We landed in Paris late Tuesday afternoon — St. Patrick’s Day! — after a very long journey from Orlando International Airport. Air France didn’t make check-in very easy — it wasn’t clear to many of our pilgrims that you needed to spend time at a kiosk, processing your passport and tagging your luggage — and the long line didn’t move quickly.

But once we got our bags checked and boarding passes printed, we slid down the hall to the TSA checkpoint, and that was surprisingly quick. We settled in at our gate about three hours before we had to board.

The trip was not the most comfortable way to spend 9 hours. The seats were cramped — the most cramped I’ve had on an international flight — and the food was not exactly memorable. (It also wasn’t, frankly, easy to eat, with tight tray space.)

But we made it on time. After landing at Charles de Gaulle Airport and working our way through passport check and baggage claim, we gradually started connecting with other pilgrims who had flown in from around the country.

I also got my first glimpse at fine French cuisine.

We were a little late getting started; one of our pilgrims had her flight delayed by a few hours in New York City. That caused us to rearrange our schedule a bit and forced us to cancel our first Mass. But soon enough, we were all there — 38 total, including one pilgrim from my Florida parish who is 83 years old!  We boarded the bus and headed to Lisieux, where we checked in and had a late dinner at about 8:30.

The hotel turned out to be quite nice: a small, old-fashioned place with real room keys and hearty French food for our meals — various forms of mashed potatoes were on the menu multiple times — and we enjoyed the atmosphere, the service and the company.

The Grand Hotel de L’Esperance was a perfect spot to collapse after a long day on the road. 

We got up bright and early Wednesday — our wake-up call was 5:45 am — to have breakfast at 7 and depart on the bus by 8. (Caffeine, I love you.)

We drove about two hours to a small town in Normandy, where we celebrated Mass in a wonderful thousand-year-old church named for St. Aignan. The interior was cold, but that just made the place feel more authentic.

Deacon Howard Schuyler, from Salt Lake City, preached about the Father, the Son, and Dwight Eisenhower, who it turns out had a few spiritual thoughts to share about D-Day and military leadership. Our priest — my pastor Father Mathew Joseph from my parish in Apopka, Florida — was delighted to visit a part of the world he’s never seen before. He also seemed delighted to have six deacons to assist him with preaching across 10 days.

After Mass, we headed to the American Cemetery near Omaha Beach at Normandy.

We drove along the road, with the Atlantic to our left, and the vast historic beach  stretching before us. In a few minutes, we were there.

The experience here defies description. A few other places come close — the 9/11 Museum in New York, or the Holocaust Museum in Washington — but this corner of Normandy is so serene, so peaceful, you can’t quite imagine what happened here (unless you’ve seen “Saving Private Ryan,” which, with its intensity and graphic scenes of sudden violence and death, is probably as close to D-Day as you can get without being there.) A short film in the visitor center brings the emotions vividly to life.

And then you walk down the road and round the bend and you see the crosses and the stars and, without quite expecting it, the enormity of what happened here hits you.

The dead seem to go on forever.

Some 9,000 Americans are buried here. It is a shrine — and it is a reminder. This is a moment in history we cannot forget. Ever.

After a quick lunch, we headed back to Lisieux, praying a rosary for peace along the way. We wanted to spend some quality time with one of the world’s most beloved saints, Therese of Lisieux, the Little Flower.

We began with a visit to Carmel, the cloister where she spent the last years of her short life. A museum there has lovingly preserved the doorway to her convent cell — you can actually walk through it — along with writings, photographs and other surprising details that defined her days. (Did you know she designed and painted a miniature chasuble, in tribute to her family?)

The tour continued with a visit to the part of Carmel where St. Therese is entombed. Her body is not incorrupt.  She rests beneath a statue depicting her in eternal sleep.

Next stop: the private home of the Martin family, where Therese spent most of her life — and which has been beautifully maintained with some original furniture and artwork.

We concluded our tour outside, with our first group photo of the trip, surrounding a statue depicting a young Therese pleading with her father to permit her to enter Carmel at the tender age of 15.

Next, it was on to the Basilica of St. Therese 

This was an incredible piece of church architecture — with interior and exterior details that can take hours to absorb. Completed in 1954, it has a very modern flavor. We didn’t have a lot of time, but spent about a half hour soaking it all in.

