Jan Peppler HOME
Exploring Our Connection to People and Place
Duomo di Nicosia
The Cathedral in Nicosia, Sicily, built in the 14th Century, is dedicated to St. Nicholas of Bari, which is said to be how the town got it’s name. Yes, this is the same St. Nick associated with gift-giving, but he is also the patron saint of sailors and merchants, which would make sense if he was actually from Sicily. But he’s not. He was born and died in Myra (Turkey). So this is the same St. Nicholas of Myra of Lycia. (Hope that’s not too confusing.) About 800 years after his death, Italian thieves stole some of his remains and brought them to Bari. And eventually some of those bones made their way to Nicosia, where they are on display under his portrait. But I digress. Knowing this history, it’s not surprising that Nicolas is the patron saint of thieves. But why prostitutes and students also call him their own, I haven’t quite figured out.
Like everywhere I visited after Covid19 lockdown was lifted and restrictions eased, I didn’t see much of the town. I wasn’t comfortable mingling with people on the street. But I did see the cathedral. I love visiting churches. Particularly when they are not full. The art, the history, the stillness. Containers built specifically for communication with the Divine. The entire building is a portal to something beyond ourselves. An axis-mundi where the sacred and the profane intersect; the center of the world, the center of all creation. And during the pandemic, they were particularly quiet. Exceptionally safe. As they are meant to be. A refuge. A Sanctuary. So I parked my car, walked briskly through the streets, and arrived here, at Duomo di Nicosia.
My two favorite photos from inside. Doors. I always love doors.
First, I want to note that all churches are doing what they can to prevent the spread of Covid19. Hand sanitizer is always at the entrance. Signs are posted. Chairs are set at a distance, in most cases. In pews, small squares mark where you can sit safely at a distance from others. You can’t see it very clearly in this photo of pews (the tiny white square) so I’m including photo from the cathedral in Cefalu as an example that I see everywhere. (For context, these photos were taken on 16 June 2020.)
St. Nicholas, looking surprisingly modern. (Ok, it’s not a surprise. But keep in mind he lived during the 3rd Century Common Era – which is to say, 200 and some years after Jesus. In the early 6th century, he is listed as a participant in the Nicene Council, which took place in 325 CE, which would have made him quite old at the time.) Below his portrait are his bones. Holy relics.
St. Nicholas
The bones of St. Nicholas
In the square outside the cathedral, life was returning to *normal*. Men gather on the street to talk. I stopped at a cafe for coffee and to watch.
16 June 2020, one month after lockdown ended and restrictions began to loosen. I wonder what it looks like today.
Finding Home – With a Dog
There’s a lot being written about staying home these days. Discomfort. Anxiety. Isolation. Depression. The truth is, many of us struggled with “home” even before the pandemic. I don’t have the answers. But I can tell you how having a dog makes a huge difference. At least, for me.
In The Re-Enchantment of Everyday Life, Thomas Moore explores our ability to be at home in the world through a present and connected consciousness of where we are. He writes,
We need to leave home, be away from home, find pieces of home in hotels and tents, and maybe move from house to house in quest of home. . . . Like turtles, we carry our homes with us as we move from place to place, all homes mobile, because home is ultimately located in a deep recess of the soul, a cornucopia that pours forth endless gifts. (p 84)
We are all ultimately looking for home. To feel at home. Home is a human need. Many of us wander for adult obligations, others for pleasure, still others because we have no choice. Always, we’re trying to find the place that fits, the place that is “home.”
Yet, even for those of us who are, seemingly, home, we fall asleep. We stop paying attention. We lose our connection.
I agree with Moore. Home does exist in “a deep recess of the soul.” Establishing itself there from our childhood. From our young experiences of being loved and belonging and having our most essential needs met. When we were free from worry. When we played. When the only thing we were aware of was the present.
Children have very little concept of time. Children play for hours, unaware of how tired they’ve become, only wanting to play more. To stay awake and not go to bed. To stay outside and not come in for dinner. To stay in the water and not dry off. Children live in the present. “Are we there yet?” is their constant refrain from the backseat of a car. “Is my birthday today?” the daily question when parents are planning for a party. We learn how to read clocks just to count the minutes in a classroom until recess or until the final bell rings and we’re free to go back outside.
Those places where we were truly present as children – ensconced in laughter and love and play, when we knew no fear and no worries, blissfully and fully in the moment – became imprinted in us and settled deep into our soul. These are imprints of our homes and our neighborhoods. The landscapes of our daily lives or those from special trips – vacations or camp. Of rituals and routines. They are even imprints of adults – our parents, grandparents, teachers – the people who cared for us and whose lives were bound to locations, to the places where we experienced joy and contentment, value and worth.
I was truly comfortable in Sicily during the Covid19 lockdown and found home there because I was present. I wasn’t longing for Tulsa or Picabo or any home of my past. Yet I was profoundly aware of home imprints from earlier times. Knowing what those imprints are – what imprints reside in me – makes finding home less haphazard, less of a chance encounter.
I was able to find those imprints in Sicily because I knew where to look. In the land and the landscape. In the buildings and houses. In the people that I met. And inside my own soul.
The only thing missing, I repeatedly said, was a dog. A canine companion. A fur baby that made me laugh, that demanded my attention, that needed me. Dogs, more than anything else, remind me of my inner child. Dogs reflect the playful part of me.
Dogs are very much like children. They have no concept of time. They exist in the present. Five minutes is the same as five hours. When you return, they greet you with exuberance, gratitude, and joy. When you play fetch, they can always keep on playing. You just rubbed their belly? Here, rub it again!
Home is the realm of the child. Where our inner child is activated. For me, in my daily life, I am best able to be present to my child when I’m present with a dog.
Four out of the five basic human needs – as defined by Maslow – are met in our homes as children. At least in the archetypal home – what home is supposed to be – what we all expect home to provide us. Shelter, safety, love and belonging, a sense of worth and value. It’s the role of the parent to provide these things to us when we are young. Whether or not we actually did receive these things from our parents – or from home – we will always long for them as adults. Only, when we grow older, we become responsible for providing these things. Not just to our own children (if we have them), but to ourselves.
