Arezzo, let's go

The nearest town with a population greater than 100,00 is called Arezzo, which dates back to the Etruscan period. We toured the town with the vivacious Giovanni who hails from Cortona ("Under the Tuscan Sun," anyone?). He was quite the fast talker and walker, and even though I kept step with him, it was impossible to catch everything.

Giovanni even offered some tips to keep us from looking like completely ridiculous Americans, though that is hard to avoid. Observe:

1. It's pronounced "grat-zee-EH," not "grat-zee."
2. Don't order a cappuccino after lunch. It's a morning drink. Just drink espresso to be on the safe side (plus you'll look like a BA. "Yeah, I may be American but I can handle your bitter, powerfully strong shot of caffeine.").
3. Don't ask, "Is this a Catholic church?" The answer is always yes.



After pushing through the crowds of people preparing for a medieval-style jousting tournament (see above), we toured the Arezzo Cathedral. It houses a miraculous image of Mary! So beautiful.


Giovanni and the Cathedral


Pierro della Francesco's beautiful medieval fresco of Mary Magdalene that 'Vanni was obsessed with and I kinda am too. See how she's divided in half vertically, one side representing her in her sin, and the other in the redeemed state?




Browsed the outdoor antique market that never ended, ate some fantastic pizza, and had some delicious gelato. We'll be seeing you again, Arezzo!

Ciao, Roma e home-a!

So! We have a lot of catching up to do...I've been in Italy for two weeks now, and no blog posts! (It's all a ploy, really, just to keep you interested. Especially now that it's kind of hard to top my experiences up to Italia...)

After treating me to a traditional German dinner in Mehring (a precious wine town), I said "arrivederci" to my adopted family, the Braden's. I figure it's always good to have another set of parents living in Europe.

I arrived in Rome and asked 4 different Italians who pointed me in 4 totally different directions for the hotel bus pickup Mind you, these are official airport workers...I'm already getting a feel for the culture. "Dove ____?"..."Oh, somewhere over there, about 5 minutes, si?". No. It is never as many minutes or meters or kilometers aways as the Italians say it is. Thankfully, I found it on my own after some divine inspiration prompted me to look 200 meters to my left where all the buses are. For the sake of my reputation, I'll chalk that stupidity up to a lot of traveling and an espresso-caused tummy ache.

After settling into the hotel, ran off to meet my seminarian friend Dave, who will be studying for the next 2 years a few blocks from the Vatican! Had quite the adventure in another taxi shuttle and prepared myself for death as the driver honked, changed lanes, and sped into the Termini region of Roma. I'm pretty sure it would have been classified as fairly timid driving.

Dave bought me the best slice of pizza I have ever had, we chatted on the steps of Santa Maria Maggiore Basilica, of course went inside the beautiful church, and had a running goodbye as I dashed off to catch the train back to the hotel.



The next day, I met up with the Longhorns who are a part of the Santa Chiara study program, and then my fellow Aggies (whoop). We travelled 3 hours from Roma by bus to what is our home until December: the remote Tuscan town of Castiglion Fiorentino. It is stunning in its quiet, medieval charm and dynamic in layout–it makes you want to walk everywhere, which despite the small size is not an easy task with its many steep slopes! The oldest building dates back to the 1100s, and the Santa Chiara center where 92 students are living and studying is an old convent from the 1500s. For lack of a better vocabulary, it's completely and utterly surreal.

Admittedly I have very few pictures of Castiglion. It's like I can't tear my eyes away from its beauty long enough to take a picture...I'll try to be better in that respect for y'all to enjoy the view!

the little narrow street with the entrance to Santa Chiara...watch out for those Italian drivers!



my roomies at the loggia which getting to requires an epic uphill climb...our reward? coffee and this view, of course!



A view of the valley below our town



My very favorite thing to do in this town, besides eat gelato (heaven on a spoon, seriously) and meet the locals, is walk. Vado a piedi. I've walked and walked and walked so much that I hope it counteracts my high caloric/carbohydrate intake! (As long as I can fit into my pants, I'm a happy girl.)

