I told my guide that I wanted to find the small church where St. Francis began his Franciscan Order by returning to Christ’s own principles and rejecting the wealth and opulence of the medieval times. I explained the history of how St. Francis’ friars lived in poverty, preaching barefoot in the streets of Assisi. This shocked the wealthy inhabitants of Assisi into shame. His creed was to live simply without the material trappings of daily life.
My driver apparently had no idea what I was talking about. It is curious to me that a journeyman such as myself sometimes has to explain the culture to those who live in it. He seemed quite exasperated with me and dumped me at a church to satisfy my passion. It was a huge domed basilica—Santa Maria degli Angeli—built in the 16th century and clustered around the Assisi station. I didn’t think it was exactly what I was looking for, but what the hell, it was a start.
I walked through this enormous church and sat down to pray to the Virgin Mary that stood in front of me. As I opened my eyes and looked around, I noticed that in its center stood a small chapel. I walked over and began to read the contents of this small shelter embraced by frescoes of the saints. I could hear strains of a sermon coming from the inside the chapel. I walked into the small sheltered space, observing the other pilgrims as the father preached the gospel. It suddenly dawned on me that this chapel was ancient, so much older than the cathedral that housed it. My eyes wandered the walls as I struggled to determine the origins of it all.
As the priest began to offer the wafer, I began to tear. Could this be the small church I had been searching for? Indeed, it was. My guide had delivered me “by accident,” thereby revealing another experience of trusting the process. This was the place of the earliest Franciscan movement. I was surrounded by 14th-century frescoes of the life of St. Francis in a small space secluded in the church’s baroque bowels. I took the wafer from the priest and after the ceremony walked into the garden full of rose bushes. It was there on blooming rose bushes that St. Francis threw himself while grappling with immense nocturnal temptation. It was only after contact with his saintly flesh that the thorns dropped off.
Legend has it that the now thornless bushes bloom every May, their leaves stained with the blood shed by that night. St. Francis was proclaimed a saint only a few years after his death.
I visited the Basilica of St. Francis, where his remains are interred surrounded by Giotto’s magnificent frescoes, gloriously expressing the faith of Christianity. I peered through the metal bars to feel closer to his spirit. It was so close, yet I could feel only the empty space as my hands reached in. I went within and found my connection to this holy spirit. If you’re going to open up, it might as well be with a trusted source. Again I realized that no matter what journey I took, somehow fate drew me to the sacred space of my quest, even if it seemed accidental. When such incidents occur, they appear like miracles that create God-like behavior, becoming one with the source. Again the concept of trust comes into play. It brought me back home, and I knew something had changed. Unexplainable, but walking in those footsteps the pilgrim keeps the path alive. And it is in those holy places that when we open our hand to God we receive his gifts.
In the Footsteps of Moses
Standing in the Roman ruins of Jerash, Jordan. (Author’s Collection)
I wanted to further my expedition following the path of Moses. And so I took off across the Jordanian desert, beginning at the capital, Amman, then to Jerash and finally to the magnificent mountaintop of Mt. Nebo. From there I crossed the desert into the lost city of Petra with a ride through the Wadi Rum desert, where Lawrence of Arabia conquered Aqaba away from the Turks.
I arrived in Jerash (known as Antioch in ancient times), a beautifully preserved Greco-Roman city where St. Paul lived and walked in the Bible. I passed the huge balustrade of columns lining the path where chariot indentations are clearly seen to the arched gateway that was built to celebrate Hadrian’s visit in 129 AD.
In search of a guide, I came upon an area where thirty men sat puffing on cigarettes waiting for the next tourist to come by. Among the men there was only one woman, so I chose her. The puzzled expressions on the faces of the men were priceless as I passed them in favor of the sole female. Her name was Magda, and as we made our way out, she raised her head high, held her cigarette and smiled brightly. She was apparently very pleased I chose her over her male rivals and made a show of it. Meanwhile, the men held their worry beads in their hands, twirling them in agitation. She remarked, “When are males ever going to get over that the world is not always dedicated to them?”