We must actively attend to our child within. The child we thought we outgrew but who still resides deep inside us. In our soul. Our inner child holds the keys to home. Our inner child knows how to engage the “endless gifts” that connect us to place: wonder, laughter, play, and the use of all our senses. Suspending time. Being present.
Thomas Moore suggests that adult depression may arise not from childhood experiences—those painful memories that we tend to assume have harmed us irrevocably—but from our adult neglect of “the soul’s eternal childhood” (p 54). Please don’t misunderstand – this is not in any way to minimize adult depression. I, too, have suffered. And honestly, returning to the States as a single woman, in the midst of a pandemic, when emotions are high, and tensions are taut among everyone – I feared depression might be waiting for me. Not sitting on the couch, but maybe hanging out in the closet, or hiding in a drawer.
Adopting a dog was preventative medicine. Mazie keeps me present. To laughter. To play. To home as viewed from ten inches off the floor. To wonder and curiosity.
When we stay present and engage the gifts of a child – our inner child – we become intimate with our surroundings, wherever we are. When we recognize the needs of our soul’s child, when we nurture the child still within, we open ourselves to a visceral, authentic, sense-filled connection. Comfort. Joy. Awe. These become our companions.
Wherever I am, I find myself home when there’s a dog at my side.
Contact your local shelter. Dog, cat, ferret, rabbit… chances are there’s a furry friend out there that needs you just as much as you need them. Together, you can find home.
Why I Broke Quarantine
Less than 7 full days after I returned home from 4 months in Italy and 3 days of traveling through 5 airports and 4 cities, I broke my self-imposed 14-day quarantine. I left my house and entered two businesses. With a mask, of course, and trying to keep a 6-foot distance from others. I took a risk. A risk to myself and to others. And I didn’t do this lightly. To some, who don’t know me, my actions may appear impulsive. To others, it was a long-time coming.
I broke quarantine for Mazie. Or Carlee, as she was known at the time. But if I’m honest, I broke quarantine for me. For my emotional well-being. I wanted a companion. Could I live without one? Sure. I have. And could I again? Of course. Only, now, back in a country experiencing so much turmoil, I know my emotional health requires something more than sleep. More than prayer. More than solidarity and friends. It was time for a dog.
Pets are a relationship. Not possessions. They have personalities and needs. They require trust and bonding. They complicate our lives. And make them better. So much better.
Mazie was rescued from a hoarder. Two years old and only 11 pounds, she is a red & white Terrier mix. Now truth be told, I was hoping to find a non-allergenic dog. Cuz yes, I’m allergic. Not as bad as my allergy to cats (where I struggle to breathe), but years of taking allergy meds and cleaning up furballs made me committed to a different breed – something smaller that wouldn’t make my eyes sting. But as with all relationships, we miss out if we keep our search too narrow, if we insist on “perfect.” As Katherine Hepburn famously said, “You can’t pick who you fall in love with.” I wouldn’t say it was love at first site, but look at these eyes. This was her profile photo on Petfinder.
Still, I needed to meet her. To spend time with her. To see if we were a fit. So I was surprised when ARF (Animal Rescue Foundation) called and said my application was approved. She was mine. I could adopt her that day. Like in 3 hours. Pick her up at the vet. But but but but but… I was in quarantine! And the only supplies I had were a water bowl and some dog treats. But I had beat out other applicants. I felt some pressure. Or was it destiny?
Ok, fine. I drove south to the vet and met this sweet, small, trembling, pup. And this was her response to me:
The vet convinced me to take her home. There’s a slightly longer story here, but, bottom line: I did. I carried her to my car (where I still have a dog hammock for the back seat), and took her to Petsmart, where she picked out her bed.
A cat bed that she seems pretty happy with.
She bonded to me pretty quickly.
And made herself at home on the couch and in my bed. (Which is a new thing – I’ve never let a dog sleep with me! But on the fourth night of her jumping up into the sheets, she broke me and I let her stay – lol)
Still, her imprints are deep. Being one of 100 dogs in a house (yes, seriously – just found that out today), undoubtedly caused some trauma. She wasn’t too fond of the yard at first. She needed to be carried out and carried back in. (Maybe she had never seen stairs? Now she comes more willingly, enticed by belly rubs and treats.) And she needed to be trained to “party” outside. Forget about walking – she won’t do it. (We’re working on it!)
On the fourth day, she started carrying around her toy. On the fifth day, she started tossing her squeaky in the air and playing fetch with me. Then her crate came. With a very excited introduction (from me, of course), she’s taken to it. Goes in there by herself regularly.
It’s been one week now that Mazie and I have been together. And yes, I’ve fallen in love. She’s found her forever home. And I feel pretty damn lucky.
As relationships go, I’m committed to her – however long our lives may be. Which is a good thing cuz Mazie has a big surprise coming. One that’s definitely going to require my time and her energy.
Damn good reason to break quarantine.
Palermo, Capital of Sicily
I only spent one evening in Palermo, the capital of Sicily, despite spending eleven weeks in Covid19 isolation, only thirty minutes away. Palermo has a population of 673,000 – which to some folks may feel small. Certainly small compared to Rome or Florence or Chicago. To me, it was a big city. More traffic and more people than I wanted to navigate. Yet, undoubtedly, a gorgeous city with a rich history. My Balestrate host (and now, friend), was kind enough to take me there for my last night in Sicily, just before I flew back to the mainland. I didn’t see a lot, but what I did see was lovely. And yes, I look forward to returning!
See the flowering bush behind us? They are everywhere – EVERYWHERE – in Sicily! I made Nino take this photo with me, specifically in front of these flowers. Love them!!
The Feast of Santa Rosalia, patron saint of Palermo, is a BIG deal. Planning the annual festival is apparently one of the most important duties of the mayor – and can make or break a political career! The celebrations begin on the evening of July 14 with a procession led by a vessel (a float? a chariot?) which carries the statue of St. Rosalia. This vessel is constructed new every year and remains on view for the remainder of the year. This was the chariot from 2019.