I spotted one corner of the church that depicted a deacon-as-angel, representing charity.

After some time in the basilica, we returned to the hotel, where one of our pilgrims was celebrating his 75th birthday. A cake seemed in order.

It was a festive (and filling!) end to a long and emotionally draining day.

What a way to begin our journey through France, Spain and Portugal!

At evening’s end, our fantastic tour guide, Teresa Torres, asked the management of the hotel if they had any interesting history of the place to share. As a matter of fact, they do. They pulled off the wall this stunning picture: The Grand Hotel, destroyed by bombings during World War II.

What a comeback.

Tomorrow, we depart Lisieux and head to Paris and Rouen.

Rouen to Paris

We had a light schedule today, but what mattered to me the most was water. 

We got up early to head to Mass in the St. Ann Chapel, a tiny corner of the main basilica barely big enough to hold our group of 38 pilgrims.

Deacon George Torres assisted and preached. Christine Meece was the lector.

I have to say: being in that sacred spot, we couldn’t help but feel Mary’s closeness, and feel as if every whispered word truly was being heard. “Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death…” 

Following Mass, we explored the basilica. The atmosphere inside is as memorable as the view outside. This is a beautiful part of God’s creation.

We had a few hours free in the middle of the day, so my wife and I browsed the shops a little and had lunch at one of the local restaurants nearby — hamburger and French fries, which I thought was hilarious, because I was having French fries in France.

Downtown Lourdes, at least near the shrine, is something to see. Statues of Mary are available in all sizes and all materials — including transparent plastic ones that you could fill with water from the springs, with a crown serving as the bottle cap. There are rosaries, tee shirts, berets, key chains, medals, candles (some of them, enormous) … it never seemed to end, and virtually every shop sold the same stuff, most of it made in China. At night, they shop owners turn on the klieg lights and speakers grind out “Ave, Ave, Ave Maria” and you feel like you’re strolling the boardwalk of an Atlantic beach town on a breezy night in June.

We also stopped to pray at the grotto. My wife Siobhain found the spot, marked by mosaics, where Bernadette was praying when Mary first appeared to her.

We also took a moment to light a candle in one of several open-air sheds set up for that purpose.

But the most important part of the day, for me, would be a visit to the baths. 

The faithful have been coming here for generations to be washed with the water from the spring discovered by St. Bernadette. The miraculous healing power of this water is legendary. (Although Bernadette herself reportedly said that the water is just that — water — and that what matters is the heart of the believer.)

That hasn’t stopped people from flocking to the baths by the millions. This Sunday, I was one of them.

The baths open at 2 pm, and the line to use them starts around 1:30. But actually bathing in the water isn’t guaranteed. It depends, I was told, on how many volunteers they have to handle the crowds.

If they have enough, this is what happens: you walk into a small room, remove your clothes, wrap yourself in some modest covering while a volunteer helps you step into a large sunken pool (more of a bathtub, really) to be dunked in the water. You get up, dry off, and leave, and that’s that.

But this day, a Sunday, they didn’t have enough people helping out. So, instead, I had to take part in “The Gesture of Water.” Joined by two women from my group, we walked into the small bathing room and removed our coats. A kindly volunteer joined us: a middle-aged French woman, who spoke very little English and tried to explain what would be happening but just ended up giving us a card describing the process:

1. Have a moment of quiet prayer
2. Wash hands and face
3. Drink the water
4. Ask St. Bernadette and the Blessed Mother for prayers
5. Pray aloud, “O Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to thee.”

Okay. We said we understood what to do. A moment later the volunteer stepped out and returned with a porcelain pitcher filled with water from the springs. We did as we were told. It was a lot more emotional than I expected. We were replicating the very gestures that Bernadette performed, as instructed by the Lady in the grotto. It felt like a humble, low-key liturgy of hope, a testament of faith and trust.

This short video shows what happens.

In my case, it was over before we knew it — but I was moved by one surprising detail that I didn’t anticipate: the water dried almost instantly. Several seconds after washing my face and then sipping the water from my cupped hand, I was ready to reach for a towel — but I found I didn’t need to.

I was clean, and I was dry.

I couldn’t explain it. I didn’t even try.

