Day 15: Radicofani to Acquapendente — 24km (14.9 miles)

This morning I was in no hurry to get out of bed. It had been a long day yesterday and the hostel bunk was warm. I suspected my hand washed clothes would not yet be dry, and worse, I figured today it would rain. So with just 24 km on the day’s program, I left the hostel at a luxurious 8:00.

Last out of the building, I closed the hostel’s ancient door, made sure it was locked behind me, and headed across the tiny piazza in a light drizzle toward the welcoming cafe. Peter, a pilgrim from Luxembourg, happened in after a bit, and he bought me a second cappuccino as we lingered in the cafe during a sudden rain squall. He left when the rain stopped and I was out the door not long after, dressed in all my rain gear for what promised to be a wet day.

The first 10 km out of Radicofani are a long descent on a quiet and picturesque gravel road. As I plodded along I noticed a woman ahead searching with a stick in the undergrowth beside the road. I asked her if she was looking for mushrooms and she replied no, using a word I didn’t know. I asked if I could see in her bag and she said, “Sí.” Inside were 30 or forty good-sized, wiggly, moist snails.

Hmmm, I thought.

The sun soon made an appearance, and I peeled off my rain jacket. The clouds parted and I took off my sweater. The sun began to get warmer and I took off my hat. I looked around and saw rain clouds in the distance, otherwise I would’ve stopped, peeled down to my skivvies, and replaced my blazingly hot rain pants with my much cooler hiking shorts.

As I continued down the long gravel road, I met a man searching with a stick in the undergrowth. I asked him what he was looking for and he said that same Italian word as the woman had before. But he offered this additional insight: We soak them for 10 days and then cook them in a wood-fired stove.“And you eat them?” I asked, gulping.

“Sí!”

As I continued on, my mind was filled with a mixture of thoughts. What would be left of a snail after 10 days of soaking and then cooking in the oven? What would it taste like? Would I dare to try one myself?

Anyway, I guess when I would use the words “gross, “disgusting,” or “yucky” a local Italian might say, Buon Appetito!

After the gravel road  ended it was back onto and off of the modern version of the Via Cassia, the historic highway to Rome. I dodged cars for a bit, then was glad to turn off the highway for the last four kilometers onto a quiet stretch of the Old Via Cassia. I looked ahead at the climb and thought for the umpteenth time how much I’d like to get out of my torturously hot rain pants.

Before I knew it, there was Acquapendente across a canyon to the left.

I ambled into town and found dozens of people in the central piazza preparing for this weekend’s famous flower festival. I think it’s fair to say that the US has nothing like this, a festival that has happened here for hundreds of years and attracts villagers as well as local residents from the entire region to play their part in the festivities.

As I checked in to a little B&B for the night my host pointed out that this is the town’s annual festival — the infiorata festival — in which the streets are covered in flower petal mosaics. What a great weekend to happen into town.

As for me, I’m walking strongly, feeling good, losing a little weight, becoming darker on everything exposed to sun, and contending with only one annoying blister. I’ve so much to be thankful for as I start the last week of my walk to Rome.

Day 14: San Quirico d’Orcia to Radicofani — 33 km (21 miles)

With my clothes and boots wet from yesterday’s rainstorm I decided to splurge on a bargain rate hotel and I’m glad I did. Last night I hung my boots from the shower curtain rail and left the bathroom’s heat lamp and fan on all night long. By morning my boots were dry, as were all my formerly wet clothes. This meant I’d have dry things for what was billed as a long and difficult walk.

Heading out of town at the same time were Roberto and Stefano, two young Italians from Lombardy who are on the same itinerary as me. We chatted on the road to Bagno di Vignano, a local hot spring once favored by the famous St. Catherine of Siena.

As we left the hot springs we looked off in the distance and realized we could see our goal for the day — the castle town of Radicofani — on a distant mountain. A beautiful sight at a daunting distance.

In fact, the castle of Radicofani was visible almost all day, a painful reminder of how slowly walking gets one toward a distant goal.

Not watching the guidebook carefully, Stefano, Roberto and I ended up taking the long way, which added another 5 km to the already long distance. Before long I said goodbye to the guys and pushed ahead to the day’s goal, first heading down the nearby mountains, then across the rolling hills dotted with sheep pastures.