Rosalia died alone, as a hermit, in 1166 CE. In 1624, during an unprecedented plague in Palermo, she is said to have appeared to a hunter and told him to bring her bones to the city. When he did, and her bones were processed around the city three times, the plague ended. Today, as you might imagine, everyone is praying to St. Rosalia for another miracle in ending the spread of Covid19.
In Italy, police are allowed to stop vehicles randomly, for no reason at all. It’s a check. Do you have insurance? Is your car running properly? As an American, I was stunned and a little bit unnerved. But it does reduce the number of uninsured motorists!
We picked up Nino’s good friend, Fabio, and headed out to dinner. Along the water. Appetizers of mussels in tomato sauce, calamari (I didn’t partake), and a couscous that incorporates breadcrumbs – sooooo yummy!!! Nino’s favorite dish of pasta and clams. I went for the whole fish special. Can’t remember what Fabio ate. Great bottle of wine.
Then back into the center of town for a nightcap.
So wonderful walking at night, when the buildings are bathed in the glow of the lights.
The annual festival celebrating Saint Rosalia didn’t happen happen yesterday. Cancelled due to Covid19. And then the flash floods happened. Maybe she’s angry. ? More than ever, at least in 400 years, the people are praying for her help. Me included. 🙏🧡
Covid Testing and Quarantine – Part 1
Maybe I have Covid19. I spent four months in Italy when infection rates were the highest in the world. Most of that time I was in Sicily. In quarantine, like everyone else in Italy. Unable to leave my apartment except for necessities. And since Sicilians eat food fresh (unlike Americans who stock our freezers full of preservatives), that meant about every five days I needed to go shopping for more produce. With a legal form in hand, completed with my personal information and stating my reason for being outside. No restaurants were open. No take-out, no pizza. Not even gelato for nine weeks! (To my American friends, I really don’t think you can fathom how restrictive it was.)
I was alone. I wore a mask. I wore gloves. I washed everything that I brought into the apartment. I even sprayed down my shoes and washed my clothes and showered when I returned home. Those were scary days. The virus could be anywhere. It could be on anything.
When restrictions eased a bit, I ventured out, one toe at a time. Longer walks. The beach. The countryside. I rented a car. I rented a cabin and a cottage. Always alone. Always in a mask. Always avoiding crowds.
But then I went back to the mainland. I visited Florence. I mingled with crowds at the Uffizi and Academia Galleries. I was a tourist in Sienna, Orvieto, and Civita di Bagnoregio before taking 4 flights home through 5 airports over 3 days.
There’s a reasonable chance I might have Covid19.
My arrival back into the States was surprising. No temperature check. No questions about where I had been. No instructions – either verbal or written – to undergo a 14-day quarantine. Nothing. All of these things had happened in Germany and Canada. But not in the U.S.
After three days of resting and unpacking, I decided I should get tested. Seems like a responsible thing to do, considering my recent travel. And it should be easy, or so I thought. After all, our President claims test are available everywhere, to anyone who wants one.
Except that they’re not.
I checked online. CVS offers free testing and there’s a CVS two blocks from me. Convenient. An appointment is required and an online screening. I answered honestly (or “positively” as our President would say), and I failed. I didn’t pass the screening. I’m not in a high-risk category and I don’t have any symptoms. At least, not the symptoms listed. But if you’ve been keeping up on your Covid reading, you know there are a LOT of symptoms. More than the obvious. Things that seems, well, basically normal if you’ve been traveling. Or living through a pandemic.
So again, maybe I have Covid. Maybe I don’t have symptoms. I decided to look for other options.
I called Access Urgent Care, a franchise with facilities all over this area, and which is listed as having free drive-up testing. It took a long time to get through and when I did, I was told they were out of tests. At all locations. NO tests. Zero. And no idea when they would be getting more.
According to the internet, the Wal-Mart down on 91st and Lewis had a drive-thru test site that was open. So I drove down there. It was closed.
Finally, I got ahold of my primary care provider. She told me testing is backed up everywhere in the area by at least 3 days. But she gave me numbers to call. Meanwhile, she told me to quarantine. I had been back in the States five days and this was the first time I was told to quarantine. “Is that a state or city requirement?” I asked. “No, but it’s our recommended protocol” she responded. Because she’s a healthcare provider. A physician’s assistant. Because she understands the danger better than our politicians do.
Anyway, I finally reached the Tulsa Department of Health. I have an appointment for Monday. I’m told results will take 3 – 5 days. Which would be Friday, fourteen days after I returned to Tulsa.
My phone rang at 8:25 this morning. “This is a call from the Canadian government. You have just completed 11 days of quarantine and have 3 more days to go. These next three days are just as important as the first 11. Please stay home. This is very important. The people of Canada, especially those on the front lines, appreciate your efforts to contain this virus. Thank you.” The message was also in French and I might have forgotten parts of it. But suffice to say, it was direct. It was polite. It was appreciative and encouraging. I’m not even in Canada but they are still checking up on me. Reminding me to do the right thing.
The truth is, I was committed to quarantining, even if our government wasn’t. I had a friend shop for me. I had no intention of leaving my home. Until I needed to get a test. And then… well… it’s hard to stay committed to something when everywhere around me appears to be life as normal. Carrying on as if there’s not a deadly pandemic that’s only getting worse. As if the numbers of infection and deaths are not going up every single day.
The truth is – and I’m embarrassed to say this – I broke quarantine. It was for a really good reason and I’ll tell you in the next installment. Yes, I wore a mask. I kept as much distance as I could. And the reason, I think, was really good. Almost a necessity. But then, that’s my opinion. My justification. When I tell you next time, you can be the judge.
But the other truth is, it freaked me out. Too many folks without masks. Even in the office where the signs clearly say masks are required. Even the doctor wasn’t wearing one.
But it wasn’t my doctor. It was Mazie’s.