We put on our coats and headed back into the breezy French air. I felt renewed, refreshed and mysteriously different. It wasn’t The Full Lourdes Experience!! that I had wanted. But it was something unique. It left me feeling both grateful and profoundly blessed.

At 3:30, we reconnected with our group. The rest of the afternoon, our guide Teresa led us all on a walking tour of Lourdes, visiting the modest house where Bernadette was born, and the former prison cell that was her family’s home when they had no place else to live.

A few relics from Bernadette’s life are on display, including her rosary.

Our next stop took us to a convent that is home to a number of nuns: the Poor Clares. They’ve been in Lourdes for decades, on a choice piece of property that every investor in France is trying to snap up so they can turn it into a hotel.

One of the nuns, Sister Fatima, is an old friend of our guide Teresa. Sister Fatima graciously agreed to open up their tiny gift shop and we swooped in to buy the nuns’ handmade rosaries.

We eventually made our way back to the basilica area and our hotel, to get ready for dinner and another candlelight rosary.

That brought our visit to Lourdes to a close.

It was a memorable end to a memorable day — and again and again when I asked people, “What’s been your favorite part of the trip so far?,” the answer was inevitably, “Lourdes! This! Right here. I’ll never forget it.”

Neither will I.

Interested in more? Check this out:

My friends at CBS News produced this excellent piece on Lourdes for “60 Minutes” a few years ago, and it remains a fascinating report on faith in our age of disbelief, and our fumbling human efforts to explain the inexplicable. Some things just defy logic and make the impossible possible — because, of course, nothing will be impossible for God.

Today, it was time to leave France and visit the world of the other Teresa in Spain.

We began with Mass in the lower level of the Lourdes basilica, reached by walking down a long corridor under the main church, which takes you to a chapel directly over the grotto.

Deacon Kevin Meece served and my wife Siobhain lectored.

We walked back to the hotel, climbed into the bus and began the long trip to Spain.

During the pilgrimage, these long adventures afforded us some spectacular scenery — but they were also a grind. This one lasted several hours, with a couple breaks to stretch our legs, eat, and hit the restrooms. Some of us took used these trips as opportunities to nap. It wasn’t easy. But it’s times like these when it’s helpful to remember this fabled phrase: “A pilgrimage is not a vacation.” But let’s face it: a long bus ride in padded seats with Wi-Fi beats the mode of transportation used by our forebears: walking in sandals with a stick and a satchel.

We stopped for lunch at a tourist-y truckstop. I couldn’t complain about the view!

Late in the day we finally arrived in Avila, as the afternoon sun was setting. We stopped for a photo-op outside the city walls.

Allow me to introduce you to this gentleman: Jose, from my parish in Florida. He decided to undertake this trek at the tender age of 83. I was impressed by his stamina and his determination, even using a cane for help. But it’s a big risk. This trip isn’t easy, even for people a lot younger — like many of these pilgrimages, there’s a lot of walking, a lot of cobblestone streets, a lot of steep inclines and stairs. You spend a lot of time on your feet. Just getting on and off the bus can be a challenge. Add to that the steep, winding staircases in ancient churches (often stepping up and down slippery marble) and the challenges can be daunting. We’re typically logging up to 15,000 steps a day.

Thinking about undertaking a trip like this? A word to the wise: know just what you’re getting into and what you can handle. A chat with your doctor might be prudent.

We arrived at our hotel for the night, a gorgeous place across the street from Avila’s storied cathedral: the Hotel Palacio de Valderrabannos.

This was a first for this trip: our bathroom had a bidet!

Our room afforded us a perfect view of one of the city’s medieval walls.

We arrived in time for a late dinner in the dining room. If a pilgrimage is not a vacation, you might have a hard time telling that from the food.

With that, we settled in for the night. This was a short layover for us — just one night in Avila, to be followed by a tour of the ancient city and a chance to see some highlights from the life of its most famous resident, St. Teresa of Avila.

G’night!

When you think about a medieval city, with walls and turrets and a towering cathedral, you’re thinking of a place like Avila, Spain. 

The sense of history is palpable. You’re stepping back in time, walking with warriors, nobility — and saints.

Which brings us to the city’s most famous saint, Teresa.

We were up early for breakfast and a brisk walk through the city with a local tour guide. And when I say “brisk,” I’m talking about the temperature. The last week of March, the morning forecast for this part of Spain was sunny, with a chance of freezing to death. It was in the lower 40s, climbing up to the mid-60s by mid-afternoon.