Tuscan corn! had the nicest conversation with the cutest farmer everrr



my very favorite route: villa della madonna...it has artwork commemorating the mysteries of the rosary that are perfectly stationed so you can walk and meditate simultaneously. also, wild grapes and figs, and an incredible view of the town



I can always count on my homegirl Kristen to walk and explore with me



so happy!!

Weg des Kreuzes

The next morning, I enjoy a smorgasbord of sausage, cheese, bread, then met Helga in the lobby. She greets me with the warmest welcome I have ever received: a big hug, a kiss, chocolates, a German book, a piece of amber ("It is a talisman!"), and a bouquet of roses. We hop onto our bicycles and I see Barth in the daylight, with a local townswoman as my tour guide.

“Here now is the original road that the soldiers marched on. You see?” I think of Grandpa, barely 18 years old, and probably scared as hell not knowing what was to come. “War. What a waste of youth,” says Helga. We pass a group of bikers going the opposite way, a chorus of “gut morgen’s.” Our first stop is at the memorial stone for Stalag Luft I. As Helga fingers the panels, I begin to have a better understanding of the layout of the camp. “Now, we go to Nord III.”


the memorial stone

After parking our bikes, we stand in silence. Immediately I am struck by the beautiful silence of the woods and the wheat field. “It’s peaceful,” I say, and Helga agrees. I feel a sense of gratefulness, especially one of privilege, and even joy. “Now you can show Don your pictures and tell him you were here. He will be so happy.”



Helga with "Nord III" in the background

We make our way back into town, past the train station where Grandpa feared the most for his life as the townswomen attacked the soldiers, through the original gate where they marched, to the little museum where Helga’s office is. She translates each and every panel for me; she gives me a better understanding of Barth and its people in WWII. Seeing the detailed model of the camp, hearing the various excerpts, and I can almost close my eyes and see it. And I absolutely LOVE watching Helga as she thumbs through papers, photos, and correspondences–this is truly her vocation! I ask her about her inspiration for her 20 years of research. She explains how at five years old, her life was saved by a Yugoslavian liberator. Keeping the memory of the POW and concentration camps is one way for her to honor that.


precious Helga with pics of Grandpa, then and now. isn't he handsome??

Helga digs through one binder full of some sepia toned papers and black and white photographs. “Your grandfather and some of the other prisoners asked me to find out what happened to the family that died...did you hear about this?” I shake my head no. “Oh, Carolyn. It’s awful. Look at this.” She shows me two photographs which will haunt me forever, depicting a scene which I now know has haunted my grandfather. In the first, a woman and a little boy's legs (he is out of the frame) lie dead in the grass, a baby carriage nearby. The other, the baby and its head and pillow stained with blood. Once liberated and free to roam a bit, this terrible, terrible site is what some of the POWs stumbled upon. The woman was the wife of an SS officer, who gave her a revolver to kill herself and the children should the Russians invade. How do we as humans deal with this kind of stuff? “This is awful,” I say as I hand her back the picture of the baby–as if the word “awful” can even do justice to describe it. She sighs deeply, “Yes. It is war.”

We enjoy a simple lunch at Hotel Stadt: a light fish soup, and lighthearted conversation. As we put our coats on, Helga sighs again. I am sure I have tired her out, much of the content at the museum was heavy. “So. You really want to go the KZ?” (KZ is an abbreviation for a concentration camp). It’s not even a question–yes, I want to. We bike rather somberly. We pass a street sign, Weg des Kreuzes (Way of the Cross), and she motions for me to ride alongside her. “Let me tell you a story. On this street, there was a tailor who was murdered. You see, he often kept buttons in his pocket. One night at a bar, another man mistook the bulging, jingling pocket as one full of money. Following him home, the man stabbed the tailor on the street–only to realize he killed a man for his buttons.”