Meanwhile, I’m back at home, waiting to take my test tomorrow. Meanwhile, I pray I don’t have Covid19. I really, really, hope I didn’t put anyone else’s health in jeopardy. If only our government felt the same way.
Coming Home
I arrived back in Tulsa tonight and I was home.
That may seem obvious, but the truth is, it was never a given. Never a certainty. After four months in Italy, of which fifteen weeks were in Sicily where I felt so much at home, where I was repeatedly concocting plans to stay, I had no idea how I would feel once I touched ground in Tulsa. And if I’m really honest, I expected the worst.
As the plane began its descent over northeastern Oklahoma, I watched through the window. Green, green, and more green. “Wow, that’s really pretty,” I thought.
Then I stepped outside the airport and the humidity hit me. Ah yes, humidity. I’ve missed you and didn’t even know it. I like the way you feel. Like an old sweater, soft and musty and warm. Humidity definitely feels like home to me.
A friend came to pick me up, masked up for protection, and her standard poodle, Jolene, at her side. Is there any better welcome home than this? Not for me. A friend and her dog. And the humidity.
Another friend, who lives down the street, watched my place in my absence. She checked my mail and occasionally took my car for a spin. Knowing I needed to be in quarantine upon return, she picked up some groceries. And then, she did something I didn’t expect.
She left the porch light on. Like a beacon in the night. Nothing says welcome home like the soft glow of light. My home was glad to see me. She was waiting for me.
Homes have personalities. They are extensions of ourselves. They hold a psychic energy. Everything is energy, our homes included.
I opened the door and was greeted with a warm stuffiness. Not stale. Just the stillness of a home that has been closed. Waiting. Holding its breath.
It was time to get reacquainted. She was clean, cleaner than I had left her, or so it seemed. Like she had primped for me. I gently placed my bags in one corner, not wanting to be disruptive. Not wanting to break the moment. A bit like a first date. Respectful, slow, taking in the details. Not moving too quickly. My kitchen felt bare, but my refrigerator was full (thanks to my neighbor). A table lamp was on in the bedroom, but I wasn’t ready to go there yet. So, what to do now?
I made a Moscow mule.
Friends from Nashville stayed at my place three times during my absence, each visit while looking for a house to purchase. They left my home spotless. They even left new kitchen towels, hanging at my sink. I took my drink outside to call them. To thank them. What they told me turned out to be so much more – and better – than just the towels and clean floors.
I live in a simple, four-room duplex with a small and dated kitchen. No dishwasher and a sink that often backs up. A faucet that splashes. Drawers that stick from too many layers of paint. Windows that won’t open for the same reason. A kitchen floor that looks perpetually dirty. I have a nice tub, but the sink is old and pretty awful. The walls are painted grey, which I hate. (As in, I abhor, but the landlord won’t let me change.) But the hardwood floors are lovely. And the windows are plentiful. The bedroom is large and looks out into the backyard, fenced, just waiting for a dog. This place has character. After downsizing from a 3-bedroom home, this is really all I need these days. My furniture is old, mix-matched, and repurposed. So is my art. My rent is cheap and I park in a driveway, not a garage, but that’s better than on the street.
As I sat on my stoop (concrete stairs that are crumbling), with the ice in my glass melting, my Nashville friends told me about their stays. They loved being here, they said. Awesome accommodations, they insisted. They read my books. They used my printer. They cooked and used my pots and spices. Everyday, they were surprised by something new. A quote on a wall they had not seen before, another piece of art or photograph lumped in with so many others, some treasure perched on a shelf.
They told me how they’d sit on my front porch at night. How they would move the two non-matching chairs from the back to the front and watch the bunnies scampering in the grass. How they enjoyed the peacefulness of my street, the stillness of the evenings, the crickets, and an occasional car. Even talking with my neighbors. They loved being here, they said again. They really did.
And that love was the gift. The truly being here. Their appreciation for my quirky little no-fuss place. They liked her. They enjoyed hanging out with her. She felt comfortable. The companionship was easy. My house had become their friend.
Home is not just where we eat and sleep and shower. Home is where we live. Life happens in a home. A home needs life to sustain it. When our homes are really homes, they are alive. They have personalities. They reflect the relationships of the inhabitant(s). They thrive on life inside.
I arrived back in Tulsa tonight and I was home. Not because my things are here. Not because I have an address where I pay rent. I was home because my home was still alive. She had been cared for and appreciated. Fed, like a cat, in my absence. The food cooked and shared, the dreams dreamt in my bed, the music enjoyed – all strokes. She was still purring. Grateful for the attention.
Like any relationship, the more you give, the more you get back. This home, my Tulsa home, welcomed me, was as happy to see me as I was her, because she had been cared for. She was loved.
If my friends – from down the street and from Nashville – hadn’t attended to her in my absence, she would have felt differently upon my return. I would have felt differently. And She – my home – would have been different.
I miss Sicily. Absolutely. And I will go there again. Yet, right here and right now, undeniably, I am home.
This revelation of admiration seems significant. A declaration of love seems in order. I’ve decided to give her a name.
Everyone, meet Hermione.
The Bumpy Road Home, Part 2
Ok, Rome airport (FCO) was the worst. There were moments when I honestly considered chucking my plans and somehow getting back to Sicily. Anything to get out of that airport. But getting to Sicily probably meant I’d still have to fly, so… I toughed it out. And sometimes life throws the worst at you right up front and then calms down. The remaining flights and airports have not been bad. Though, I keep waiting for all hell to break lose at any moment.
Frankfurt was much more what I had in mind. Honestly, Germans are always so organized. Structured. I love this about them. For as much as my Italian friends told me I looked Italian, they also repeatedly told me to relax. I’m German. Relaxing does not come naturally to me. I’m a planner. I’m always on time. Yes, I’m laughing. It is both a point of pride and a curse.