Very, very slowly, as I crossed creeks and highways and walked alongside fields and farms, the castle began to grow larger. It loomed ahead of me like a hypnotist’s pendulum that had enchanted me and taken away my free will.

According to the guidebook, the last nine kilometers (5 miles) are straight up. I would argue with that. I would describe the last 12 km as exhausting, a test of character and physical strength. Not only steep, but a 25 knot headwind to push on a pilgrim’s chest and blow off his hat. If there’d been a taxi driving by, I’d have waved it down. If there was a bus, I’d have stopped it. If there’s been a pickup truck, I’d have jumped in the back. If there’d been an ox cart I’d have offered to work for the farmer for seven years just for a ride up the torturous hill.

But, after pushing hard, I finally arrived at the top. I settled into the hostel, did my laundry, greeted Stefano and Roberto when they arrived, and then dodged raindrops to make my way above the village to the fortezza just so I could say I’d conquered the mountain.

Sadly, just as I arrived at the castle cafe, the heavens let loose in a torrent. I shall not be stopped by a torrent, I said to myself. So I waited out the torrent, only for the rain to be replaced by fog.

I climbed up the steps in the fog to the penultimate floor before the top and then stopped. I caught the scent of garlic on the wind from the village below. Supper calls, and rest. Today the mountain wins.

Day 12: Ponte d’Arbia to San Quirico d’Orcia — 23 km (14.3 miles)

As I walked through the mud between the field and the railway tracks I was imagining the farmer saying to his worker, “Mow the grass on the old tractor trail.” And I imagine the farmhand hearing, “Plow the grass on the old tractor trail….”

So after last night’s heavy rains (and someone’s choice to plow the road), what the guidebook described as a tractor road was actually a plowed and muddy field. With the mud of a clay-like quality, my boots were covered in slimy mud by the end of the first hour of walking.

Finally finishing my walk through the field, I opted for the shorter route, as described in the Italian guidebook, along the Via Cassia to the charming village of  Torrenieri.

It was after Torrenieri, in sight of the day’s goal of San Quirico d’Orcia, when the clouds that had been following me all day finally caught up and let loose a torrent. I was soon drenched. Boots wet. Socks wet. Feet wet. Wet t-shirt. Wet shorts and undershorts. Wet hat. Dry phone. Whew.

Everything will dry out, no problem. The big news is how beautiful everything is. And the rain helps with that, of course. Today I’ll explore this little, ancient, touristy town of San Quirico d’Orcia and perhaps the nearby hot springs.

Beautiful, changeable weather. A lovely day on the Via Francigena.

Day 11: Siena to Ponte d’Arbia — 25 km (15 miles)

Pilgrim lore from the Camino de Santiago describes the mid-camino walk through the Spanish plains as a “cleansing of the soul.” The long, dry and monotonous stretches test the pilgrim, bringing out the inner demons so they can be put to rest before the camino’s final stages.

Midway through this walk I wonder if the same might be happening to me, today. I may be wrestling with my mid-Camino inner demons, because as I walked Today I realized I was mindlessly playing out conflicts in my mind, thinking about the people I’m nursing a grudge against.

Arya Stark in the Game of Thrones is may be best at it. Each night before falling asleep she would recite the names of those who’d done her family wrong — and that she was vowing to kill. Calmly and coolly she would say the names, one after another.

Now, I don’t plan to put the breakfast hostess at the B&B to death, but she did get me going. Yesterday as the B&B owner showed me to my room he asked, “When do you want to leave tomorrow?” “I’d like to leave at 7:00 if possible,” I said. “The breakfast hostess gets here at 7:30,” he said, “so that’s the earliest you could get breakfast.” He then showed me how to make coffee in the ultramodern Lavazza machine.

I was in the breakfast room at 7:30. No hostess. I try to make coffee. No water in the machine. Hostess arrives at 7:55 and says, pointing to the Do Not Touch sign on the coffee maker, “Can you read English?” “Yes, I read English very well.” “Then don’t touch the coffee machine.” “Well, yesterday your boss said I could use it and taught me how.” “Oh, fine. Do you want a cup of coffee?” “I’ve been trying to make one for the last half hour,” I said, not shouting.

Little did she realize she had earned a place on my mid-camino Arya Stark revenge list.

She’s not alone. There’s also the woman who started a Facebook group named after my book on the Way of St Francis. She’s never walked that pilgrimage, but she uses the group to dispense advice — and resents it when I correct her.

