Bus stations

The middleaged Spanish barmen have the look of culinary opportunists, standing invitingly at a room-long bar where I am sending vibes to pastries, wishing they would leave their protective glass casing and come towards my belly... It is the bus station in Granada, which we visited at 4:30 AM when we arrived and to which we've returned at 7 after a rough sleep in the cold, headrest-less metal chairs. The barmen are the same, with the somewhat snappy dress that suggests professional and clean, but not intimidating; with the look in the eyes that says, "Please ask me a question, and let me answer it with a sandwich, beer, or pastry."

Crossing back and forth over the United States' Eastern Seaboard, I became well acquainted with Amtrak stations. I have noticed, whereas some stations are real gems (many great holdovers from older days, New York City's Penn and DC's Union Station being fine examples) most lack tremendously in the culinary department. In fairness, one can find a good steak or such during meal times on the train itself, but, if one is laid over in Jacksonville, one is relegated to chips and cookies from one vending machine, ice cream or soda from another, and – is it oddly? – hamburgers from another machine.

The irony is, with such a breadth of vending machines, Jacksonville is an upscale station compared to others.

Enough of this ragging on Amtrak. What this contrast really is to me is an interesting glance into cultural values. For the Spanish, it is important to have – if not healthy – fresh food, beer & wine, and espresso readily available while traveling. The barmen, who seem to have served for years, pass us everything on a ceramic plate, with real silverware, and one can watch the crema as it slides down the glass to finely settle on the espresso halfway down. We in the States don't demand such treatment, nor do we demand such a professional level of service from, for instance, the grills one may find in a Greyhound station. I wonder: if stations were supplied with fifteen-different-species-of-sweet-and-savory-(and chocolate!) pastries, would we even eat them? Are napolitanos too rich for our blood? Do we eat so fast that we don't have the time to fully experience an eclair? Or, hey, do we just not like sweet fillings and puff pastry because they are bad for our pastry, and we have a figure to watch?

Regardless, I think all of our lives could be enriched by more bocadillo cutters: machines like those which divide ham into cold cuts, they split a thick hoagie roll into a sandwich bun in the twinkling of an eye, the invisible blade almost completely halving the thing with a satisfying twang! twang!! twang!!! To me, the onomatopoeia could be better heard as awesome! awesome!! awesome!!!

Zigzag back through these states

I'm aboard the train and I choke the shaking of my hands with a solid four hours of "Rome". I'm on a fifteen-day rail pass to see Taylor and Phil's wedding in Jacksonville, visit Christina Schafer in Miami, see Duke Divinity School, Candler School of Theology, Boston University, and Emerson College before I join Rachel on the peace pilgrimage for a few days before hopping the train back to DC, working for a week before I move out during the weekend, live as a wanderer for a few days and then fly to Dublin. Yeah...

So while I hop public transit to Union Station in DC, I'm carting as many of my worldly possessions as I can fit into my big, blue duffel bag, and I'm a mix of afraid and sad. Afraid because I'm moving too fast, am starting so much over, don't have much money, sad because I'm leaving my church, my friends, and I've packed up so many of my favorite things to not see them for six months.

But Taylor is beautiful and she and Phil look iconic, the rower and frisbee player like the strong, smiling figures on top of the cake. Mr. Bayer plays a beautiful "Be Thou My Vision", his folksy voice sliding cordially over everything, and he backs me up on "Your Love is Extravagant," me on guitar, him on mandolin, my parents on BGVs. Later, Christina and I make Cuban Coladas by pouring a tiny bit of coffee into sugar, making a paste, then pouring the rest in. Jenny comes to visit, and songs are sung and adventures are had in Miami's 95˚ Autumn.

Blessings are felt at Duke, Emory, and BU, with Sarah, Keri, Brett Fox and the camp crew, Jon Gaylord & Clare, Aaron Garner, Billy Krolick, Kasey Cox, and some dear others. I like Duke better than Emory because of its field placements and support for the arts, though Boston has a dear place in my heart and cements the discerning characteristic of this year. Film school at Emerson is great, and when I get back to DC no questions are answered, but I feel more wise and encouraged. It is snowing in Boston when I arrive and I'm surprised at the length and breadth of the east coast.

I join Rachel and the peace walkers at the home of two former nuns who provide the best food of the whole trip. People ask, "What program is she doing it with?" in the same way that they ask me how Ryan and I plan to do our Europe trip, but the beauty of the Peace Pilgrimage is that there is no program, no hierarchy. Some walkers are around for the whole walk, others for only a few days, others for only a few miles. An old veteran who read about them in the paper found them and presented them with a giant peace flag, which they proudly carried with them the rest of the way. I am impressed with the people who honk in support, the housepainters who ask, "What are you walking for?" "For peace." "Right on!"

The deepest part of the walk for me is during a potluck at a United Methodist Church outside of Boston. I combine two thoughts: Adam, the brother of one of my youth, being killed in Iraq and the first time I thought of being anti-war; and Werner Herzog, director of "Rescue Dawn", having his actors wade through dangerous rivers and actually eat maggots because, in an age of digital effects, he "wanted audiences to be able to trust their eyes again." When I see bombs going off above Baghdad, it's so often just nightvision fireworks to me. People are being killed, families are huddled in their homes fearing a miss-strike, and it's entertainment to me. I want to be able to trust my eyes again. I want to be able to see war and let my heart go out in prayer for those on both sides. The man after me was shaken up and spoke of news as "info-tainment" and how so few of us feel the actual cost of war, little did I know it was his job to survey the battlefields of Desert Storm directly after a carpet bombing.

I'm not saying that war will stop now, but rather that it's by simply breaking bread with people and having dialogue that we not only understand our differences, but also have more fun. As Christians, I believe we are called to this, to stop the idea that people in the Middle East, or democrats and republicans, or ex-offenders, etc. are somehow not as human as we are. Back in DC, sitting across from an ex-offenders in Spiritual Support Group - sitting across from some of the most inspiring, spiritual (and changed) people that I know - I feel like I have learned yet another thin place where Holy Spirit moves in the world, between our differences and the learning of something new.

Rachel has finished her walk, taken some needed days resting in Connecticut, and arrives in DC. It's good to see her.