So, flying through Frankfurt during Covid-19 wasn’t crazy at all. Nothing even remotely similar to Rome. Looked like all the terminals were open. (Unlike in Rome where they had shut down all terminals but one. This effectively means squeezing everyone into one terminal causing crowds and chaos.) Everyone was wearing masks and for the most part, due to less crowding, people maintained a reasonable amount of distance.
Luftansa also boarded all window seats first. Nicely done! Much appreciated. What I didn’t expect, however, was to have the seat next to me taken. I honestly had hoped due to Covid, for a trans-Atlantic flight, every other seat would be filled. Good news is that the flight was not filled, so my row companion moved up and we both had space.
Then Toronto. Canadians are VERY serious about Covid at the airport. Maybe because they’re so close to the U.S. Kinda like sitting next to Pigpen on the school bus – makes you just a bit fastidious about trying to stay clean. I was instructed three times after deplaning to quarantine for 14 days. And that’s before I even spoke to the immigration agent! Seriously, it was a good thing I changed my hotels plans and booked a room at the airport Sheraton. Every agent, guard, or whomever it was in a uniform that I passed, asked to see verification of where I was staying and when I was leaving.
Instead of going through customs once I reached the States, I was shuffled through US Dept of Homeland Security in Toronto before boarding my flight to Houston. The line wasn’t long, which was good, but there was only 1 agent and the interview was very thorough. She mentioned having my bag pulled (it was already checked) to ensure I wasn’t transporting produce or plants (I am not making this up), but either I was convincing (I mean, who makes up my story, right?) or the ticking of the clock finally got the better of her, and she let me go. I made it to my gate just on time.
So far Houston has not been bad. They’re even handing out free cloth face masks. Yet so much is closed. It’s a bit eerie.
I found the chapel and took a nap.
Soon I’ll board my flight for Tulsa. Tonight, after 4 months (17 weeks), I’ll sleep in my own bed. Still not ready to believe that until it actually happens. If 2020 has taught us anything, expect the unexpected. And be grateful for every gift.
I am definitely grateful. Very, very, grateful. And maybe more than just a bit tired. 😉
The Bumpy Road Home
There are days I surprise myself. Good days. And then other days, equally surprised, nowhere good. Today is the latter.
Today I can’t help thinking I’m not as strong as I’d like to be. Today I feel incredibly weak.
I knew the journey home would be challenging. But when the EU decided it wasn’t going to allow in Americans, I figured it was probably time to return. Well, okay, truth be told, first I considered staying. Returning to Sicily or enrolling in an intensive language-learning school. But then someone pointed out that staying meant I could be here until there was a vaccine or a new president. Neither is a guarantee, and both are a long way off. Ok, I get it. Time to go.
Four flights over three days. Yes, it would be challenging. But I had a plan. I stayed by the airport last night. I slept well. I arrived 2.5 hours before my flight. I had my hotels booked for my two layovers. But damn. I should know better. My life rarely goes according to plan.
The traffic at Rome’s FCO was WAY more than I expected. Long lines. People of all ages. The elderly. Children. Families. I kept thinking: WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE? And why are they traveling during a worldwide pandemic???
The cluster of young Catholic priests did not calm me.
An old woman cut in front of me. Without even looking. Just stepped up and moved in. She tried cutting in front of the guy in front of me but he wouldn’t let her. Ok, so here at least, I laughed. I’m not that heartless. Go ahead.
Yes, people were all wearing masks. Good. But obeying distance? No. Absolutely not. Distance doesn’t exist in an airport. Forget the painted lines. Forget the woman walking with a bullhorn advising people to stay one meter apart. It’s just never going to happen in an airport.
Then, general boarding. Not from the back to the front, which is how Alitalia did it from Palermo to Rome. Just everyone in one big long line squeezed together. And seats filled. All seats, all rows. I completely lucked out – my middle seat remained open. I leaned against the window and shut my eyes.
After retrieving my bag (get this: no storing in the overhead bin! Covid-related, not that I understand, but that was the rule on Luftansa, so my roller bag had to be checked), and waiting 30 minutes for the hotel shuttle, I called the hotel. I was told the shuttle wasn’t running due to Covid. But… wait, how can that be? They sent me a document of all their Covid changes and the shuttle was supposed to be running. I even exchanged emails with the property saying I would be taking the shuttle and the manager did not correct me.
So this is where I lost it. When they told me to take a taxi. I broke down. I cried. Not sniffles. Full-on crying. Right there. At the shuttle stop. Momentarily despondent. When the tears subsided and I regulated my breathing, I wondered if I had the strength to get my ass to the Hyatt. Premium price and then I had to pay for a taxi? And just like that, the tears started falling all over again. Damn. I hope my hands were clean cuz they were ALL over my face!
Across from me was a Sheraton. Fine. I’ll suck it up and just go there. So I walked. Remember, in an airport everything looks like it’s close by when in reality it’s a few blocks up and down and across. Guess what? The Sheraton was closed. Seriously.
Farther on was a Hilton. I walked. I got a room. Premium price. Higher than the Hyatt. But no taxi. Plus a bathtub. (Water meditation, as a friend reminded me.) Good towels. A tea kettle. God bless the Germans. A warm bath and chamomile tea – just what I needed.
Fifty minute chat with Expedia to get my refund from the Hyatt. Another 40 minutes cancelling my Toronto reservation in favor of the hotel that is AT the airport. Again, another premium price. Fine. Right now I’m paying for convenience. Let’s just try to ease the pain as much as possible.
I know I shouldn’t be complaining. This really is nothing in the scheme of things. I’m fortunate. In so many ways, I’m incredibly fortunate. Always, in ALL WAYS fortunate!! Which is why I’m embarrassed. Why I feel weak. I mean, come on, Peppler, get a grip. As my Italian friends would say, Relax!
A friend reached out to say she’d be at the Houston airport tomorrow (one day off from me, so unfortunately we won’t meet). She’s flying from Ecuador back home to Chicago for a month. Really? I said. Really?? But the reality is, if she doesn’t visit now, who knows when she’ll be able.
And that’s when I knew who these people were. All these people in the airport. Maybe not all, but enough. People just like me.