There are a few others on the list. Certain people  from last year’s campaign. All gun rights absolutists. Donald Trump. My cell phone provider. Some unnamed others. And as I walk and walk and walk, I find myself inadvertently rehearsing gotcha conversations with them. I look for just the right words to slay them.

There are plenty of good psychological reasons for this kind of inner talk. It’s my Jungian “shadow side” for one thing. It’s an emotional expression of the pain in my feet and legs, for another. It’s unresolved anger.

But I don’t like thinking this way. Partway through the day I said, “Enough!” and decided to find helpful and positive things to think about. Things for which I could be thankful. 

And there’s so much. I had lunch at a little pilgrim rest area, maintained by a neighbor on the path. Nothing official, but it was perfect. Unmerited by me, just there from the kindness of someone’s heart. Thank you, pilgrim friends!

Another example: I’ve been meaning to mention here the fellow named Mauritzio who live just outside Lucca. He saw me coming, could tell I was exhausted, and offered me water and a banana. Thank you, Mauritzio!

I’m thankful for my Norwegian pilgrim friends. So smart and loving and warm. I’m ahead of them now by a day and am already missing them.

There’s the nun who welcomed me to dinner last night at the San Girolama monastery without cost. Thank you.

And there is so much more. Too much beauty and live and grace around to note it all, really. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to repress the negative talk, the shadowy part of me. That won’t be healthy, I know. But I’m looking forward to more days of walking this mid-camino stretch so I can do this work of moving anger to thanksgiving.

Day 10: Monteriggioni to Sienna — 15.2 km (9.7 miles)

The only bad thing about Monteriggioni is the lack of early morning cafes. By 7:00, when I was ready to head out the door for the quick walk to Siena, the tiny town’s few bars were still an hour away from starting up their daily trade.

So, with just a tiny bit of water in my pack and no food either in my belly or my pack, I headed out for a day the guidebook called, “easy walking except for the lack of food and water along the way.”

The day’s biggest challenge, though, would be the complete failure of my iPhone GPS system. Yesterday I’d fixed it with a few rough taps on my knee. Today, no dice. It refuses to work at all. But at least I can read an iBook on it, which gives me access to the invaluable Terre Mezzo Italian/English guidebook.

With guidebook in hand I dove into a thirsty 6-7 miles of walking through woods and fields followed by a thirsty and hungry 2-3 miles on the edge of the busy highway.

However, the guidebook promised, “As you arrive in Siena you’ll see a petrol station and McDonald’s on the left.” With no food or water, my mouth was soon watering for a McChicken sandwich, fries and cold drink.

In a couple of hours, faithful to the guidebook, there it was! In this country of fine food I had stooped to the level of eating something I’d probably pass on back in the US. And at 10:00 it would be an early McDonald’s lunch, but so what?

I walked up to the door and tugged on it. Locked. Open at 11:00. I was an hour too early.

I arrived in Siena’s historic Piazza del Campo at about 11:00, in plenty of time to enjoy a better-than-McDonald’s lunch at a delightful and sunny Italian restaurant. Cost for a calzone and two iced teas? A mere €27.60. In the Italian countryside this would be about €11.00!

As I checked into my B&B — late by now — I stumbled into a fellow who happened to be walking by sporting a Seattle Seahawks jersey. “You from Seattle?” I asked. “Victoria,” he said. “My name’s Mike and I’m walking a camino called the Via Francigena. Ever heard of it?”

Early or late for everything today, but for once my timing was just right.

Day 9: San Gimignano to Monteriggioni — 32.5 km (20.2 miles)

Sometime in the dark of night I reached over from the bed in the monastery bunk room to the little shelf where my iPhone was charging. Before I knew it, the phone slipped from my fingers and fell onto the hard, tile floor. I turned it on to see if it was ok. No problems, it seemed. Another tumble for my indestructible and irreplaceable iPhone. Among all the normal things that are so important, my iPhone contains three guidebooks for this walk as well as two GPS systems so I won’t get lost.

So as I walked out of the gates of San Gimignano this morning at 7:30 I was dismayed to discover the GPS function wasn’t working. Not only that, but somehow the waymarkings today would prove to be some of the most sparse I’ve seen on this walk.