Travel tip: pack layers. I packed a fleece jacket, plus a puffer vest that I was able to roll into a tight ball in my suitcase (and that made me look like Marty McFly.) A pair of gloves was helpful, too.

Our guide essentially narrated the life of St. Teresa of Avila, and a history of the city, with side notes on art and architecture. One highlight: the cathedral. This soaring building is rarely used anymore, and needs a considerable amount of repair work and upkeep. It was unheated and unwelcoming. But the treasures inside were breathtaking.

The sculpture below depicts the slaughter of the Holy Innocents after the birth of Jesus.

Also on display — being stored there, and readied for use — were the enormous displays that are carried in religious procession during Holy Week.

Leaving the cathedral, we visited La Encarnacion Convent, with an impressive collection of relics and material devoted to the life of St. Teresa, including one of her fingers.

Teresa was quite a traveler, journeying largely on foot to establish convents around Spain.  Her walking stick and part of a sandal are on display.

There’s also a collection of vestments dating back hundreds of years. I couldn’t help but notice dalmatics.

We celebrated Mass, with Deacon Thomas Whited preaching and Cindy Male lectoring.

Among other sites we were able to see: a portion of all that remains of Teresa’s cell.

Late in the morning, we said goodbye to Avila and Teresa — whose image you find almost everywhere.

We hit the road. Which meant hitting a local truckstop for lunch.

The owner, we learned, was a professional bull fighter, so pictures of him adorn the walls.

The food was good and plentiful. I chose the veal.

Late in the afternoon, we finally made it to Fatima, to check in to our hotel.

Incredibly, our hotel was across the street from the huge plaza and basilica — just a five-minute walk to one of the most treasured holy sites in Europe.

You could see the basilica from our lobby. 

Our hotel, Hotel Estrela de Fatima, was gorgeous — updated, spacious, very comfortable and welcoming.

We enjoyed another memorable meal. Honestly, the hotel food on this trip gets very high marks, and the serving staffs at every hotel were friendly and accommodating.

After dinner, we made our way across the street to a chapel — and an emotional high point of this visit, praying the rosary with hundreds of other pilgrims in various languages and taking part in a candlelight processional around the square.

A standout moment: Siobhain and I were given the privilege of leading part of the 4th decade of the Sorrowful Mysteries in English.

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After the rosary and brief procession, we made our way back to the hotel to get ready for the next day: a walking tour of Fatima, including visits to the homes of the children who saw Our Lady.

What a day!

Our first full day in Fatima! 

We began with a celebration at breakfast: one of our pilgrims, Grace Paz, was marking her birthday on this pilgrimage, so our guide Teresa surprised her with little pastry, a candle and balloons.

Soon enough, we were out the door of our hotel, driving through downtown Fatima to see where the young visionaries lived.

We passed by a beautiful statue of the children.

And soon enough, we arrived at the humble house where two of the children, Francisco and Jacinta, were born.

Along our route, we were shown this photograph of young Lucia.

Incredibly, the staircase where she stood is still there. I couldn’t resist the opportunity to ask Siobhain to recreate the picture.

We explored more of the byways and backroads of Fatima, and walked through some of the expansive fields that have been preserved for prayer, contemplation and simple silence.

This is something distinct about Fatima, that makes it a different experience from Lourdes.

So much of Lourdes has been built-up — hotels, shops and restaurants crowd every avenue — but Fatima has been left largely undeveloped. I told Teresa, “It’s like the people who took over this site looked at what happened at Lourdes and said, ‘No, let’s not do that.’” She agreed with me and explained that the people of Fatima held fast to the notion that this place is holy ground that needed preservation. They didn’t want it disturbed.

And no wonder. Here is where Mary came, again and again and again, and where heaven met earth. You can walk through the cobblestone paths around Fatima and hear birds chirping, roosters crowing, leaves stirring in the wind. This is the world the children would have known and loved. And it’s still there, for us to experience for ourselves.

We prayed a rosary while we walked to one site: a place where the Guardian Angel of Portugal appeared to the children and gave them Holy Communion. A statue marks the spot.

As morning came to an end, we found our way back to the bus, and were taken to a little factory, which produces many of the statues and rosaries for sale in the area.