In the end, we’re just all trying to find our way home.
Finding Home: Imprints and Italy
Why does one place feel like home and another place, while beautiful or lovely in many ways, does not?
To put it simply (very simply), places become imprinted on us when our experiences there are significant and good.
Typically, these imprints happen when we are young. When we are discovering our environment in the context of discovering ourselves.
The streets and special places we played as kids, away from our mother’s watchful eyes. Or the landscape of where we went to camp or to college – completely away from home, from family, all alone, for the first time. The places where we experience a new independence, a new way of being. These experiences are inherently significant. But for the landscape to burrow into our heart and psyche, the experience must also be good.
I grew up in Chicago but spent my summers on my godmother’s farm in Michigan. Michigan was everything to me. It’s where I played with other kids. Outside. In the fields. In the barn. Picking berries, picking corn, and even picking snakes (up by their tails). It’s where we chased chickens, watched cows, and petted Peanut, my cousins’ horse. Where we ate meals around a big kitchen table. With a loving, wrinkled, strong, steady, and firm matriarch. Watching over us, always interested, always ready to respond with a jolly jiggling full-body laugh.
Chicago didn’t have the same imprint on me. Until the age of 10, I lived on the south side. Bridgeport. What was then called “the little white ghetto.” A parking lot was our playground. To venture outside of a few blocks was dangerous. My siblings were older and had their own friends. My limited attempts to socialize were, well, not very successful.
At 10, my parents divorced and I moved to the northwest side of the city. Cleaner streets lined with bungalows and garages accessed from alleys. This area was safe. For my birthday, my parents gave me a red three-speed Schwinn customized with drop handlebars, (which were THE thing in the 80’s). I loved that bike. That bike meant freedom. For three years, I rode that bike everywhere. Now I had friends, from school and in the neighborhood. But those years were also tough and challenging, for various reasons. Returning to Michigan in the summers was an escape and a going home. I longed to be at Grama’s. To hear the crickets. To smell the hay. To sleep in a creaky bed with a lumpy mattress. To feel the morning dew in the air and inhale the sweetness of the grass. To hear Grama’s laugh and the crunch of gravel under the tires of an unexpected guest. To see my extended family and enjoy the endless fields of crops and barns and trees that covered the flat landscape. To go shopping in town and have people know you. To stop for a soft-serve ice cream at the locally owned, one of its kind, Snack Shack.
I left Chicago when I was 18, only two months after graduating from high school. I chose not to attend the university to which I had been accepted. Instead, I felt called to San Francisco. This was definitely not what my parents had in mind for me, so I felt compelled to do it on my own. To not accept their financial support. An occasional check for $100 was a wonderful surprise which I welcomed, but finding my way in the world was entirely up to me. I worked three jobs and took classes at the community college. I found a church where the associate pastor had gone to school with my dad. I fell in love. Twice. I met people who became friends, who are still friends today. Roger died. My first friend, of what would be many, to succumb to AIDS.
I lived all over the city with various roommates. The first one was proudly Jewish and a self-described wanna-be witch (she said the coven wouldn’t accept her), who received financial support from the government for being mentally unstable. (Seriously.) The second was a dominatrix, whose clients came mostly from City Hall where her ex-husband worked. (Again, Seriously.) After that, artists and students (a welcome relief and real comradery). Then anarchists – brilliant, creative, activists – from whom I learned much and with whom I got arrested. (One of which is still, blessedly, a very dear friend.)
In San Francisco, I owned my first car. A hand-me down Toyota Tercel manual shift. Yes, a 5-speed stick on those famous steep hills. Damn proud of that. When gas was only $0.87 a gallon. That car, like my red Schwinn, was freedom. I would drive up to Twin Peaks and look down on the city during the day. At night, I’d cruise along the coast, windows down and music up loud. I knew the winding streets of the city better than my own hands. And better than the realtors I met many years later.
In those first six years in California, I lived in San Francisco (in eight different apartments in eight different neighborhoods), in Petaluma (over the Golden Gate Bridge), and in San Diego. I camped along the coast, in the Yosemite mountains, in the forests, and at the Russian River. This varied landscape of mountains, water, and trees became imprinted on me. My time there was hugely significant and very, very, good. I was discovering who I was. I was creating a new way of being.
Years later, I moved to Hailey in Blaine County, Idaho. Hailey was great because it is a small town with a weekly newspaper (reminding me of my hometown in Michigan) but it took me a long time to love the landscape. Yes, there are trees: it sits inside the Sawtooth National Forest. But those trees are largely spruce, fir, and pine, with cottonwoods along the river. Essentially, it’s an elevated desert covered in sagebrush. Not exactly the lush green of the other places I had called home. Yet when my sister came to visit, she remarked, “It looks just like Michigan, but with mountains.”
Within three years, I bought a house in Picabo. A town of 65 residents and 6 streets, surrounded by fields of hay and barley, the beautiful winding Silver Creek, and twenty miles from “town.” This was home. This was my Lakeview West, as I called it. A landscape dotted with cows and sheep, barns, hay bales, and hills. And an endless mountain range in two directions. It combined all the elements (sans a large body of water) that had been imprinted on me from earlier times in Michigan and California. I loved this place. I still do. Yet after 14 years, I knew I needed to leave.
My journey since then has been in search of a new home. I travelled through the southern states for two months visiting towns, making new friends, always aware of all that I had learned in my years of doctoral research, trying to find the place that “fit.” I needed to feel the imprints so deeply embedded in me. Eventually I landed in Tulsa. Tulsa works for me. The landscape is green, lush, and humid. There are rivers. And as cities go, it is largely “Mayberry” – a small town feel. There is music and art and parks, diversity and good food. And I have friends.