I was not far into the second kilometer of the day’s walk when I realized I hadn’t seen a waymark in quite some time. So I backtracked about 500m to the last one and discovered yes, I was where I was supposed to be. Result — an extra kilometer added to the day’s total.

About a kilometer later I caught up with “Nonna Emma,” a 92-year old Italian pilgrim who’s walking from her home in Northern Italy to Rome for the Holy Year. I knew Granny Emma was ahead on the trail, her walk being something of a sensation, but even so it was a delight to actually meet her. I chatted with her and her companion, Loredana, before continuing on.

After this brief time on the road the path veered off into the deep woods where it would spend most of the day. I counted three stream crossings, many vineyards tucked among the trees, and as always here in Tuscany some amazing vistas along the way.

At one point I looked up and saw ahead of me one of the biggest hills I’ve yet climbed on this walk. I huffed and puffed my way up and followed the road another kilometer or so, never seeing a familiar red/white waymark. Tracing my way backwards I realized I’d made a wrong turn at the bottom of the big hill. So I headed back down the hill I’d just climbed. I’d say the result was another 3km added to the day. Dang, this is adding up!
I finally arrived at the little town of Quartaia much later than planned and decided to splurge on a dessert at 11am. “What’s that creamy looking cake?” I asked. “Tarta della Nonna” was the reply. Granny’s cake.

As I enjoyed my cake I asked myself, “What if I just banged my phone on the table a couple of times? Could I get the GPS function to work?

Guess what. I banged it three times and…. Kah-bang. It worked! No more getting lost.

As I neared Monteriggioni at day’s end I spied a gorgeous city on a hill, completely behind medieval walls. Could that be Monteriggioni? Sure enough, this is a fascinating little village, surrounded by stone walls, situated stop a hill. Our hostel for the night is inside the walls, next to the ancient parish church. After dinner with Tor and Eiler — I bought them each a piece of Monteriggioni’s version of tarta della nonna— it was off to bed. Tomorrow: Siena.

Day 8: Gambassi Terme to San Gimignano — 15km (9.3 miles)

I think Bishop Sigeric had a taste for Italian pleasures when he walked this way in the year 990 A.D. How else to explain Italian delight after delight for those who follow his itinerary 1000 years later?

As you probably already know, the Via Francigena retraces the footsteps of Bishop Sigeric on his trip back from Rome to his “new” position as Archbishop of Canterbury. His itinerary followed a western Italian thoroughfare called “Via Francigena” which essentially means the road the Frankish people walk. To the east there is also the “Via Romea” which led people from Eastern European origins toward Rome. But Sigeric obviously was a wise one. He chose a very lovely route — stopping at places like Piacenza, Lucca, Siena, and my destination today: San Gimignano.

The Gambassi Terme hostel where we stayed yesterday is situated next to a beautifully preserved 12th-13th century Romanesque church. One of the hospitaleros at the hostel gave us a detailed tour, and happened to mention that pilgrim groups occasionally include someone who can play the 15th century organ. I raised my hand at that point and, after he found an extension cord for the blower motor, I played a couple of moments on the beautiful and historic instrument.

Then this morning after breakfast it was out the door under grey skies to follow Sigeric’s course for the short walk to San Gimignano.

The day began on gravel roads amidst now-typical Tuscan beauty, which means each scenic valley is followed by another valley just as scenic. Yep, I’m getting a little spoiled.

Before long I could look back toward Gambassi Terme on the ridge and ahead to the Manhattan-esque towers of beautiful San Gimignano. In the days before banks, rich medieval families kept their valuables in fortified towers. I think the way it worked was if someone tried to get in from the ground floor they would drop a big rock on him from above and clean up the mess the next morning. A little brutal perhaps, but no hidden bank fees. Once those were discovered most of the towers were dismantled, though San Gimignano has over 20 still standing, some as tall as 240 feet. This gives the town a vertical feel, in a way like a modern city.

In between vistas of spectacular scenery I passed the Monastero di Bose just as its church bells rang out for the 11:00 service. With a little pastoral guilt I passed on the opportunity to join the local community for worship and instead continued along the way.

Karma intervened, and very soon the gravel road spilled out onto the main highway, which was sadly unencumbered of sidewalks on either side. This meant we pilgrims were forced onto the white line, like gymnasts on a balance beam, while campers, Fiats, Lancias, BMWs and Ducatis sped by.

