Quarter Year

Osk, Turkey

by Mike

I like these. Enjoy.

More Photos

by Mike

At 9:30 on Christmas morning I sat in a piazza with bells ringing. Octogenarians wearing black trickled down the narrow side streets toward me – toward the cathedral – for mass. It was sunny this morning, warm in the sun, and the piazza caught my attention from another street because its ground is checkered black and white, so I was drawn to it and I sat on a bench. When the bells finished I decided to follow everyone into the cathedral. The service was bland. It was very cold in there, dark, too. Part of the service was in Latin, and it echoed like you might imagine Latin would echo in a stone cathedral in Castelmola, Sicily.

But this is what I was looking for in an experience – this trip hasn’t exactly been a masterpiece of independent travel so far. I left the farm without a plan and became the kind of backpacker I was 10 years ago – someone who wanders the streets and consumes the product of a culture without seeking to understand the process and spirit of its cultivation. Drinking coffee at a cafe isn’t the same if you’re not on your way to a fishing boat, nor is a nip of liquor if you’re not exhausted on your way home. Buying olive oil gives you no understanding of an olive farmer’s rhythm of life.

So in the cathedral I was happy to participate in my own way (reconciling their religion with my own beliefs by considering them distinct cultural expressions of a more basic spirituality), kneeling and closing my eyes when they knelt and closed their eyes, shaking hands with the people around me, taking my turn closing the door when it was blown open by the wind. People were dressed nice. This is a prosperous town.

It’s almost as if the role of this church service was to remind me of the absoute buzz and energy of life outside, because when I stepped out the sun was hot and bright and the ocean so blue, and I found my way to this courtyard. It overlooks the sea. Old men talked, a bonfire from the night before smoldered, a cafe did steady but relaxed business while it played inoffensive xmas music for the men.

I ducked into the cafe for a cappuccino and an old man stepped up to the counter next to me. I had shaken his hand in church. He pushed a Euro across the counter and the bartender poured a half-cup of espresso and filled the rest with sambuca, then slid the Euro back to the old man, “Merry Christmas.” The guy swallowed his drink without ceremony, then stepped out into the sunshine. I got the bartender’s attention and asked for sambuca in my drink as well.

In the courtyard, in the swirling ash and smoke, a Fiat pulled up that was so small the driver filled a quarter of the car. His golden retriever took up the entire back seat, standing and wagging its tail at the line of old men dressed in black, the dog’s fur pressed against the back window. The driver got out and talked to another man, the dog barked, the driver got back in his car and drove off. We should all be so lucky to become old men in a small European town. I ceremoniously sipped my sambuccino and watched them enjoy each other’s company.

by Mike

I woke up at 8:35 to go to mass this morning, I brought my camera thinking there might be some good pictures but of course I was over ambitious… I’m not going to take pictures during a church service. I did take a video, though. It was of the choir from Porto Vecchio singing during the mass – it was apparently a special occasion to have them there, so I’m glad we caught it. The service would have been pretty dry without, I’m sure.

I’ve been unimpressed with this church. I guess I shouldn’t have expected much since we are staying in a convent – it’s not going to be revolutionary – but there seems to be an enormous disconnect between the Fathers and real life.

Father Joseph was skeptical of me at first, probably because I rang during lunch, but then he warmed when Azure showed up. I told him we were here to learn. I think when I said that he understood me to mean that I wanted to learn about Christ and Christianity. Of course I’m way more curious about the life of a Catholic priest living in a convent, but it didn’t translate.

I asked whether he’d studied Judaism and Islam, two religions based on the same god and the same core texts. He said he had, but he was dismissive of them, saying essentially that the Jews had missed the boat and then he downplayed Mohammad’s importance. It sounded silly from where I was sitting. Here’s how he sounded from my perspective: A guy handed people a book from god and it was ok at the time. Then another guy came along and amended that book and added his own stuff and only fools didn’t follow. Then a third guy came along and amended that book and added his own stuff and only fools did follow. It sounded childish, narrow-minded.

I told him we were going to a prehistoric site that day and asked if it was good. “Well, it’s fine if you’re interested in rocks and old stuff.” (Which, actually, I am). I asked him what he was interested in. He pointed to the beautiful blue sky and the sun.
“The sun?”
“God.”
“Oh, right.”

