Piazza Aldo Moro

Today, for the first time, I was afraid of not finding a place to stay. We had followed the coast for 30 kilometres, from Pietra Ligurie to Noli.
My legs were hurting and, frankly, I should have turned to the mountains much earlier in order to find accommodation there.
In Noli, I asked around in the shops and was told that I would have to go quite far into the mountains in order to find places that might be appropriate.

So I got going. After crossing a couple of streets, a man came running behind us, he was totally out of breath. He talked to me and said that he had a piece of land at the edge of town, with donkeys, and I could stay there. Yes, he had heard from the people in the shopping arcade that I was looking around. And the place was not far away at all.

All at once, the worries were gone. Relieved, I looked around, with a clear head and an open mind now.
Then I saw where I was:

Pure chance? I don't think so. Aren't we a good team, Aldo and I?

By the way, this is the first Aldo signpost I have seen since arriving in Italy.

It's interesting that the bodyguards who were murdered during the attack are mentioned as well:

“E Martiri della Via Fani”

Most often they have been even more forgotten than Aldo himself.

The little paradise with the donkeys Gamin was allowed to join is ideal. I am even allowed to spend our day of rest there. Which means that tomorrow I will do important chores, but also relax on the beach.

Those who sleep

Sleeping Beauty, Rip Van Winkle ... my two favourite fairy tales. In both stories, a person falls asleep for a long time and awakes only when the environment and the situation have totally changed.

Here in the south, many things are deeply asleep, just like Sleeping Beauty: old stone huts, forgotten recesses, gnarled olive trees with faces ... they doze in the scorching sun, unnoticed at the wayside.

If you listen closely, you can almost hear a whisper: "My story is not yet finished. It was just put on a hold, a long time ago. Perhaps it will still take a hundred years, but I will wake up again. Awakened by whatever or whoever will come along."

Those who want to awaken such a sleeping being must initially understand why it has fallen asleep in the first place.

For Rip Van Winkle it was a gift of grace he received from the ghost Hendrick Hudson: "Drink your beer, sleep a while, and when you wake up, 25 years will have passed. Your wife, who tortures you now, will be dead by then." This is probably what Hendrick had in mind. During a time when divorce was imposible, it was the only way to run from domestic violence.

More than that: Rip Van Winkle also sleeps through the bloodshed of the war of independence. 

But there was a heavy price: Young Rip woke up as an old man. He slept through almost his whole life. Only his children, who were adults by then, recognised him and at least enabled him to have a good, peaceful old age.

The initial situation was rather different for Sleeping Beauty. Her family loved her, her surroundings were good - apart from one issue: The thirteenth fairy godmother and her deadly curse.

No precautionary measure was helpful, not eving burning all spinning wheels within the kingdom. Inevitabely, her fate approached this tragic day, without mercy and even the slightest chance of preventing the disaster after all.

Sleeping for a hundred years becomes the only hope in this fatal hopelessness. What did the good fairy godmother say: "I can only soften the curse, not lift it."

Sleeping Beauty's parents will not live to see their daughter wake up. The only remaining comfort is the fact that her cry after the sting of the spindle was not the end, not the final word.

That all which was was stopped now will one day continue.

In the complex simultaneity of experiencing everything on this pilgrimage, Aldo and I are sleepers, wakers and the awakened at the same time.

Aldo Moro is Sleeping Beauty, and I am Rip Van Winkle. 

Just as the the literary model I did prefer to sleep for many years rather then face the frontline and really tackle the problems. Now I wake up, but I am old already.

I face the thorns in the forest of forgetting that guards Aldo's sleep. The thicket rips my hands, legs and heart bloody. And I call to him. "It's me, old Rip! I have woken up and now I come to get your clockwork going again somehow!"

And in return he gives me all the roses of the thorny forest.

Pass of Horror

Readers of my old weblog know that I have massive problems with my back. The full program: a birth defect of the pelvis that got worse over the course of the decades, plus damaged spinal discs. There were times where I could hardly walk, especially because the inflammation - and therefore the pain - radiates down into my left leg. 

With medication and thermal treatments I was able to get to grips with the whole issue quite well.
During the year of training in 2014, both the back and the leg hardly ever made themselves known. Somehow I thought that the whole thing was over.

Although, of course I know that it won't "heal".

Days ago, my left hip started to hurt again. It was still manageable.

The Col de Brause between Contes and Sospel is not very big, really. Ca. 9 km of ascent, and a descent of 12 km. A 20 km pass, just like the ones I am already used to. The ascent went without a problem.

But during the first steps of the descent, a stinging pain fired from my hip bone into the pelvis. 