Conveniently, there’s a gift shop adjoining the factory — of course! — and we were invited to pick up a basket and browse after lunch, which we enjoyed in the cafeteria upstairs. This was truly One Stop Shopping. Lunch and souvenirs in one place!

A new saint, Carlo Acutis, is featured prominently in the gift shop.

After a hearty meal, we were back on the bus, which took us to the basilica for a brief tour and time for prayer at the tombs of the three visionaries.

Two of them died quite young — Francisco and Jacinta — and have been canonized; the third, Lucia, spent a long life as a nun and died in 2005. Her cause is still pending.

It’s fascinating to learn about the lives of these three figures:

Our Lady of Fátima (Portuguese: Nossa Senhora de Fátima, pronounced [ˈnɔsɐsɨˈɲɔɾɐðɨˈfatimɐ]; formally known as Our Lady of the Holy Rosary of Fátima) is a Catholic title of Mary, mother of Jesus, based on the Marian apparitions reported in 1917 by three shepherd children at the Cova da Iria in Fátima, Portugal. The three children were Lúcia dos Santos and her cousins Francisco and Jacinta Marto. José Alves Correia da Silva, Bishop of Leiria, declared the events worthy of belief on 13 October 1930.

Francisco and Jacinta Marto died in the global flu pandemic that began in 1918 and swept the world for two years. Francisco Marto died at home on 4 April 1919, at the age of ten. Jacinta died at the age of nine in Queen Stephanie’s Children’s Hospital in Lisbon on 20 February 1920. Their mother Olímpia Marto said that her children predicted their deaths many times to her and to curious pilgrims in the brief period after the Marian apparitions. They are now buried at the Sanctuary of Fátima. They were beatified by Pope John Paul II on 13 May 2000 and canonized by Pope Francis on 13 May 2017.

On 17 June 1921, at the age of fourteen, Lúcia was admitted as a boarder at the Sisters of Saint Dorothy (Dorothean) school in Vilar, a suburb of Porto, Portugal. In 1925, at the age of eighteen, she began her novitiate at the convent of the Sisters of Saint Dorothy in Tui, Spain, near the border with Portugal. Lúcia continued to report in her memoir private visions periodically throughout her life.

But it turns out that seeing the Blessed Mother wasn’t all angels and beatific visions.

Our guide explained that the children were hounded by reporters, and some tourists who visited Fatima took the time and trouble to pack scissors. They would seek out the children, meet them, and cut pieces of their clothing as holy souvenirs.

Following our visit to the basilica, we had Mass in a nearby chapel, with Deacon Tim Helmick assisting and his wife Rosalie serving as lector.

Later, we had some time for pictures.

Then, dinner! 

We piled into the bus again for a short ride to a local Portuguese restaurant. This would be our traditional “farewell dinner” on pilgrimage — a festive and memorable occasion that offers a chance to sample some great local cuisine and wine.

The food was amazing — so good, I forgot to photograph it — but I remember that one of the dishes I sampled was, I kid you not, rooster. It was delicious. We celebrated Grace’s birthday, again, and all of us received an incomparable gift of our own:  some superb music during our meal.

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It was a wonderful, beautiful, inspiring, humbling, joyful day.

Tomorrow, we bid goodbye to Fatima and head to out last stop in Portugal, Lisbon.

It’s hard to believe, but our pilgrimage is drawing to a close.

And just like that, we were in the bus waving goodbye to Fatima. 

Teresa passed out tissues as we bid farewell to this little slice of heaven-on-earth and repeated a familiar Portuguese song of praise and love for Our Lady.

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Our next stop: Lisbon and the site of a Eucharistic miracle, the church of St. Stephen.

The story behind the miracle: 

It was the year 1226 (or 1247, according to some chroniclers) when, in Santarém, there lived a poor woman, whom her husband mistreated a lot, going astray with another woman. Tired of suffering, she went to ask a witch who, with her spells, could put an end to her sad fate. She promised her this effective remedy, but she would need a consecrated host.