His lectures to us were in line with what I understand of traditional Christianity: “People say that the earth was created long ago and life formed slowly, but what force drove it? There must have been some force.” “I live to serve others. You need to ask yourself, are you doing something for others or for yourself? If it’s for yourself, it’s egoism.” “Some people think that when you die that’s it, you disappear, but I believe part of us lives forever.” “My life is about knowing god. I aim to reject all material comforts.”

We got one glimpse into their part of the convent and it felt like sneaking into the teachers’ lounge. Everything was extremely clean, extremely organized. He showed us the sun room and it took our breaths away – the sun room had the best view we’d seen of the town and valley, and it must be the best you can find without renting a helicopter. The convent is perched on the side of a hill and the priests’ quarters stick out a little farther for unobstructed 180 degree views. The sun room was bright when the rest of the convent was dark, but what caught our attention was on the table and window sills – there were a dozen orchids staring at us appearing simultaneously fragile and stately and defiant and precious. It didn’t seem right for him to have orchids after what he repeated about materialism.

His office, actually, was the only place that wasn’t neat. Papers were spread on the desk as he prepared his Sunday sermon. I asked what the sermon would be about. “Well, it’s about the gospels.” Well, what’s the subject? “The teachings of Jesus… here,” he handed me a small book, almost a pamphlet. “Every church in the world follows this book so every Sunday you get the same message no matter which church you go to.” I opened the book which was organized by date. It was just excerpts from the bible, as far as I could tell.

This happened again and again when talking to him – I’d ask for perspective or an interpretation or insight and he’d defer to something like, “Well, I reject materials and try to live simply. I’ve made my choice to follow God. Other people make other choices, but you can’t go around changing your mind.” That last statement, ‘you can’t go around changing your mind,’ got under my skin. It’s either ignorance or stubbornness.

–

The first piece read at Mass today was about Adam and Eve getting expelled from the Garden of Eden for choosing to pursue knowledge. I looked at our, “we just want to learn” statement a little differently. I have two aims when I travel: To learn and to experience (which teaches). It makes my life look incredibly at odds with the aims of the Church. If the apple represented the forbidden fruits of knowledge, then humans were rejected from the Garden of Eden for satisfying their curiosity (learning) and lust (experiencing).

The Mass was bland, uninspiring, he didn’t say anything about real life and in general it looked like he was trying to project authority. Here are the quotes I wrote down: “Readjust your attitude during these 40 days.” (before Easter), “You are made in God’s image.” “Separate your heart from materials.” “Spread the Good News to your neighbors.”

The Mass was conducted in such simple words that I could understand almost everything. The message I received from our week at the church is one that I wasn’t expecting: “Don’t question things. Let God take care of it.” I’m open to talking about religious philosophies (it’s where the rubber meets the road, after all) but not if it’s without critique. Not if I’m simply told to “have faith.” I guess I don’t.

(By the way – If anyone [like Fred, especially] has some insight on the apple story I’d welcome critical comments).

by Mike

From Toulon we drove east brushing the foothills of the Chaine de la Sainte Baume mountains, through one-street towns like La Valette, Soulies-Pont, Cuers and Pierrefeu.

I told Azure I really look forward to the day when I meet a Frenchman who says, “I’m from Toulon,” and I say, “Oh! We were in Toulon!” and he says, “Well, actually I’m from a really small town an hour outside Toulon that nobody’s ever heard of,” and I’ll say, “What’s the name of the town?” and he’ll say, “Les Mayons,” and I’ll say, “We’ve been there!” and he’ll buy me a pastis.

From those foothills we crossed a valley and entered a different mountain chain called the Massif des Maures and drove up a valley to Collobrieres, a town that’s crowned itself capitol of hazelnuts, I think. There were little pictures of nuts everywhere, stores sold nut butter and so on. It’s a small town on a small river with a small 12th century single-arch bridge that’s still used as the main road for cars. It’s a really small bridge.