Magda was a terrific guide with a wondrous sense of humor. Together we walked among the preserved ruins, among the best I’ve seen. We were transported 2,000 years back in time to the period after the Romans left and the Christians took over. We followed the track by the Persian invasion in 614 AD, followed by the Muslim conquest of 636 AD. A major earthquake in 749 AD seriously damaged the city and hastened its decline. It wasn’t until 1806 that Jerash was rediscovered under the buried sand, which accounted for its remarkable preservation.
Tourists were scant and it seemed we had the place all to ourselves, except for the occasional looter who would secretly reveal ancient coins with the face of Alexander the Great. I was tempted to buy some, and as I held them in my hand I imagined the exchanges that took place centuries ago with these very coins. In the end I declined because without a legal receipt you could get arrested. My next destination was Mt. Nebo, situated eight hundred meters above the Jordanian Valley. Nebo provides a unique balcony for a bird’s-eye view of the Holy Land. To the south, there lie the Dead Sea and the Desert of Judah, and to the west, the mountains of Judea and Samaria.
On top of this mount, history passed before me. It was a clear day, and in the far distance Bethlehem appeared in what remains of Herod’s fortress and the oasis of Jericho. The ancient Christians had constructed a memorial church over ancient columns in honor of Moses. Six tombs had been found beneath the church. It is believed that Moses was buried here too, but his tomb has never been found.
I crossed the mosaic floor to the altar and lit a candle in memory of what had passed before me, and another to bless the next journey through Petra and the harsh Bedouin desert. As I was leaving the mountain, I glanced back to remember that it was here where Moses looked upon the land below and promised it as an inheritance for the chosen people. And what a view he had of the land he wandered in exile for forty years. I picked up some sandy earth and felt it in my hands, thinking how he had walked these grounds, and wondering, “Where was Moses?”
On top of Mt. Nebo overlooking Jordan Valley. (Author’s Collection)
Drinking water at Moses’ holy well. (Author’s Collection)
Hadrian’s Arch. (Author’s Collection)
Two and a half hours away was the city of Petra where Bedouins and their herds roam the endless desert. It is a place that has not changed since biblical times, except for the jarring appearance of trucks that had formed a line a mile long, delivering food and supplies to the allies in Iraq. I realized how close in proximity I was to this long war as I could hear the sounds of battle echoing through the air. We quickly sped through.
Just outside of Petra, my driver had a surprise for me and brought me to a quiet spot with no one around. Lying before me was the rock that Moses had tapped with his scepter to bring forth water for his people. The underwater spring still runs today.
I went slightly mad and splashed the water all over me, thinking and hoping I would be the willing recipient of this biblical and historical source of liquid benediction. I drank so much water, as much as I could, and for a short moment I truly felt something. I thought, I am holy. Ah, how encouraging the mind can be.
We began to descend into Petra, which in Greek means “the rock.” Its name comes from approximately 300 BC when wealthy Bedouins carved an ancient city out of stone. Petra had been lost to the Western world for over five hundred years. It wasn’t until the early 19th century when a Swiss
explorer named Johann Ludwig Burckhardt heard the myth of this lost Nabataean civilization. Since it was a dangerous place for a Westerner to explore, he crafted a plan to study the Arabic language, bronze himself and then enter Egypt as an Indian Muslim. Befriending another Arab, Burckhardt’s disguise convinced the Muslim he was one of them, and so he persuaded his new friend to take him through into Petra. He eventually brought light to this ancient world that had disappeared for many centuries.
It was in Petra that I found a Bedouin guide named Sulaman. I learned he was the eldest of nine children and responsible for his family as his father had been crippled in a motorcycle accident. We galloped on horseback from the beginning of the gorge through the Siq as Burckhardt had done in earlier times. It was a narrow mile-long passageway that eventually led to the cut-rock city of Petra. Upon entering this mythical place, buried from view but rising intact from the past, I was confronted by this extraordinary spectacle and glimpses of the lives of those who had created it. The strange thing about these hidden places, preserved for centuries, is that their mystery still haunts us even today. Only one percent of this civilization has been uncovered. In the winter months archaeologists are busy uncovering and deciphering, but it’s a slow process.