Then in March 2020, I traveled to Italy. Planned as a 6-week holiday, I’ve been here for four months due to the Covid19 pandemic. A historical and unprecedented time. Quarantined for eleven weeks in Balestrate, Sicily. Alone. Looking out at the sea. I felt so fortunate for this lodging, the view, and the safety it afforded me. But the landscape, I kept saying, was not mine. Not my imprint. I needed green. I needed trees. So, when restrictions lifted and I could move about more freely, I drove into the heart of the country. Through the fields and the mountains, into the small towns sitting on hilltops. I felt at home in this landscape. My spirit was soothed and comforted. I made friends. I considered staying indefinitely.
It’s not surprising that Sicily feels like home to me. It has everything I love, everything I came to love, from earlier times. Imprints. Significant and good. Sicily offered me shelter in the midst of danger. It welcomed me. People were kind. And I made friends. Relationships significant all on their own, strengthened by the shared experience in a shared location during a worldwide pandemic. My time there was good. Really good. Even in the midst of so much uncertainty.
Since returning to the mainland, I’ve been uneasy. Too many people, too many cars, too much chaos. Florence is a city. And I’m not particularly fond of cities. While I can appreciate what it offers, its treasures and its history, the beauty largely escapes me. The famous Tuscan hills? Meh. Pretty, yes, but they don’t speak to me.
Before leaving the area entirely, I visited Fiesole. A small town just north of Florence. Etruscan roots. Historically home to so many famous people. And… I was disappointed. Nothing I saw compared to the rich complex beauty of Sicily. I called my Sicilian friends and told them I was truly linked to the south, to their land surrounded by water, to them. The imprint is deep. Someday, I promised, I would return.
In the afternoon, new friends (American, living in Florence) came to meet me. We were introduced during this pandemic and had spoken by phone, but now we shared an embrace. Five hours passed like minutes. We drank Aperol spritz, nibbled on cheese and meats, laughed, lamented, dreamed, and told stories. More hugs. Whatever happens next, we are connected.
When they left, the light in Fiesole had changed. It was evening. Suddenly, the town was pretty to me. It was softer, more pleasant. Even charming. I enjoyed a gelato while sitting on a bench, noticing the buildings as the light continued to change. I watched the locals socializing in the outdoor cafes.
I will always remember this. My research proves true once again.
Sicily is inside me. Imprints from earlier times are reflected in its landscape. In the crop fields, the rolling hills, and the cows. The small towns, and relaxed way of living. The sea. All amplified by my experience during this unprecedented time in history. In Sicily, at my ripe age in my 50’s, I once again discovered myself. A new way of being. Perhaps always known, but forgotten. In Sicily, I am home.
As for the rest of Italy, Fiesole may be the only truly special spot in my mainland journey. A place I will remember fondly. A testament to the power of belonging, the acceptance of friends. I couldn’t live there – there are no imprints of home there for me to be happy. But an indelible memory nonetheless.
Sicilian Roads
I’ve come to love the Sicilian roads. Everywhere on the island they are the same. Far more than a network of pavement connecting places. More of a labyrinth. Every destination is a journey. Driving in Italy is still harrowing, but driving in Sicily has lessons for me. I see my life reflected in these roads.
There are, of course, some highways. But to get to where you want to go, you must leave the highway. You must drive on these smaller, narrow, winding paths that are never straight, with hairpin turns and switchbacks. Barely wide enough for two cars, one in each direction, and often not even that. Just enough for one (for the journey is largely solitary).
Always the scenery on one side as you hug a hill: barely glancing to take in the green, the flowers and fields and distant mountains. But you must stay focused – to look away from the road while moving can be deadly. So I stop many times and suddenly, wherever I find an unexpected place to pull over, away from another turn, and where the road is wide enough to accommodate. Yet when I do this, the scenery changes. It is still always beautiful but not quite what was attracting me from my peripheral vision. This, too, tells me something. I do not need to stop as often as I would like. The landscape is already a part of me.
These roads are not easy. But they are worth the effort. Seemingly the same yet ever changing. The peaks and the valleys. The required manual shifting. The speeding up and slowing down. A short stretch in 4th gear only to shift down again to 2nd at another turn. Then down to 1st to accommodate an incline. And the towns are all on high ground, so a climb is always required.
Again, the focus, the staying present. Watchful for the swerving of others coming towards me, rarely in their lane for the lanes are so narrow, and the moving to the side to allow the passing of those from behind.
Sometimes the roads are smooth, but not for long. Mostly they are rough, frequently with patches desperately in need of repair. The dips. The gravel. The decay. Then the concrete. Followed by more dips, more gravel, more turns.
The switchbacks that confuse my sense of direction – am I going the right way? Am I truly headed towards my intended destination?
The signs, always pointing to the same place. The four directions. Wherever you are going, it is always towards Palermo or Agrigento, Catania or Cefalu. For me, it seems, perpetually Palermo. Other towns are listed below like a totem pole of arrows, but the word Palermo reads larger and brighter than the rest, like a North Star guiding me home.
Some signs I cannot read, only because I do not understand, yet the signs are always there.
And then, when least expected, the highways, the direct paths. Allowing, requiring, even forcing, acceleration. But then the lanes change. In Sicily, there are many lane closures. So many closures that bring you over to the seemingly other direction, the other side of the highway, like a salmon swimming up stream.
And the tunnels. Always more tunnels. Momentary darkness. Descents under mountains. Some brief, some terrifying. I take off my glasses to see.
Our lives are a labyrinth. Always a journey in, and an exhale out. Sometimes a hesitant departure, a desire to remain. But we do not live in the center, we cannot. We rest there, certainly. But life is movement. Life is a journey. And a journey requires a forward direction, even when forward is hesitant, faulting, and slow, a question. Just keep going. Twists and turns, back and forth, accelerate and brake. Swerving. Dips. Attention. Moving to the side, allowing others to pass. Staying focused. Enjoying the scenery. Pulling off, where and when you can.
It is so good, so helpful, to see myself reflected in these roads. A reflection of my life. A reminder of my journey, lest I forget.
I must not forget. I must remember this. Sometimes harrowing, sometimes thrilling, sometimes cumbersome and slow, sometimes fast. Always the unexpected surprise.
Driving in Sicily.
