We didn’t know we were preserving a culture—we were just living it
—and the Back Row We Claimed for the Rest of Italy
Sometimes grace looks like a profound spiritual revelation. Sometimes it looks like noise-canceling headphones, an eye mask, and six empty seats at the back of a tour bus.
After the canceled flights, unexpected overnight stay in Dallas, and frantic effort required simply to keep the trip alive, our rescheduled departure day finally arrived.
We were tired before we ever boarded the plane.
Not regular tired.
This was the kind of tired that makes you stop caring whether your clothes are wrinkled, whether your hair looks right, or whether the stranger beside you believes you are friendly.
We had spent so much energy trying to reach the flight that, when we finally settled into our seats, Italy still felt less like a destination and more like a test of endurance.
But we were on the plane.
At that point, that was enough.
A Seat That Would Not Recline; and a Woman Who Was Not Happy
My seat was terrible.
It did not recline, which already felt like an insult on an international flight. Then the woman seated beside me arrived in what I can only describe as a fully committed bad mood.
She complained. She was short with people. She seemed irritated with the seat, the plane, the delays, the situation, and perhaps humanity in general.
Normally, I try to be pleasant. I believe in kindness, understanding, and extending grace.
I also had noise-canceling headphones and an eye mask, and I had absolutely no intention of talking to her.
My plan was simple: put on the headphones, lower the mask, and mentally disappear until we reached Rome.
Somehow, though, we began talking.
I do not remember exactly how the conversation started. Perhaps one of us mentioned the delays. Perhaps exhaustion broke down the usual barriers between strangers. Whatever happened, her mood gradually softened.
By the end of our conversation, she apologized for how she had behaved.
Look at God.
I boarded the plane determined to block her out completely, and instead, somewhere over the Atlantic, we found a small moment of understanding.
It did not fix my seat. That thing still did not recline.
But it reminded me that sometimes people are not offering their best because they do not have much of their best available in that moment.
After everything that had happened since New Orleans, I understood that better than I might have on another day. My own reserves of patience and grace were not exactly overflowing either.
Crossing the Atlantic While Barely Conscious
People sometimes describe international flights as romantic crossings into another world.
Perhaps that happens in first class.
From my seat, the experience mainly involved attempting to sleep upright, adjusting my eye mask, shifting positions without elbowing anyone, and occasionally checking the flight map to see whether Europe had moved any closer.
The cabin lights dimmed, and the engines settled into their constant hum. Some passengers watched movies. Others whispered, slept, or tried to convince their bodies that the strange meal being served was appropriate for whatever time it was supposed to be.
Somewhere over the Atlantic, the days blurred together.
We had already lost part of our itinerary. Now we were losing hours to the time difference too. My watch said one thing. My body said another. My spirit simply said, “Please let us get there.”
Eventually, we did.
We landed in Rome exhausted, relieved, and only partially aware of our surroundings.
There was no dramatic arrival. No elegant moment of stopping to absorb the fact that we had finally reached Italy.
There was luggage to collect, a tour group to locate, and another four-hour journey waiting for us.
Meeting the Group (Well, Sort Of)
Mama, Mr. John, Aunt Lynn, and Uncle Dan had already met some of our fellow pilgrims at the gate in Dallas.
I had not.
While they had been introducing themselves and socializing, I had been in the airport lounge recovering from what I considered the emotional violence of American Airlines.
By the time we reached Rome, I was technically surrounded by the people with whom I would spend the next several days, but I was not yet prepared to be charming, curious, or particularly social.
Normally, I would want to know who everyone was, where they came from, and what had inspired them to take the pilgrimage.
That day, I mostly wanted to know where the bus was and whether anyone expected me to remain awake once I got on it.
The Great Back-Row Occupation
Our charter bus was nice. The seats were spacious, comfortable, and far more inviting than the airplane seat that had held me hostage across the Atlantic.
The tour guide explained that we would rotate seats during the pilgrimage so everyone could experience different views and locations on the bus.
That sounded fair and reasonable.
We did not do it.
Mama, Mr. John, and I found the final row at the back of the bus. It stretched across six seats, meaning each of us could have two seats to ourselves.
It was perfect.
There was room to stretch, sleep, and keep a bag beside you without someone having to climb over it.
Mama settled in and silently staked her claim. Somehow, without any formal announcement, the issue was closed for the remainder of the pilgrimage.
Nobody attempted to take our row.
Not once.
