In October of 2007 I spent ten days in Assisi and Rome as part of a small (ten people) group of people from my work (a local University) and a larger group (about thirty people) of other Americans. All of us, forty total, were associated with Franciscan institutions, and this pilgrimage was designed to deepen our understanding of Franciscan thought and culture.
I applied for the pilgrimage a full year before I left. Our group met every now and then, while preparing for the trip, but nothing could prepare me for ten days out of town. I lost my mind on the trip, I’m convinced, and I grew at the same time.
I changed everyone’s names, in case you were wondering, and only included other pilgrims (besides myself) in two pictures. In only one of those pictures can you see people’s faces, and I don’t think its inclusion is a big deal. Hope that’s ok.
Oh, I also linked the pictures rather than posting them here. I didn’t want to break up the text too much. Alas, some of them aren’t clickable but require you to cut and paste. My apologies.
I’m putting this on the blog one day at a time…each a separate post.
Thanks to the U for the opportunity, my colleagues for their patience, and the people of Italy for their hospitality. Here we go:
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Saturday, Oct. 6th/Sunday, Oct. 7th
I’m due at the U at 3:10PM so M and I head out the door a little after two. The boys and a babysitter are playing Wii upstairs. After a couple quick hugs we’re out the door. I remind M on the way over that she has to tell me on the phone about anything bad that happens while I’m gone, and she warns me that she will be pissed if I fly home early because one of the cats dies. We kiss, at the U circle driveway, and I roll my suitcase into the deserted student center a little past 2:30. I hit the bathroom, concerned I won’t find another clean one for ten days, and sit on a couch near the front door. A colleague passes a couple minutes later and informs me that the bus is picking us up outside the dorms, so I stand, grab my luggage (checking again for my passport and tickets) and walk outside.
A small crowd consisting mostly of nuns and relatives is gathered near the departing pilgrims. As none of my relatives are present, I sit on a bench next to the U President and small talk about football and jet lag. Word about the Badgers loss spreads through the crowd. I pet a dog visiting for the traditional blessing of the animals taking place later in the chapel. Two vans pull up, and in a couple minutes, we’re on our way from Milwaukee to O’Hare. Our driver gets in the wrong lane just over the Illinois line, causing us to get caught in massive and unnecessary traffic, but we’re both way early for our 7:30PM flight and in mellow pilgrim-mode, so nobody sweats the delay. The driver still apologizes up and down when she drops us off at the airport.
The Swiss Air check-in line is short, so we check-in and head to the security gates. However, right after we drop off our luggage a group of about twenty Indians block our path. The group is apparently (Ivan told me later) saying goodbye to a Hindu priest (are they priests in the Hindu religion?) before he jets back to his homeland. The priest appears about 80 years old and weighs around 100 pounds. He wears a white robe while his followers take turns bowing in front of him. Their kids play near the windows. A white woman in a robe videotapes the scene. We push through the gathering and hit the security gates. Just past the gates I realize the food court is back past the metal detectors, and I’m worried the plane food will suck, so I walk back out and buy an abysmal veggie wrap for seven bucks. Plus, I can’t take my water back through security, so I scarf down the veggie wrap without water and pass through security for the second time in thirty minutes. River and Bob, fellow pilgrims, are both on their second beers when I return. Gladys, who appears to want this to be THE MOST SPIRITUAL EXPERIENCE EVER, tells me some pilgrims from another state have joined our party and demands I introduce myself. I make the rounds and return to my seat, where Ivan and I chat until departure.
I discover, upon boarding, that I’m in one of the middle seats of four in the center section. Thankfully the row in front of mine is empty, so River and I ditch our respective assigned seats and grab the empty spaces. I spread out, placing my backpack on the adjacent seat, and fire up the mp3 player. Walking past the duty free shops reminded me of Vic Chesnutt’s “Duty Free Shop”, so I put on “The Salesman and Bernadette” and listen to the first four or five songs. I experiment with the television in the seat in front of me and track the flight information (fascinating, they must use a GPS system or something), but I can’t get the sound to work correctly, so I watch “The Fantastic Four-Rise of the Silver Surfer” over Ivan’s shoulder in the next row while listening to music. I go through some Low, Oscar Robertson, and Eels until I settle on Stars of the Lid’s “Tired Sounds of Stars of the Lid.” Within an hour, after decent airline pasta (the kind flight attendant searched me out after I moved seats), I’m sleeping. I wake ninety minutes before Zurich.
After our Zurich deplaning we use the bathrooms and encounter the weird, completely enclosed bathroom stalls you see in Europe. There is no space under the door; you’re totally sealed into the stall. The stalls would be particularly effective for hiding from zombies or avoiding U.S. senators’ cruising signals. River and I walk the Zurich airport gift shops. The shops sell Swiss t-shirts (red with white crosses, like on ambulances), and we try to figure out if the Swiss take Euros, cash, or something else. After a consultation with Bob we decide the Swiss use Swiss francs and we ditch the gift shops. Floor to ceiling glass windows line the airport. We check out the mountains in the distance and talk about how tight Europeans wear their jeans. School groups pass every few minutes. A man at a little portable table stamps our passports and, about sixty minutes late, we leave for Rome.