The memorial comes into view. Parking our bikes, Helga motions for me to read the single panel that stands near the road. “You see this picture? It was the original memorial set up. It acknowledges the 180 found dead here. But it doesn’t even mention that it was a concentration camp.” We walk a little gravel pathway to the little plaza. It is remarkably unkempt, uncared for, with weeds growing up through the sidewalk and litter scattered about. Up the few steps and the concrete is patterned with the upside down triangle: the shape of the patch that “political enemies” wore. A tower stands to the left, red triangles pattern it and it is missing the bell that was promised at its construction. A wall with four sculptures mounted upon it; the concrete of the wall is imprinted with wood, signifying the barracks, and barbed wire. The piece in its entirety is quite powerful and far from cliche. Helga tells me their respective titles: “Torture,” “Solidarity,” “Collaboration,” and “Liberation.” To the right of the wall are 6 tombstone-like plaques with inscriptions. They are identical, though written in different languages, representing the variety spoken in the camp.

Helga points out more trash lying in the surrounding woods. “This is a place where kids come to drink.” She also beckons me closer to the plaques, to see the chisel marks around the edges. “In 2000, we had an incident. Some kids spray painted over the plaques. Swastikas. They also wrote: ‘Don’t honor the dirty Jews. Honor the brave Germans.’” Fittingly in this very moment, the gray sky begins to send down a mournful rain.

The two of us take shelter under the tower. I know in this moment I am meant to just listen to Helga, because she is compelled to talk. “When Hans and I went to Israel, the daughter of a survivor begged us, ‘Tell me, how can it have happened?’ And we have no answer. For me, it is not understandable. But the thing is, it happened, and it can happen again.” She tells me about two memorial services held for the KZ camp survivors; one moved her especially. “It was a moment I will never forget. There are moments that you can never forget; they are burned into your heart. Like this moment with you! Under a tower with a hole, and without a bell.”

We embraced, the rain ceased, and we emerged from our little shelter to go eat coffee and cake. I had the good fortune to meet Hans, and their beautiful daughter. We eventually said goodnight, and I enjoyed an undeserved multiple-course dinner at the hotel. My head swam and my heart ached from the emotions of the day as I ate in solitude. I looked at my food and wine and thought about the men and women who went hungry and suffered terribly just a few miles from where I sat.

In the morning, Helga greeted me with yet another keepsake and homemade cookies “in case the train stops again!” She waited a half hour with me until the train pulled away from the station. Waving goodbye to her, I couldn’t help the tears that ran down my cheeks.


saying goodbye

One day with Helga was not enough! I was so, so impressed by her life, her work, and her passion. Learning from about the camps gave me such an increased appreciation for life and the many blessings that God bestows upon us. Yes, even when it seems he is not there. What is that question we all ask ourselves–"How can a God who reveals himself as Love itself let this happen?" The answer for me came in the rain that seemed to indicate his sorrow; he is there through it all, he suffered and still suffers intensely with the victims of war and hatred and violence–and he suffers with us as we bear our Crosses too. I swore to myself that I would come back to Barth, and I will.

Does anybody speak English? Anybody?

The Friday after Paul and Stephanie left to return to the States, I began my very first independent journey to the town of Barth, Germany, where my mom's dad was held as a POW. There I was to meet a woman named Helga, who has single-handedly kept the memory of the POW and concentration camps in Barth alive.

Yes, it was going to be a long day of trains and transfers: leaving Landstuhl at 07:02, I was not due in Barth until 16:44. I was a little nervous to travel alone, but after backpacking I was comfortable enough with the train system. In Hamburg, I was on my second to last leg–another 3 hours and then I would meet the Helga I had heard so much about from my mother and grandfather.

I stretched out and put my feet up on the seat in front of me. Two older women sat in the seats next to me, though we were separated by the aisle. One who seemed to have a permanently grumpy countenance looks over at me, says something in German and points to my feet. It is either, “I like your shoes,” or “Take your shoes off the seat. People sit there.” I smile stupidly and refrain from stretching out. I am honestly too excited to sleep, anyway.