Maddening. Or, “It’s enough to make a preacher cuss,” like my dad used to say. Prophetically.

As the cars whizzed by, I carefully grouped and analyzed the driving strategies on display. They fall into these categories:

• Motorcyclists: “That was an awesome road! What? There were pedestrians?”
• Cautious drivers: “Oh my! I’d better slow down and give these poor pedestrians a wide berth!”
• All other drivers: “Betcha I can pass that slow car while another car is coming toward us and still have room for the pedestrian if he steps off the road which he should never be on in the first place.”

Never one to be ignored, I’ve developed my own strategy for handling the third group. I walk in the lane, with the white line to my left. After all, give them a centimeter and they will take a kilometer. So far it’s working, as evidenced by today’s post-game of chicken post. (Note to my mom: I’m still being very careful and safe). 

After surviving the walk here I found San Gimignano to be just as pretty as advertised. Inside the walls it reminds me something of Assisi — pristine, charming, human in scale. There are many Italians here, on weekend holiday, and I’ve also heard tourists speaking British English, American English, French, German and I think Polish.

I’m secretly pleased that the nun at tonight’s hostel understood my Italian very well. We had something of a conversation even, in which I explained I am an American pastor and writer. She corrected me to say no, you’re not American, you’re from the United States. America is big, we agreed, and the US is just a part of it. Who am I to argue? Amerigo Vespucci was an Italian.

Notwithstanding the on-road adventures, at this walk’s halfway point, nothing really can detract from the wonders of this great trail chosen a thousand years ago by Bishop Sigeric, that wise old guy.

Day 8: Sam Miniato to Gimbassi Terme — 24 km (14.9 miles)

After a continental breakfast in English, French and Italian with fellow pilgrims plus Friars and volunteers at Convento San Miniato, I stepped out the door under perfect weather to begin a stage the guidebook called “very beautiful and quiet.”

“Quiet” is a fully accurate description. With few cars and mostly on dirt or gravel roads and paths, the stage was deeply tranquil. To call it merely “very beautiful,” though, is to sell it short. Somehow bellissima sounds better. It was gorgeous. 

Today’s track follows a long and winding ridge line gradually south from the heights of San Miniato Alto. Though there were a few downhill stretches, the path never seemed to reach the bottom of any valley. Instead, the ridge continually offered dramatic panoramas first on the right and then on the left — over and over all day long.

No photography could really do justice to the beauty, but here are a couple of attempts using the iPhone “Panorama” function.

And also these in “Normal” mode:

Today was a walk through the places farmers take their lunch midday or carry their dinner to at night to marvel in the beauty of their workplace. To walk through it does it more justice than to breeze through it in the comfort of a car or I think even on the seat of a bike. It’s not just the sights that make the day, but also the sounds and smells. I watched tiny lizards scamper away from me as I placed one foot in front of the other on the path. I heard the bees doing their zigzaggy work in the lazy afternoon sun. I felt the wind pick up after noon and I watched the clouds roll slowly in. I waited for them and then felt them — the raindrops falling from the darkened clouds onto the warm and salty skin of my face. Slowly and in the calm the beauty sang in its own voice — a song of wonder and love.

As for me — I’m feeling well. My ankle pain is behind me. I’m nursing a dry and cracked blister on my right heel, but nothing painful. I’m getting stronger — feeling my legs under me now. It’s hard to eat enough to keep up with the calorie expenditure, so my clothes are loosening slightly. My Italian is becoming more confident, but not better. I’m enjoying brief and long conversations with other pilgrims. And I’m having fun.

Day Seven: Altopascio to San Miniato — 27.5 km (17.1 miles)

On pilgrimage in Italy, I’ve seen a fair amount of four-legged wildlife. Near Badia Prataglia I saw a family of boars, as I did also near Ponticelli. I’ve seen deer, too.

I’ve come to think of pilgrim pairs as four-legged animals. Perhaps it’s because I’m single and everyone else has a spouse or friend. Like Eiler and Halvard, two fun Norwegians I met last night and shared lunch with today. They walk closely together — like a four-legged beast — though their front and back legs are interchangeable depending on who leads.

Eiler, who slept in the bunk below me last night, gave me a tiny sticker with his name and email address. I had no great place to stick it, so I put it on my little tube of ChapStick. Now I tell Eiler that his name is always on my lips.