After hesitating, the poor woman went to the Church of Saint Stephen, confessed and, having received the Sacred Particle, with great caution she took it out of her mouth, wrapping it in the veil. She quickly left the church, heading towards the witch’s house. But then, without her noticing, blood began to flow from the veil, which, seen by several people, led them to ask the unfortunate woman what injuries she had. Extremely confused, she ran home and enclosed the Miraculous Host in a chest. The day passed, however, and in the afternoon her husband returned. In the middle of the night, they both woke up and saw the whole house shining. From the ark came mysterious rays of light. Once the man was informed of the woman’s sinful act, they knelt down and spent the rest of the night in worship.

As soon as day broke, the parish priest was informed of the supernatural prodigy. Once the news spread, half the population of Santarém rushed to contemplate the Miracle. The Sacred Particle was then taken, processionally, to the Church of Saint Stephen, where it was preserved inside a kind of ostensory made of wax. But, after a few years (in 1340), when the tabernacle was opened to expose the worship of the faithful, as was customary, the wax was found torn into pieces and, with astonishment, it was discovered that the Sacred Particle was enclosed in a crystal ambula, miraculously appeared. This small ambula was placed in a silver-gilt monstrance, where it is still located today.

You can see the tabernacle where the host is contained — high above the main altar — and can climb a ladder to get a better look.

This shot is from a website devoted to Eucharistic miracles.

This plaque was positioned beside the tabernacle:

Since the church is dedicated to St. Stephen, there’s a prominent statue of the deacon-saint in the sanctuary.

Also, there was a relic behind the altar that contains what is claimed to be a small piece of bone of the saint.

We headed out the church to return to our bus. But along the way, we ran into another pilgrim — a man walking the famous Camino de Santiago and headed toward the tomb of St. James. He paused to ask Teresa if he was going the right way. He was worried he’d followed the wrong signs. No worries, she said, you’re on the right path. Indeed!

Now that’s a real pilgrim.

The bus took us into downtown Lisbon for lunch, not far from the waterfront.

Teresa recommended several spots for us, including one she said at the best burgers in Portugal. How could I resist?

It was a delicious burger (two patties, no bun, with a hearty cheese melted on top) and we enjoyed the company of our oldest pilgrim companion, Jose.

After lunch, we visited a church for our final Mass of the trip: the Church of St. Anthony, built on the site where the great saint was born.

Here, I served Mass and preached some final thoughts on pilgrimage:

Oh, we’ll all have lots to say when we get home. This pilgrimage will become part of our history, a long paragraph in this year’s Christmas letter or a great conversation-starter at Thanksgiving. There are the missing passports and long bus rides and incredible meals. I, for one, will be telling a lot of people about how I dined for the first time on rooster.

But the story of a pilgrimage is so much more than that.

It’s not just about incredible cathedrals and stunning relics. It’s not about the bones of saints or the visions of children.

No.

It is a love story.  This pilgrimage is a love story.

It’s the story of God’s love for our broken world. It’s about the poor being uplifted, of marginalized children becoming saints and doubters learning to believe.

It’s the story of a teenager willing to die for a cause, a girl brave enough to see beyond the flames, to gaze only at Christ nailed to the cross.

It’s the story of a shepherd girl walking out the front door of a one-room cell on a February morning – and making history with faith, and trust, and the courage to believe.

It’s the story a bold woman ahead of her time, learning to read and write and teaching the world not to be afraid.

It’s a love story. It’s the story of how God loved us so much, he used the humble and the small to remake the world.

And, importantly: It’s the story of each of us across 10 days…laughing together, weeping together, wondering together, praying together, growing together in love.

Teresa said to me last night, a pilgrimage is really about the people. What we learn. What we share. How we grow.

That is our story.

Keep telling that story.

And remember this: it’s a story we tell not just with words, but with our lives. We heard the psalm a few moments ago: “If today you hear his voice, harden not your hearts.” It’s a recurring message for Lent, as we turn our eyes toward Calvary. But this Lent, I think it’s safe to say we’ve all felt our hearts soften during the last 10 days. That’s the miracle of grace.

But so much of it, also, is the grace of being on pilgrimage. The pilgrim experience challenges each of us to leave our comfort zones.

And what a beautiful thing that can be.

As we enter Holy Week, just three days from now, look back on where we’ve been, what we’ve seen, what we’ve done. How have these days touched us? What have they taught us?

How can we take this pilgrim experience out into the world and continue our pilgrimage, which is the Christian life itself?