Around 15:30, the train comes to a stop. Typical, except this one seems to be lasting longer than normal. I notice after an announcement is made (no English translation in this east German rural train) that my companions look a little annoyed. “Spekken du English?” I ask meekly the lady who fussed at me. “Nein,” she replies, but she quickly finds another woman who speaks a little. “The train is delayed for 2 hours.” The one whom I deemed grumpy and her friend stand up to leave the car, but stop and motion for me to get coffee with them in the bordbistro.

The “two-hour delay” turned into a solid four-hour delay. Another train headed to Rostock was also unable to move forward, and in Shwerin those of us headed to Velgast piled into the Rostock train. The four hours involved many announcements, free coffee, and several promises of moving forward in the next forty minutes. The two women, the "grumpy" one and her friend, (I fondly refer to as my German mothers) really took me under their wings. Each time an announcement was made, they would point to their watches and indicate how much longer we were to wait. They even found for me a Bahn worker who in very good English was better able to explain what was going on to the confused little American girl.

During all the waiting, the inconvenience, the confusion, I think it almost is appropriate to have undergone a little discomfort when I consider what my grandfather’s first trip to Barth was like. I interviewed Grandpa in high school for WWII project and began to have an understanding of his experiences as a POW:

“[We] were packed into these things, the capacity I mentioned was 40, and they packed 53 to 55 of us in each car. So there was no room. You couldn’t sit down, well, everybody couldn’t sit down at the same time, so half had to sit and half had to stand. And obviously you couldn’t lay down and rest at night, and as we were leaving there they had two gallon buckets to take care of biological needs...And water was the worst thing that we were lacking. As a matter of fact, I would rather, if I had to die, I would rather die from hunger than from thirst because thirst is one of the most maddening experiences you can have. And it was so maddening it got to a point–this experience is running into days now, we’re talking about 120 mile lasted 8 days– so the maddening about having water, by then it was Jan and it was snowing at night, so we’d–the cars were wooden– tear slats from the top of the car and run our hands out and cup them to catch the melting snow after daylight. And we’d take turns doing that...but it took time, and I didn’t think I could really be living through this thing.”

Yeah, I think I can stand a little more waiting than I had anticipated.

Thankfully, my hosts in Landstuhl leant me a cell phone from which I was able to contact both Helga and the Hotel Speicher where I was to stay. The phone calls mostly consisted of me saying, “I don’t know when we are going to move forward, or where we are going to stop.” Eventually, we did move forward. The English-speaking conductor found me and explained as best she could that we would not be going to Velgast (it would be pointless anyway, because at this hour the trains to Barth would no longer be running), the train would stop somewhere else, and a paid-for taxi service would take me from Somewhere Else to Barth.

me, squishy Laura, and flat Lisa waiting, and waiting, and waiting...


My German mothers usher me off the train and point me in the direction of the taxi. There are 7 other passengers in the large shuttle, 2 of which are going to Barth. I squeeze into the very back of the shuttle and meekly ask, “Does anybody speak English?...Anybody?” to which there is no response–I am in Close-to-Nowhere, east Germany, after all.Thankfully, I arrived at the Hotel Speicher at 22:30. Waiting for me was a delicious sandwich with a little American flag toothpick, and a bed in which I quickly plopped into for a wonderful night’s rest–the Baltic air cooling my room.

“In all [those] months, I never slept on anything but the floor. They were overcrowded and the worst part was lack of food...They had these little supplementary packages. If you added that to the soup the Germans would give us, you could survive on that. But you wouldn’t last very long, because the soup we got was maybe 500 calories total.” -my Grandpa, Don Menard

Iron Sharpens Iron

Though done with our backpacking trip, our adventures were far from over. We spent some solid time walking around like zombies until we recuperated. The last few days we had together as a little pilgrim family included another trip to France to visit Domrémy-la-Pucelle (where St. Joan of Arc grew up), an official tour of the castle in Landstuhl, and some delicious sit-down meals.

the basilica in Domrémy! my favorite location by far. simple & quiet French countryside



lunch next door to the basilica, cooked by some African nuns. we ate escargot, and even tried some kangaroo.