Channel 2 News Tulsa
Very grateful to Katie Keleher at KJRH Channel 2 News in Tulsa for doing this story. I really appreciate that she reached out to the U.S. Consulate in Italy as well, trying to find answers for me.** And the way she took my photos and strung them together is truly gorgeous: she captures a great representation of what makes Sicily so incredibly beautiful.
** Kinda crazy that the embassy and consulate can’t provide an answer about tourist visas. I mean, if not them, then who can?? Unprecedented times indeed. Fingers crossed 🤞!!
Hard Days
6 June 2020. Maybe it’s the full moon. Maybe it’s the wind. The wind is relentless today, followed by yesterday’s rain. Maybe I’ve been too happy and, like all things, this too will end. (Tomorrow I leave these friends and this cottage. And soon… eventually… I must leave Sicily…) Or maybe it’s Covid. I don’t know. But today is a hard day.
Today is Saturday. And the stores are all closed. Ok, not all. But most of them. I am so weary of seeing closed doors. The long metal shutters that close to the ground. Empty streets. Only one smile directed at me, from the old man pushing a young child in a stroller. His smile was full and sweet as his eyes met mine. That was a blessing. I sat in a park with swings and such for children but this space, too, was largely empty. Even the flowers in their pots seemed lonely today. A few people about, but they only looked at me. When I smiled, they nodded. A few mumbled greetings. Nothing warm. Nothing to sustain me. My spirit is sinking.
Existential angst. What am I doing? What’s the purpose of all this? What is the meaning of this journey? Of my life? Is it enough to simply exist? Many do. Many others are not even given this privilege.
All will be better after a shower and a nap. Tonight, dinner with my friends. Local wine. Homemade gnocchi. And of course, my cheese.
Still, today is not soft. Yes, there are birds singing. The sun has emerged. Yet, I feel compelled to share: such journeys are not all holiday and joy.
Perhaps it is the full moon. Or the wind. Or Covid. Today I am sad. Today is hard.
8 June 2020. I am struggling and it seems ridiculous to even share any of this. Yet somehow I think you want to know. In the midst of a worldwide pandemic and international protests to end police brutality and address systemic racism (the issues go far deeper than these words), all is not right with me. How can it be?
15 June 2020. It’s been at least ten days now. Ten days since I started writing, determined to be honest, even at the risk of no one wanting to hear. But the words wouldn’t come. My words seemed too pretty.
I’m still in Sicily. “Living the dream,” as some say. How lucky I am to be here and not back in the States, many tell me, living vicariously through my photos and stories. So I’ve tried to keep them coming. I haven’t posted everything I’m writing. Falling back instead on the good things: images of beauty, moments of joy. And I don’t want anyone to worry about me. In the great scheme of things, my life is pretty inconsequential. I am no more, and no less, than anyone else. Yet I exist. And with this great privilege, I feel compelled to be my best. Not for me (for “I” truly don’t exist, “I” is an illusion) but for others, for the whole, for all that we are together.
It was easy to write my last post about a wonderful dinner shared with new friends. Food is concrete, so to speak. And I knew it would make others happy. And yes, I, too, was happy in that moment. The memories are good. But even as I was writing, those feelings were fading. The shadow of other feelings pushing their way in. These deeper feelings are more difficult to express. I doubt even now that I can write adequately, but I will do my best, at least my best in this moment, before I return to bed.
Alas… I went back to bed …
My head has been hurting for days. Last night it was a full-on migraine. Today I still feel queasy. I’m not sick. I don’t have Covid19. (at least, so I believe. I have no symptoms, I’ve been cautious, and Sicily’s transmission rate is extremely low) But I am exhausted. I’m worried about not having enough energy to finish this trip.
I reached out to a few female friends. Maybe this is menopause. (Male friends, you will never understand.) One responded quickly. Reading her words, even thinking of them now, brings me to tears.
Collective grief. The pain of the world. The atrocities that keep happening. I am white and I AM privileged. I’ve known this since I was 18. People didn’t care if I was educated or skilled, only that I was pretty. So I cut my hair short. Even shaved my head twice. I went to interviews with hairy legs and without nylons (in those days, women always wore nylons). I marched for LGB rights before there was LGBTQ+. I read about Apartheid while Nelson Mandela was still in prison. I wore black to the law office where I worked for a week after the Tianenmen Square massacre. I protested corporate greed after the Exxon Valdez crashed. I was arrested, and the subsequent required community service effectively began my career in nonprofits. I’m not new to any of what is happening in the States. I worked in HIV/AIDS and volunteered for homeless shelters and soup kitchens and a Mexican orphanage. I was recycling before it was required, much to the chagrin of my family. I have tried for decades to do what I could. None of it has been enough. My efforts pale in comparison to other friends. The pain and the injustice and inequities continue. I am not exhausted from my efforts, not in the least. Respectively, I have done nothing. I have not done enough. I continue to benefit from being a pretty white woman. My gratitude is immense – I have always been grateful – but it is inadequate. My fatigue is collective. My grief is deep.
Staying in Italy during quarantine was relatively easy. Again, such a privilege that I could. And with DT’s horrible response to the pandemic, it seemed safer and smarter to not return home. But now… now there is marching in the streets. It is a time of reckoning. Now I need to be home. Even with Covid19 still raging, I need to be there in solidarity.
I’m sure I’ll be better in the morning. If for no other reason than I must be. The luxury of sleeping in a peaceful “Sicilian Mountain Oasis” will be over. I will rest again in Balestrate before leaving Sicily. A few days in Florence, a few nights in the Umbrian countryside, and then I fly home. My adventure in Italy during this unprecedented time in history will end. Meanwhile, in the States, I hope, and I pray, it is only beginning. And that is not my story to tell. It is the story of all of us.
“I am you and you are me and we are all together.” (I Am the Walrus)
These are hard days. We may not agree, we may not see things the same way, but I do believe we are all hurting. May we each find rest and the strength to persevere. Not for our own benefit, but for the benefit of all.
Jan Peppler HOME 