I immediately limped to the roadside, sat down on a rock and rested for a while. It'll be better soon.
And indeed. A brief respite, the pain becomes bearable. The next steps are okay. But not even ten metres further on ... new stings. Firy, painful. 

I almost lose my footing. Another rest, before continuing. The pain increases. Now I must drag myself from resting place to resting place. Every twenty metres. The scorching heat makes everything even worse. As well as the cars and motorbikes that rush by.

12 kilometres! How on earth shall I manage this?

A couple of villas appear; I ask whether I could pitch my tent there. The people refuse, but tell me that they feel sorry for Gamin because he is so heavily laden.

I drag myself on, down the winding road. I close my eyes. Somehow, this makes it less painful. I open my eyes to check whether the next ten metres ahead are clear, then I reward myself with closing them again. And every 20 metres comes the big reward of being allowed to sit down.

It takes hours. It is only a damn 20km pass! Normally I would have handled it long ago. Gamin does not understand why we stop so often. But he accepts it, nibbling gras on the wayside.

Sospel is my destination. I had asked my mother to sent me Artotec und Baclofène to Sospel, as poste restante. The medicine should have arrived by now.

Finally we reach Sospel. The Camping Municipal. Officially, it isn't even opened yet, but it doesn't matter, since the tent lawn is freely accessible and many camping cars have already arrived.

With my last strength I pitch my tent.

On the next day, I immediately go to the post office. Yes, the medicine is there! I take the first pills straight away.

Then I call the local vet. Gamin needs his second basic immunisation and, of course, the customs certificate. It is only valid for eight days. Which means that I have to cross the border during this period!

Fortunately, the medication works. The pain is not totally gone, but it is manageable.

And yet I feel uneasy when we start early in the morning. Another pass - this time, to Italy!

Countdown towards the border

We are slowly approaching the Italian border. In a couple of days, we will have reached Sospel, and then it's not far any more. The harbingers appear. Many signposts are in two languages, the names sound more Italian, and people now know where Apulia is but have hardly an idea about the location of the Ardèche.

JFK: "We come closer to the border. The prohibition signs are in two languages."

Sign: "It is strictly forbidden to pluck flowers, to eat them, to have a poo, and to breathe."

The crossing of the border is one of the very big milestones of this journey. I have almost gotten used to walking through France. Where I am always and everywhere able to speak the language. Where I can chime in. Where I share the culture. The thought that I am totally covered by my health insurance in case of emergency was also comforting. Of course I am also insured in Italy, thanks to the European insurance card. But still ... everything will be getting more complicated.

Yes, it could have continued for a long time. And yet, the French leg of the journey was merely a taster, a warm-up.

The action is on the other side! Inevitably, the day comes closer when everything will be different. A different culture, a different language. Will my knowledge of Italian really be sufficient? I have studied for a year, but was it enough? Of course I will learn a lot on the road. Soon I will have to dive head over heels into this new world. I will be in such a situation for the first time since my childhood, when I threw myself head first into the francophone culture. 

I can feel almost physically how much Aldo looks forward to this day. This is what he wants, what he is after.

I see him smile behind the fig tree that grows here, between palm trees and cacti.

Dreams

Almost one and a half months have passed since I set out from Roiffieux.

 

No, it doesn't feel "as if it was yesterday". One phenomenon of this journey is that time seems to have slowed down.

The rush of the days has been stopped. It feels as if I began to walk a long time ago, as if I needed many weeks to cross the Vercors, and the same amount of time for walking through the valley of the Drôme.

Time is infinite, and the distances are huge.

I am not able any more to grasp what still lies before me. It is as it used to be in my childhood, when "in two months' time" was synonymous with "never".

This is certainly the case because, as in childhood, there is no daily routine. Every day is new, brings new experiences, and demands total openness towards the unknown.

This gift of slowed-down time, of a new eternity, is one of the most impressive aspects of this pilgrimage.

We have crossed the barren mountains between St Pierre, Majastres and Palude sur Verdon, the Vedon ravine, and finally the “Village perchés”. 

Bargemon, Seillans, Tanneron - these villages that have been built into the dizzyingly high slopes where every step leads either upwards, downwards - or straight into the abyss.

Every square metre of flat surface that has been wrestled from the steep slope by building terraces and using even the smallest protrusion is used, cared for and guarded. Olive trees and mimosas grow between small wooden stairs, rocks and walls.

A unique world between the mighty nature and the nearby posh Côte d’Azur.

I remember many things I see from very old dreams. Now they make sense. For example looking for a place to stay in these villages between heaven and earth, before the path continues into the mountains. I dreamt of it, more than 25 years ago. Later, I even wrote a comic about it, "North East Pass", which was published in an American anthology. It was so long ago! And now the dream has come true.