In addition to the Norwegian pair there is a French couple and also a couple of young Italian lads. I’m the sole loner, amongst people walking this stage today.

Anyway, enough about four-legged pilgrim couples and boars because the four legged wildlife I’m really excited about is….

A wolf. I’m pretty sure that today I saw a wolf.

In truth, it could have been a large fox or a feral dog, but it looked like a wolf to me, and I’m sticking to my story.

My wolf sighting came after the point where the track veers off pavement and heads into a stretch of back country. There’s a sort of plateau between Galleno and Ponte a Cappiano that is heavily wooded and rather remote, where the path is full of puddles in some places and in others is deeply rutted. In addition to the wolf sighting, I stumbled across two friends trying to extricate a Fiat from a deep mud hole.

Judge for yourself. Here’s a photo of the wolf:

In the pic above it’s dead ahead on the trail. It was limping as it walked toward me, dark brown and black in color. When it saw me it stopped. I took a photo and by the second picture it had gone. (nb: I spoke to a forestry expert this evening who happened to sit next to me at dinner. He said there ARE wolves in Tuscany. Grey ones. I saw a mixed breed wolf/dog. Still a cool deal!)

Compared to that, not much else happened today. Now that my ankle is close to normal, the distance went quickly. I arrived at the Convent of San Miniato about 2:30 I think and had a nice visit with the volunteer hosts before heading to my cell. That’s what it is, really. Small, simple, and right in the cloister at what Italians would call a convent and what we would call a friary.

Chapel is at 7pm. Dinner is at 8:00. Friday it’s fish in the convent refectory. Breakfast at a refreshing 6:30. What four-legged beasts await tomorrow?

 

Day 6: Lucca to Altopascio — 16 km (10 miles)

Today began like every other day. I awakened in the night with a brilliant idea and by morning I’d forgotten it. So in lieu of having a brilliant idea I decided to share a series of photos that depict today’s stage of the Via Francigena at 1/2 mile intervals, starting at Lucca and ending 16 km (10 miles) later in Altopascio.

That’s what 16 km looked like today.

Before, during and after taking the photos, some other fun things happened.

Before: The other day I realized I had skipped out of Pietrasanta without paying my breakfast tab. I mentioned it to Mora, desk person at Camere con Visto where I stayed in Lucca last night, and she offered to take care of it for me. In Europe it’s very common to transfer money person-to-person (or person to cafe), and since I remembered the name of the cafe, it was easy. I gave Mora 10€; she called and got the IBAN number of the bar and she will transfer the funds for me. Pretty sweet. I can’t really handle the idea that I cheated someone inadvertently, and with Mora’s help I’m making good on my debt via Europe easy bank transfer system. This would be much tougher to accomplish in the US.

During: Along the way I was passed by three Italian pilgrims, who paused just long enough to say ciao before pushing quickly onward. In hare/tortoise fashion I caught up with them during their lunch at a rest stop about an hour later. True to Italian custom, they begged me to sit down with them and share a glass of wine. I obliged and really appreciated their sweet gesture.

After: As I strolled into Altopascio at stage’s end, who should I stumble on but Mary Belden Brown and friends? She and her husband, Lynn, are leading a group of pilgrims on what they call a “luxury tour” of the Via Francigena. I’ve shadowed Mary and several in her group on Facebook for days, and it was fun to meet them and have a few moments to speak in true American English to some folks from back home. I’ve been gone only eight days, but I can’t overestimate how nice it is to speak to someone in my native tongue.

Other things happened, too. For instance, I conquered the Italian shower challenge. For the uninformed, this means I successfully showered in a doccia with no shower stall or shower curtain without flooding the entire bathroom. The secret is to stand in the corner and point the shower wand at yourself, turning the water on and off as needed. The Altopascia hostel, full with about 20 pilgrims, is equipped with one of those amazing and impractical showers, here shared by all the pilgrims of both sexes.

The growing number of pilgrims on the trail are mostly Italian, followed by French. I’ve heard there are Germans about, but I haven’t met them yet. And other than the luxury pilgrims, who are sampling portions of the route and won’t join the long haul to Rome, I’m the only American around.

I admit it. I’m missing home and part of me is ready for the leap back to the U.S. and home, family and friends. But there are miles to go before I leap. Miles to go before I leap.