In my past long-distance walks, I blend into the pilgrim scene. Some pilgrims walk further and faster. Other pilgrims walk fewer miles and more slowly, often because of a bad ankle or knee. Other pilgrims may have red or black backpacks; I have a blue backpack. Most of us find a hiking pole helpful; there are a few who don’t. I blend into a group of pilgrims. We enter churches and cathedrals like regular tourists; however, when we pull out our credentials we give ourselves away.

In San Gimingnano, I feel like a typical pilgrim. Walking into the town, I feel strange. There are so many tourists. Rightly so since San Gimingnano is not your typical old small Italian town. At one time, the walled city had over 72 towers where families lived. Apparently, for much of its history, street violence was not rare. Living in those towers, they felt safe. Probably a dozen of those towers still exist.

Upon finding the St. Benedictine Convent, I go through the typical pilgrim routine. Register, find the room, drop the backpack, take a shower, wash the clothes, and take a nap. In some form or another, probably every pilgrim follows a similar routine.

I’m not always a pilgrim. After resting, I head out for some sightseeing and dinner. I begin to lose my identity as a pilgrim and merge with those who are tourists. As I’m walking to the church on the central piazza, I’m about run over by a dozen cyclists. I’m amazed that these “wanna-be” Tour de France cyclists don’t seriously hurt several people as they come speeding into the piazza. Weapons on two wheels forcing people to jump left and right. Like other pilgrims and tourists, I shake my head.

I enter the church as any pilgrim or tourist does.  Like some other unimpressive churches on the exterior, this church surprises me with a beautiful interior. The interior includes paintings and stain glass windows that have extremely vibrant colors, even though they are hundreds of years old. I join other pilgrims and tourists alike snapping photos left and right.

I continue my transformation from pilgrim into tourist. I make sure to take a photo of a boar’s head. And, of course, I eat gelato at the shop that has won the World’s Best Gelato title!

When I leave the next morning, I am rested. I feel as though I’ve spent 18 hours in one of the more beautiful small towns of Tuscany. Walking past the piazza on my way out of town, a nicely dressed woman stops me. With an Italian accent, she politely asks “Are you a pilgrim?” While I could make a smart-alecky remark about how many tourists wear backpacks, I don’t. Trying to sound friendly, “Yes, I am.” “Where are you from?” “I’m from the United States.” As four or five other individuals gather around us, I realize that she is a tour guide. “Would you mind letting my friends ask you some questions and talk with you for a minute? They are from the United States also.” What am I to say, “Of course.” It turns out that her group and I are  almost neighbors. They are from North Carolina; I’m from Georgia. After we chat for a couple of minutes, we head our separate ways. Before separating though, one of them takes my photo.

The similarities with tourists that I had felt earlier in San Gimignano have disappeared. As a typical pilgrim I differ from tourists. The worlds we shared for a few hours have now moved apart. Not only am I a pilgrim, but I’m a “celebrity” pilgrim!