We went into the local bar to grab a hot chocolate and it was about a dozen men and Azure and me. There was a guy at the table next to us looking at the horse racing schedule in the paper and once he’d made his choices he called rudely to the bartender to come over and place the bets electronically for him. The bartender did it, then the guy left the bar. Then he reappeared outside in the window next to me smoking a cigarette and watching the race on the TV above my head.

The room next door was a hopping restaurant (in these small towns there seems to be only one restaurant where everyone goes) and at about 2:00pm the waiter called in through the doors, “25 cafes!” The bartender gave a look – he only had one espresso machine. Someone in the bar chimed in with, “Make it 26!” which drew laughter.

We drove farther up into the mountains and followed a sign for “Notre Dame des Anges” (Our Lady of the Angels), and the road kept going up and up, riding the ridges of hills. Finally it looped around the highest hill and dropped us at the steps of a sanctuary built at the crest in 571 A.D.! From the sanctuary you could see both the Alps (which we actually couldn’t see because of trees) and the Mediterranean 20km away. The sun was SO bright, I was able to shoot pictures of Azure laying on the ground with her helmet on, exhausted from the ride, at 100 ISO on f22 with no problem.

The inside of the sanctuary had a little natural light from a (dirty) skylight and the blue walls were covered in relics and plaques that people had sent as thanks for their miracles. It was one of the odder churches I’ve seen and I’m glad I got some good pictures.

We walked from the dark sanctuary into the bright courtyard and I had to shade my eyes. A man walked right in front of me and I turned to look – he was a young black monk in a violet robe and he stopped in the shadows, his body curved in front of a wooden door. The top of the door was round and he was trying to unlock the door with his set of old keys. His skin was a beautiful smooth brown like hazlenut butter, like the color of the wooden door, and I decided I had to ask if I could take his picture. He hesitated, smiled and said, “I’m sorry, no.” Azure and I learned our lesson – never ask. It’s a picture I’ll remember, anyway.

From Notre Dame des Anges we descended the other side of the Massif des Maures and hit the town of Gonfaron, took an immediate right and went back into the mountains through Les Mayons. We had trouble finding the road to get back in, but once we did we were rewarded – the sun was getting low (it was about 4:30 and we were on the Northeast side of the mountains) so there was orange light to compliment the spectacular views of the valley. In addition, the road went from paved to dirt so suddenly there wasn’t even that gray-black strip of asphalt we usually have to tolerate, instead it was just many different shades of orange and brown leaves, dirt and wood.

The road got rougher and we kept climbing higher. Soon we could tell that the road was in such bad condition that either they had never paved it or it had been unrepaired for decades. We passed several private property signs and by the time we suspected we weren’t allowed to be where we were, we were too deep into the drive to turn around.

We kept driving and bumping and after half an hour my heart was racing some, I’ll admit. I was worried what would happen if we got a flat tire right before sunset when we hadn’t seen another car on the road, hadn’t seen another person for 10 kilometers and we weren’t convinced we were even going the right way. We came to a five-way intersection of dirt and torn-asphalt roads. The signs were all faded and I didn’t trust they were still pointing in the right direction. We decided which road to go on based mostly on where we figured we shouldn’t go, and we headed west.

The road remained dirt and we started seeing a house here, a fence there, and when we turned a corner there were two guys digging a rock out of a hillside.
“Hi, can you tell me which way to the D39?”
The guy didn’t want to give me a straight answer, then finally said, “You know, this road is forbidden to vehicle traffic, it’s private.”
“I know, I’m sorry, we’re honestly lost and we’re trying to leave, I’m sorry.”
“Where are you trying to go?”
“Toulon, eventually, but right now we’re going to Collom… Collombro…”
“Collombrieres?”
“That’s it!”
“Keep going straight, the road will take you to the D39.”

When we finally got back to the paved highway there was a sign facing anyone entering the dirt road, “This road is forbidden to vehicle traffic under penalty of lawsuit.” Yikes. I think the people back in those hills really tried to protect their privacy, to isolate themselves from everyone else. When I think of people like that I imagine them to be loners or Unabomber types… different. But these guys were completely personable and eventually kind. They looked normal. They could have been anyone we’d have met in Toulon or Nice.

We finally wound our way out of the mountains and back to Toulon. We hit a supermarket and made a picnic, then got in line at the ferry terminal for an overnight boat to Corsica.