As we prepare to receive Christ in the Eucharist, let’s pray to live out what we have seen and heard here … to remember Joan and Bernadette, Catherine and Theresa, Jacinta and Lucia and Francesco. Remember what they sought to do with their lives, to make the love and hope of Christ known to a doubting, hurting world.

It’s a world, we all know, still wounded, still suffering, still looking for hope.

So, let’s not tuck this trip away in a photo album, to be buried in an attic or forgotten about next year.

Let’s keep remembering. Keep witnessing. Keep following in the footsteps of saints.

Because what we’ve been able to see and hear and touch these days is part of a great love story.

I leave you with those four words.

Keep telling the story.

The deacons who had served and assisted at Mass during the pilgrimage gathered for a group portrait.

We departed for our last hotel, and our last night on pilgrimage, taking a whirldwind tour of Lisbon. This was our final stop, the stunning Hotel Vile Gale Opera, just steps away from a massive suspension bridge which takes you, on the far end, to a piece of land containing a massive statue of Christ.

The hotel was pretty amazing, and we all regretted that we were only staying there a few hours.

I can’t say just where that pilgrim walking The Way was going to be staying that night, but I’m pretty ssure it wasn’t like this.

The dinner buffet was quite a spread.

There was also a grill where a chef prepared small portions of something billed as “rump fillet.” Tasted like steak to me.

We staggered back to our room around 8:30 pm — to unpack and prepare to quickly repack, since we were going to get a 1:30 am wakeup call.  We had to get an early start to get to the Lisbon airport, flying to Paris for connecting flights that would take us back home.

G’night! 

 

We’re done? So soon? 

Ten days after we arrived in Europe, we left. It went by in a blur — but our suitcases weren’t the only things that were packed. Every day was stuffed with stuff.  Hearty, delicious meals … long bus rides … daily Mass … praying the rosary … walking, touring, photographing, shopping, gawking, feeling awed and overwhelmed by history, fervor, faith and bold witness.

One great lesson of this trip: saints are awesome. 

As I mentioned the other day, we were up very early Friday to get to the Lisbon airport for a crack-of-dawn flight to Paris.  That went pretty smoothly. The hotel provided us with a box breakfast, including a sandwich (ham and cheese, a bad idea for a Friday in Lent) and fruit. Otherwise, the bus trip to the airport was quick and uneventful.

The Charles de Gaulle Airport, though, is not exactly a small place. Okay: it’s ginormous. It took us a long walk to find our gate and get settled in.

We had a lengthy layover in Paris. I mean, really long. I think it was about seven hours. Honestly, I lost count.

Siobhain and I killed some time by browsing the stores and grabbing breakfast: quiche!

About two hours before our flight began boarding, we learned that our gate had changed.

This is the kind of  information that, it seems, the French like to keep to themselves.

There was no announcement. Zero. There was just a sudden change in the sign by our gate. I got a text message from Deacon Kevin Meece, from another far-off corner of the airport, confirming it. He tried to explain how to get to the new gate — which evidently involved a lot of walking, an elevator trip, and a brief bus ride. Really?

I was concerned about our oldest pilgrim, Jose, who needed a wheelchair to navigate the airports. An attendant at a nearby gate agreed to arrange for motorized transportation, to help Jose and his luggage get moved. When this electric vehicle showed up, it had three seats and plenty of space for bags. The driver invited my wife and me to hop aboard.

Off we went — seemingly to the furthest reaches of Western Europe — to find our new gate.

For a brief moment, it almost felt like we were on a ride at Disney World. But it’s not a small world, after all. Really. Trust me.

Eventually, we boarded our flight and we were on our way.

Ten hours later, after a couple meals and almost zero sleep, we landed in Orlando. We walked yet again on a long trek to reach passport control and baggage claim — but I have to say, compared to some other airports where I’ve done this, MCO was a breeze.

We had a very easy time connecting with our mini-van that took a bunch of us back to my parish in Apopka — kudos to our driver, Gustavo, and the folks at Fly Guy Transport who made it all happen. They were prompt, professional and very reasonable; a mini-van (that can hold up to 14 people, plus luggage) from Apopka to MCO and back — roundtrip! — came to $270, not including tip. For my group, that was just under $34 per person — a lot cheaper than Uber.

After dropping everyone at the church — by this time, it was about midnight Saturday — Siobhain and I headed home.  I-4 was empty. Life is good. I was exhausted.