After the precious Ariana and Ashley left for the States, Stephanie and I were able to travel to Cologne (Köln) to see the cathedral. We even climbed the 509 steep stone steps to the top of the towers. Look at that sweat. Beasts.





So, we eventually said our "see you later's." I can't begin to describe how grateful I am to know these saints in this picture! Each one is so precious to me; I could go on for days about how much I love them! Praise the Lord for the friendships he blesses us with.

WYD Part Dos: Hola, Papi!

Running on just a few hours of sleep, we walked the 200 feet to the gate in hopes to be let in around 4am. Not so much. After four hours, with people pressing close and becoming rather testy, we were told that due to overcrowding, people were not going to be let in.

We resigned ourselves to the disappointing fate and parked on a hill outside the airport. Maybe, just maybe, they might still let us in...

...and they did! At 9:30am, just shortly after the Holy Father's arrival to Cuatro Vientos, they opened the gates!!! It was a beautiful victory, one which inspired me to hold the Aggie flag high.



And approximately at 9:35am, as the five of us marched triumphantly down the runway, I hear to my right, "Carolyn??!!" In a crowd of 1.5 million, I ran into one of my dearest friends Jenny from middle & high school, along with Marco and Becca! Can you believe it?? God is so good!



We had a beautiful Mass with the Holy Father, Pope Benedict XVI. With the help of our Ecuadorian friends, God be praised, we made it through the insane crowds in the metro to the airport, survived a rather turbulent RyanAir flight, and even a rather turbulent shuttle ride back to our "home" in Landstuhl...whereupon our arrival, we chowed down on the food Paul's precious parents set out for us, and laughed deliriously at all of our adventures.

Finally, we:



...for many, many hours.

Wave hola to Papi

From Lourdes we headed for Madrid, where World Youth Day was held this year. Such a beautiful train ride through the Spanish countryside and Pyrenees mountains. I even saw a man whom I fondly dubbed Zorro: I glanced out the window and there he was, riding a black stallion, his white blouse and long hair whipping in the wind...be still, my heart.

It was another long trip, with a short delay. We made it into the city around 9:30pm, with a considerable amount of confusion as to where we were registered to stay. Thankfully, an elderly Spanish couple walked 5 blocks with us until we reached a WYD representative, who walked another 3 blocks with us. Precious angels. We subsequently had a slumber party with some Oklahoma Sooners and Ugandans on the lovely concrete bed of a high school parking lot.

On Saturday, we had time to kill until the 8:30pm vigil with the Pope. We walked around a gorgeous park, where we ran into and volunteered with the Missionaries of Charity. Had a delicious lunch of sandwiches and paella, and headed for the Prada art museum. Ran into Carly King & her lovely Longhorn friend Randy (not once, but twice!) and accidentally abandoned Stephanie and Ariana when we left for the cathedral and palace...oops.


Aggie Catholics, minus me and Stephanie

Had a fighting Texas Aggie Catholic reunion + the lone Longhorn, WHOOP! A reunion which made us 5 minutes late for the 8:30 vigil with the Pope...and accesses were closed :( We camped out in front of an apartment complex across from Cuatro Vientos, the airport where the vigil and the morning Mass were to be held. The sky began to threaten serious rain and lightning. On the first floor of the apartment complex, a woman was hanging an Ecuadorian flag out of her window. Paul asked her to please buzz us in, just to wait out the storm in the hallway of the complex. Not only does she let us in the hallway, but the beautiful family invites us into their home! They fed us melon, popcorn, turned on the live broadcast of the vigil, and we watched and adored Jesus from 500 feet away.

I can't begin to describe how emotional we were that the family to have welcomed all 9 of us into their home, where 7 of us stayed for the night. To experience such love and hospitality from total strangers! In a way, it was far more special than had we made it into the audience with the Pope.