Inside the ancient city of Petra. (Author’s Collection)
Very little writing has been found among the ruins, which has helped keep the mystery alive. The merchants were wealthy because of their connection along the route of the Silk Road. I climbed everywhere from the Treasury to the ancient amphitheater and into the Roman area at the end of the road. I paused for a long time at the theatre, made of red stone. Like a member of an audience, I marveled at what my eyes could see. Nothing in all my travels compared to it. It was totally unique, empty of the inhabitants of its ancestral past, but its shell remained almost intact with colors gloriously seeping through stone, bringing its brilliance to life.
The next day we went into the Wadi Rum desert where we passed the Seven Pillars of Wisdom and then sat out the afternoon in a Bedouin tent, sipping mint tea while lounging around on cushions like sheiks. We exchanged stories of respective history. I learned why Bedouins constantly move, and they in turn got a glimpse of life in America. They revealed very little about themselves but played their reservations with charm. I discovered that Bedouins move because of their animals, and finding a location shaded from the heat was necessary in this red, endless desert. Living in this harsh environment with so little to distract them, I’m sure there was substantial inward search about their rituals to Allah and the frugalities of a nomad’s life. I informed them that we have many poor people in America as well, but we have great freedom as individuals that money can’t buy. They were surprised. I was thrilled living the unknown.
My journey ended with an enlightening experience. Sulaman drove me back to Amman and I invited my Bedouin friend for lunch at the Four Seasons Hotel. Dressed in his traditional garb and wearing a red and white keffiyeh over his head, we entered the restaurant. And what an entrance it was. The concierge freaked as he looked upon Sulaman with disdain. He tried to block his way, while I objected and told him to behave himself. He froze and Sulaman smiled. Then we sat ourselves in the lovely Italian restaurant. He admired the beautiful flowers and the table setting that Bedouins never see in the desert. This new experience led him to become animated in a way he never had been in his sheltered world. The hotel employees stood looking aghast as we enjoyed a wonderful lunch and laughed at their ignorance.
The extraordinary irony about this journey was that although Sulaman was a direct descendant of the creators of Petra, those who now lived off its glory wanted to exclude him from his heritage. But for this one day he reconnected with the wealth of his past. I left Jordan knowing that I had shared a profound slice of time with a truly amazing man.
Entrance to Petra. (Author’s Collection)
Transitions
It was the end of summer, and the sun was gloriously fading as I landed at the Athens airport in Greece. I had just finished reading Homer’s epic poem The Odyssey on the plane, and by the end of that visual saga I felt I had actually lived the magical experience of time travel, going back to the source.
Now I was returning to my ancient home like a Homeric spirit who had come back to the womb after a long absence in a distant land. I had been invited by some Greek producers interested in developing a series based on a lawyer’s true experiences exposing corrupt officials in Europe. I loved the idea of playing a spy and in the language of my ancestors, and for my parents, a dream come true.
Entering Petra at the Treasury, a tomb that made this icon famous. (Author’s Collection)
Usually I make sure I’m cleaned up before disembarking, because you never know what relative lurks at Greek airports or when the occasional photographer is nearby, seeking a candid version of me. My life in show business has meant never letting the public see you unless it looks like you just jumped out of a television set or a movie studio.
Well, not all the time. That wouldn’t be normal.
But that was my training, and I thought it best that I change in the bathroom before exiting the terminal as I was going straight to a meeting arranged by my journalist friend Alkinos Bounias.
As I exited the plane and stepped down outside of the terminal, a dozen Greek reporters ran at me with Alkinos in tow. Their cameras flashing, microphones stretched out, blurting out passionate questions about Greek affairs. “What do you have to say about Greece and Macedonia?”