I had slept very little on the plane, or at the hotel in Lisbon. Once we walked into our bedroom at home, I passed out before my head hit the pillow.

There will be a lot to absorb and pray about over the next few days and weeks — but a pilgrimage should have that effect on you, I think. It transports you. It relocates you, challenges you, shuffles your notions of time and place. (What day is this again?) It takes you out of the ordinary routine of life, and the journey doesn’t end once you unpack your souvenirs.

But there are also a few lessons I learned this time — practical tips that I want to pass on for anyone considering a trip like this. I’ve posted some impressions and tips before, and a lot of what I learned on the first trip I led, to the Holy Land, still holds.

So, here are four quick takeaways for you from our pilgrimage to France, Spain and Portugal:

1. Pack Kleenex. Seriously. Most of the hotels where we stayed did not have tissues in the room. I don’t know about you, but I’m not a fan of blowing my nose with toilet paper. We ended up buying a couple small boxes at a truckstop in Spain. Particularly in the spring, when allergies and shifting weather can make your sinuses go nuts, Kleenex is a necessity!
2. Bring a small crossbody bag or sling. This will be your best friend. And it could save you a lot of headaches. I usually travel with a vest with a gazillion pockets, which is great. (Scottevest has a lot of fine choices, and you can find cheaper variations on Amazon and Google that will do the job.) But this time, since the weather was unpredictable, I just packed a puffer vest and a fleece jacket. They kept me warm enough, and had lots of (unzippered) pockets, but I was constantly patting myself down to find my wallet, phone, itinerary or sunglasses. I really think it’s simpler to just have some sort of travel sling. Keep everything there, in one place, around your shoulder all the time, and you can be sure of where things are. (Orbitkey and Alpaka have good options. Again, you can find cheaper ones if you hunt around.) Women, naturally, are smart enough to know this secret about bags. Men, not so much. We’re new to the whole bag thing — the phrase “man purse” still makes me shudder — but when you’re traveling, frankly, it’s the best solution. During this trip, one of our pilgrims lost his passport and his cellphone — thank God, our hotel in Paris retrieved them from his room, but he had to spend hundreds of Euros to have them delivered by courier to our next stop. If he had kept things in a small travel bag, and kept it with him at all times, that might have prevented that problem (and saved a lot of money!)
3. Pack all your meds, folks!  One of our pilgrims ran out of diabetes pills halfway through the trip. I’m not sure how she resolved it — our tour manager was asking for ideas and suggestions from people, and even asked if anyone on the trip had a similar prescription to share. Don’t let this happen to you. Make sure you have enough!
4. Be prepared to walk. A lot. I mean A LOT.  That sounds obvious, but people can misjudge what they can handle on a trip like this. Walking 15,000 steps a day at home is different from doing it on a tour. There are vast stretches of shiny floors in the airports. There are steep hills, covered in cobblestones. (Railings may not be available.)  There are narrow, slippery, marble steps in ancient churches that take you down to grottos where you celebrate Mass. (Getting down there is one thing; you also have to get back up.) Some restaurants may have multiple levels for seating. Make sure you understand just what you are getting into. As a footnote: I would strongly discourage older travelers (say, 80 or above) from making this kind of trip solo. A companion — spouse, son, daughter, friend — can make a journey like this a lot easier and more enjoyable. And: Another pair of eyes and ears can also help serve as a helpful backup when there’s a lot of traveling and unpacking and repacking. (And it can happen at any age. Case in point: me. My wife kept me from losing a LOT of stuff on this trip. “Did you remember your glasses? Where are your meds? Where’s your phone?”) God, I love her.

Which brings me to one final point: you can’t do a trip like this without a gifted Tour Manager / Guide. All hail Teresa! She brought passion, compassion, strategic skills, humor and an unshakable faith to every hour of this pilgrimage.  She was our teacher, translator, mother hen, therapist, collaborator and voice of reason. I’ve always been happy with the guides Select has given us for these trips, and Teresa was no exception. We were in very good hands.

Where will I go next? I’m open to suggestions.

But for now, I think I’ll go take another nap. I will dream of croissants, basilicas, incorrupt bodies of saints, cobblestones, miracles, and rosaries by candlelight.

Remembering it all, it brings tears to my eyes.

I only wish I had a Kleenex.