From Rachel Toor
When April came, lacking enough showers to pierce the impending drought, I was soul-weary and tired, and, when I heard from friends whose veins were bathed in power speak of their summer plans, well, then I longed to go on a pilgrimage to seek the stranger strands of far-off saints, hallowed in sundry lands.
Or something like that.
This spring, I had lunch on the campus of Augsburg University with President Paul Pribbenow. There I saw firsthand how that institution lives its mission. As we know, the community in the Twin Cities was torn apart by ICE in January, and Minnesotans showed a resilience that proved these were not people to be messed with. Augsburg’s commitment to diversity, equity, and inclusion in many forms meant its community was in the crossfire.
After a dinner with a bunch of other trauma-bonded presidents in Minneapolis, Sue Rivera of Macalester College told me she and her husband were going on a study abroad familiarization trip to Tuscany with CGEE, the Council on Global Education and Experience based at Augsburg. Sue wrangled me an invite. I was able to bring Toby, my brilliant husband, who opted out of college for culinary school and who had spent some time cooking in restaurants in Italy a couple of decades ago.
I said yes to the trip that fell in my lap fast because it seemed, well, easy. I needed a break, and when it comes to planning, I’m as incompetent as I am lazy. I had no institutional support and so had to pay my own way.
After I’d forked over a big chunk of change, I thought, What am I doing? To be clear, no one should get sympathy for getting to go to Tuscany for a trip called something like “A Taste of Italy: Food and Faith.” While I’m down with the first part, the second leaves me, um, cold. The training passed on to me by my father was that religion is the opiate of the people and there will always be someone who wants to put my people in an oven. No one could have known this trip would coincide with record-breaking heat in that part of the world.
I have long pooh-poohed children of privilege who take a year or a semester to party on another continent in the usual ways. How different is London from New York or Barcelona from San Francisco? I mean, sure. But also, really? Many of those students will get to those cities on their own after graduation or even before (summer!). In Florence, you can’t spit without hitting one of the zillions of American students who opt for one of the many study abroad programs there.
In the car from the airport to the castello where we’d be staying for five days, Joe Connelly from CGEE explained the center’s mission, and I thought (and said), Oh shit. I came on the wrong trip. I didn’t need a cultural tour of sites I’d already seen or history I could easily read (or re-read). CGEE’s emphasis is in countries in Central America and Africa exploring social justice, community engagement, and the kind of experiential learning that gets students’ hands dirty and cracks their hearts open. That Joe wore a baseball cap with the words “Do Good” on it said it all. I wished I’d done more research to join a trip to Guatemala or South Africa.
During the early parts, where we toured much-photographed sites and heard from a baronessa who lived in the castle above her Chianti-producing vineyards about the aristocratic family’s history (including how Gucci used the castello for photo shoots), I thought, What are we doing here? The trip wasn’t cheap, and the accommodations were one step above youth hostel. I kind of wanted to drop the course because, like many students, I hadn’t read the syllabus itinerary closely enough to see what the argument was and that it would unfold inductively rather than starting with a bold thesis statement.
While I expected to eat good food (we did), enjoy time with the 10 other travelers (all lovely academics/administrators), and experience the luxury of travel planned by professionals, I did not think I’d spend so much time talking about Paulo Freire, pondering the preferential option for the poor, hearing about the experiences of migrants in a country that wants to keep its doors closed, eating latkes and falafel in a kosher restaurant, considering the varieties of religious experience, and being moved to tears by Padre Bernardo, the Benedictine abbot at San Miniato al Monte, who talked about darkness and light, cosmology, and Pink Floyd in the same sentence.
During the tour, someone said, “If I thought this is what Catholicism was like, I would have been more into it as a kid.” For me, it was an always-necessary reminder in cultural and personal humility and that all religions are based on the central tenet Rabbi Hillel was able to explain while standing on one foot: “That which is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow. This is the whole Torah; the rest is commentary. Go and learn it.”
Many of us tend to get stuck in the details and forget to listen to others. The first word of St. Benedict’s rules, I learned, is: “Listen.” And to do so with “the ear of your heart.” If we are lucky, we can remember when we travel to see ourselves as pilgrims.
Next week we will return with the usual Sandbox fare, provided I am recovered from an over-full mind and body. (How is it I never remember when I am in Italy that pasta is not the meal? There’s always more to come.)