All I could think was, the last time I looked in the mirror my hair was standing up stick-straight and I was still wearing the clothes I’d slept in, and certainly was not ready for a close-up. Pulling myself together like the part required, I happened to have in my carry-on bag a book about Vergina, a place in ancient Macedonia where Alexander the Great and his father Philip the Second had lived. By coincidence I had picked up that copy in the United States as I had become fascinated with Alexander’s beginnings and the places he chose to conquer. How appropriate, I thought, and how bloody lucky.
So I pulled that rabbit out of a hat and flaunted the book in front of their cameras and calmly replied, “Macedonia is Greek, read your history.” The cameras flashed and the journalists went crazy. Forgetting I was wearing overalls and was disheveled, I answered their questions with relish and abandon. It made the front page and the evening news, and so did my hair. They were impressed that a foreign Greek knew more about their history than they did, and an actor no less. I love smashing myths about actors being dumb. God was watching.
The next evening a dinner had been set up with a commercial producer and his wife. Alkinos and I arrived early and had a chance to catch up and strategize. He was a respected journalist with his own afternoon talk show that played upon his wacky humor. It was not unusual for guests to enter through a refrigerator door and be interviewed by Alkinos from his bed. It was an original setting where he could be lethal and at times hysterical with a temperament that could explode through the roof. But we got along well, except when he was chain-smoking cigarettes. Then his tone would get sharper and at times illogical. He was dark-featured, so that made it all the more dramatic. But behind all this façade, Alkinos had a heart of gold—you just had to find a way through.
Walking through the Siq, Petra. (Author’s Collection)
The Mission: Impossible series I had starred in during the early ’90s was such a great success that Mega Channel in Greece had repeated the episodes for years. Because of that, this dinner was set up to discuss my playing a James Bond character in a commercial for Drambuie liquor. We enjoyed a delicious and expensive dinner, the atmosphere was relaxed and it gave me a chance to discuss the subject in Greek. Everyone seemed delighted.
By now all the details of the commercial were put on the table. The product was presented with style, and the action sounded exhilarating. We all agreed that the concept was quite exciting. Then talk turned toward compensation, and what was left for me—a one-time buyout—
was simply embarrassing. Alkinos froze and the producer and his wife had put on a mask. Talk of money does tend to change dynamics when fiscal agendas differ. I sat there dumbfounded. There was no discussion. No argument about how insulting the offer was. Just a take-it-or-leave-it deal.
I was in the throes of “business, Greek style.”
Alkinos excused himself, allegedly to visit the restroom. Instead he headed straight to the maitre d’, whom he knew well, and quietly asked him for a favor. He returned to our table, and within ten minutes the waiter arrived and handed the producer the bill. Reluctantly the producer accepted the hefty check, and Alkinos, in a manner fit for a king, elegantly said, “Thank you so much, me next time.”
The producer was not happy. No deal and stuck with the check. Not the outcome he’d envisioned. We made uncomfortable small talk while he paid the bill, and then we unceremoniously parted ways, disappointed that there was no exciting commercial but reveling in Alkinos’ resourcefulness and desire to forge ahead. In typical Greek fashion, Alkinos was already moving on to the next big thing as we stepped outside the restaurant. “Tomorrow we see producer Liana Patera for a film, and then Saturday evening the head of Mega Channel wants to take you to dinner to discuss a series called The Red Stamp.”
As promised, the next day we visited Liana Patera in her office located below the ancient Acropolis. An attractive fair-haired woman in her mid-40s and very professional, Liana was a respected producer who survived in a male-dominant society. The story she was producing was in the process of being written, taking place during the Second World War in Turkey where the protagonist was being held prisoner. She wanted her sister, an actress, to play my love interest. She also wanted to have the writer incorporate her observations of my personality into the character. Animatedly, she told us the war story with passion. “Greeks love tragedy,” she explained. “And why not, we invented it.”
Places: The Journey of My Days, My Lives Page 8