 

Anyway, dreams. I dream a lot, and very intensely, but I also forget more than usual. Which is due to the fact that waking up in a tent is not as cosy as waking up at home.

 

Gamin and I attract plenty of attention. This is not always pleasant. When cars slow down so that people can take photographs - without making any comment - and then speed up again, I feel as if I am an exhibit in the zoo.

 

I also find it tiring that so many people comment "oh, he carries a heavy burden". 

In Bargemon, a woman recoiled when I told her that I am on a pilgrimage. Before, she had pestered me with questions, now she disgustedly refused the flyer I tried to give her as a reply. 

But when I told her that I followed the footsteps of Aldo Moro, she was relieved and laughed again. "Oh well, a politician, that's ok then. I just don't want to hear about Marian apparitions and such things."

This is the first time that someone was glad to hear that I am on a pilgrimage for a politician ...

Soon afterwards I experienced the total opposite. A woman approached me. She seemed to lived in transcendent spheres. She asked me whether she was allowed to caress Gamin, because someone had prophesied that she would become lucky if she caressed a donkey on its way to Seillans. When I told her that we were indeed on the road to Seillans, she was touched and happy.

Nobody can be sure of the background to her experience. It was one of these mysteries of the south, with its alcoves in the stone, with its statues of saints and of the madonna, dreaming in the mid-day heat.

Which leads us back to dreams. Of course I dream a lot of Aldo, and also of John F.

I increasingly understand how much Aldo appreciates commitment, faithfulness and dedication. He detested - and still detests - superficiality, opportunism and arbitrariness. These vices explain how he was betrayed. If he was able at all to find an explanation for this betrayal, this is what it must have been.

But once he has realised that the dedication to him is honest, sincere, and, most of all, committed, he is also ready to commit himself strongly and permanently.

Sunny Paths

There is a deep melancholy within me, as always during the days around the anniversary of Aldo Moro's death. The enchanting landscape around the ”Sentiers du soleil”, as the network of hiking trails in the Haute Provence is called, enhances the gloom. Here, the loneliness of the heart echoes back in the songs of the cicada.

If I had sprained my ankle or sat on a cactus, I'd probably experience encouragement and comfort. But this pain is surrounded by nothing but silence.

 

Aldo, the anniversary of his death, my sadness - it simply doesn't matter. I might just as well be on a pilgrimage for a pharmaceutical company, for Mickey Mouse or Silvio Berlusconi. It would make no difference at all to the perception of my pilgrimage in the outside world.

 

The physical achievement is acknowledged.
The love behind it is not.

May 9th

Yeah? Not yet, after all?

Well, I have tried: to draw Aldo with outstretched arms. But he didn't want to.
He struggled against my pencils, until the picture below emerged. He still isn't over it. How could he?

 

It happened on this very day, 37 years ago. Two days earlier, Mario Moretti, leading member of the Brigate Rosse, had telephoned Mrs. Moro, beseeching her to influence the government so that Aldo wouldn't have to die. He executed the death sentence in the early morning hours.

It was not without controversy. Some members of the BR were very much in favour of letting Aldo go away alive. Moretti, however, who had "asked Mrs. Moro for help" and claimed to have felt "deep sympathy" for Aldo, not only insisted on the assassination, but also on performing the act himself.

The reports about the actual event of the murder vary. More or less all Brigadisti insisted that they had been concerned about Aldo not having to suffer. Therefore they told him all sorts of things before leading him to his death: he would now be able to go home, he would just be brought to a different hiding place, and whatever.

I am certain that he was very aware that the end had come.

Later, some members of the BR cried at Aldo's grave, and Cossiga, the Minister of the Interior, who had dropped him, cried as well. Many tears, and all of them received much more public attention than those of Aldo Moro himself.

All of this still doesn't make any sense. It will never be transfigured into anything good.

The case of Aldo Moro severely contradicts all those cute encouraging proverbs about gentleness being stronger than hardness, about patience paying off in the end, and so on. There is no comfort, no edifying lesson in this story.

 

The blurb of the French publication of some of Moro's letters says:

"Aldo Moro was one of the most beautiful and amiable figures of the 20th century. His message was that the protection of life always takes priority, and that diplomacy takes precedence over violence. It still holds true."

 

Looking at the world of today I can only recognise that this message is valid less than ever. For the Brigate Rosse, it was at least a really tough decision to kill Aldo. Today's terrorists are not squeamish about slaughtering several hundreds of people per day.

Why am I writing this today? I am on a pilgrimage for Aldo, searching for the hidden tears.

And today is the anniversary of his death.