I cannot prove it, but I believe Mama’s face communicated everything anyone needed to know. She has a way of looking settled that strongly suggests negotiation would be unwise.
The guide may have wanted us to rotate.
The back row had other plans.
For the rest of the trip, it became our territory, our own little mobile Louisiana outpost traveling through Italy.
Four Hours to Assisi. Or So I Am Told
The drive from Rome to Assisi took approximately four hours. I think.
I would love to describe the Italian landscape in rich detail: rolling hills, olive groves, medieval towns in the distance, and cypress trees lining the roads.
I am sure it was beautiful.
I slept through most of it.
After everything it had taken to get there, my body made an executive decision. Italy could wait. I needed a nap.
There may have been introductions and wonderful conversations happening around me. There may have been breathtaking scenery passing outside the window.
I remember very little.
What I remember is waking occasionally, confirming that my family and backpack were still present, and going directly back to sleep.
It was not the graceful beginning to our Italian pilgrimage that I had imagined.
But it was honest.
Sometimes the first thing you do after crossing an ocean to reach a place you have prayed to see is sleep through the ride there.
Assisi Without the Grand Entrance
By the time we arrived in Assisi, I was beyond tired.
The group planned to gather for dinner, but I had reached my limit. I went to my room, showered, and climbed straight into bed.
There was no socializing, no welcome meal, and no meaningful attempt to introduce myself to the cast of characters with whom I would soon share churches, prayers, meals, bus rides, laughter, frustrations, and more than a few moments of confusion.
I slept.
And that was exactly what I needed.
Pilgrimages are often described as journeys of sacrifice, discipline, and spiritual openness. But the body is part of the pilgrimage too. Sometimes honoring the journey means admitting that you are depleted and allowing yourself to stop.
The saints of Assisi had waited centuries for me.
They could wait until morning.
The Pilgrimage Between the Big Moments
Looking back, I am glad the journey did not begin with a perfectly framed view of Italy or an elegant first dinner with the group.
It began with a woman having a bad day beside me on an airplane.
It began with a seat that refused to recline, a conversation neither of us planned, and my family quietly taking possession of the back row of a bus.
It began with me sleeping through scenery I had crossed an ocean to see and choosing to miss dinner because my body needed rest.
None of those moments sounds especially holy.
But pilgrimage is not found only inside shrines, basilicas, and sacred tombs. It is also found in the ordinary work of making room for another person’s humanity, laughing at what cannot be controlled, accepting our limitations, and trusting that missing one moment does not mean we have missed the journey.
Grace had brought us to Italy.
Now it was asking us to slow down enough to receive what came next.
Creole Chaos Count
✈️ International flights completed: Finally, one
💺 Seats that reclined: Not mine
🎧 Noise-canceling headphones: Essential equipment
😒 Difficult seatmates softened through conversation: One
🚌 Bus rows claimed for the entire pilgrimage: One glorious six-seat row
😴 Italian countryside actually observed: Very little
🍽️ Group dinners skipped in favor of sleep: One
🙏 Grace received: Through conversation, rest, and the wisdom not to challenge Mama for the back row
🌿 What I’ll Carry Home
I often think meaningful journeys should begin with energy, enthusiasm, and complete presence.
This one began with exhaustion.
Exhaustion has a way of stripping away performance. I did not have the energy to pretend I was fine, force myself to socialize, or experience every scheduled moment simply because it appeared on the itinerary.
I had to accept the journey as it was, rather than as I believed it should be.
That first day taught me that being present does not always mean doing more. Sometimes it means allowing yourself to rest so you can be fully awake when what truly matters arrives.
And sometimes the first grace you receive in a foreign country is simply a shower, a bed, and the promise that Assisi will still be there in the morning.
If our very sleepy arrival in Italy has you wondering what we missed while claiming the back row and napping our way toward Assisi, there are much more alert people who can help. You can start with Rome Fiumicino Airport to see where our Italian adventure officially began, then explore Umbria Tourism for the rolling hills, medieval towns, and countryside I sincerely wish I could describe from memory. When you are ready to make your way to Assisi, the official Visit Assisi site is a great place to explore the city, plan a visit, and learn more about its sacred and historic sites. And for a deeper look at why Assisi holds such an important place in world history, art, and Franciscan tradition, visit UNESCO’s Assisi World Heritage page. Consider this your chance to experience the scenery I apparently crossed an ocean to sleep through.
✈️ Coming Next
