mind.
“The difference between a tourist and a pilgrim, you may wonder? One is chasing sensations, which quickly disappear, only to require more sensations, and more again. It becomes the tourist’s dopamine hit, an addiction. The pilgrim is not searching for sensation. He is searching for meaning. Searching with respect…”
He allowed the word to hang in the air for enough time for me to get the message. Then, after the pause, he finished. “It takes time. It goes slowly. But it can lead you to a better path.”
A year later, when vacation time came, it was a whole lot different.
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