Two hours later we emerge, somewhat exhausted (at this point I’m about eighteen hours removed from my front door), into the skuzzy Rome airport. The airport surfaces seem uniformly grime-covered. I don’t realize it yet, but I will later discover that in Rome, Zurich, and Chicago we will deplane in old, decrepit sections of the airports but depart in gleaming new sections. I would think cities would prefer the reverse, with travelers gaining positive first impressions of the cities in which they land, but I am wrong. I guess people spend more money when they’re departing; when they’re landing they want to get the hell out of the airport as soon as possible. The passport booth guy waves us through, decimating my trust of airport security, and we gather around a woman holding a “Franciscan Pilgrimage” sign. The woman, to whom from now on I will refer as “big nun”, or “BN”, states she will watch our luggage while we hit the bathroom. We run about a hundred yards to the nearest bathroom, following the retreat-leader priest (more on him in a minute), and return to our luggage. I’m happy to see no one stole my backpack, which I regret leaving behind the moment I hit the bathroom. Once everyone is together (about forty of us) the leaders take us outside, where grime also covers every available surface (including, it seems, palm trees), and we smell Italian air for the first time. I decide Rome smells like Gary, Indiana. We load our luggage under the bus and climb into our seats. I suppose this is the first time we really get a chance to see the entire pilgrim group as a whole, but we’re too exhausted and excited to speak much with strangers, and we settle in for the two hour plus ride to Assisi. Rome, however, at least near the airport, doesn’t just smell like Gary; the city looks like Gary as well. We pass factory after factory and encounter the first wave of ubiquitous Italian graffiti (including a funny string of “hot boys” tags along the highway, leading me to wonder if the Italian gay community has taken up graffiti as a hobby). The other female retreat leader, heretofore designated “little nun” or “LN” leads the bus in prayer. This feels very weird. I sleep a little more, once I realize we aren’t going to see much from the bus yet, and wake only when the priest (heretofore designated as “Priest”) interjects comments about the passing towns (e.g. “this one is known for pottery”) over the bus intercom. A horribly bright sun combines with my exhaustion, pissing me off, and I close the curtains and try to keep my eyes closed until we reach the flats below the mountains.
We arrive at Assisi in the early evening after a few harrowing twists and turns and a few small towns. The bus is too large for the Assisi streets, so we park in a lot underneath the city (Assisi is built into a mountainside), load the luggage into taxis the priest has hired to haul our things to the Casa, and ride an outdoor escalator to one of the town’s gates. LN tells us a peace march took place earlier in the day. Small knots of teenagers hang out on patios and church stairs as we enter the city for the first time. The streets are narrow, mostly covered in cobblestones, and we quick-walk towards the Casa (I’m not trying to sound cool when I call the rooming house “The Casa”. The space actually has “Casa” in its name). I can’t quite take it all in, especially as we pass through the common piazza, as I just want to hit the room and get some sleep. However, once we arrive at the Casa, the leaders give us all of fifteen minutes to brush our teeth and stash our luggage in our rooms before gathering the group for evening activities. River and I are sharing a room on the fourth floor. We could either take a small elevator up, but Priest warns us it stops if you have too much weight on it, and people are loading on luggage, or the stairs. We opt for the stairs. I get used to the stairs after a couple days, and I like the stairway’s white marble and cool darkness.
The room is small, two beds, very simple, a shower that’s more like a raised area in the corner of the bathroom. There is no TV or phone. The view from the window is gorgeous, but I’m deathly afraid of heights (more on that in a minute) and the window has a shutter but no screen. I can’t fathom allowing children into the room, and I literally crawl to the window to take a couple pictures.
River and I function pretty well (in my eyes, anyway, you’d have to ask him about his perspective) as roommates. He’s more of a late night, sleep late kind of guy, and I’m not, but we get along fine. We both spread our shit out everywhere and claim specific spaces (drawer for me, top of the wardrobe for him).
This seems to be as a good a time as any for a brief description of the group leaders. I’ll flesh out these sketches as the journal continues, but you should know a bit about the leaders at the start since I’ll refer to them a lot over the course of the ten days.
First is “Priest”, the head honcho, if you will, a Franciscan friar (I’m not even sure if I should call him “priest”, but “friar” doesn’t sound right) from New York. He is older, probably late sixties, but he’s got a lot of energy and a shock of white hair on his head. Priest is smart, obviously, and liberal to the point of heresy. Priest is not to be fucked with. I repeat, priest is not to be fucked with. Over the course of the trip (you’ll see) Priest displays both compassionate patience and near psychotic impatience. I like Priest. He has a thick NY accent and glasses, so I sometimes feel as if Woody Allen, converted to Catholicism after studying theology, is leading our retreat.
Big Nun, or “BN” is also intelligent, apparently a former editor at some Franciscan publishing house. BN is calm and straightforward, funny, and seemingly focused on keeping the group relaxed and grounded. She is the least likely group leader to spontaneously speak up. BN is almost as tall as me, large (hence the name) but not fat, and at moments somewhat distracted. She will leave the pilgrimage before we arrive in Rome for some obligations back in the states. BN will also never learn my name, referring to me as “Tom” for seven days in a row.
Little Nun, or “LN”, initially creeps me out but eventually grows on me. LN cries practically every time she speaks. She’ll start to speak about our next planned visit or whatever, and she’ll remember the last time she was there, and out of nowhere she’ll say something like “the last time I was there I was filled with God’s love…God is good!” She will slur the last half of a sentence of that nature because she’ll start to cry. This freaks me out. I want to leave the room as soon as the tears start. LN turns out to be decent and not completely insane, thankfully, and provides a necessarily counterpoint to priest’s occasional abrasive side. You can approach LN about anything and you know she’ll treat you well. LN also knows a little more about the historical sites than both priest and BN. LN probably studied harder. She seems the type.
We first gather in the small chapel for a prayer service. This surprises me, I must admit, and I’m exhausted and somewhat resentful. Priest seems to perceive our exhaustion, however, so after handing out the pilgrimage “book” and teaching us a prayer Francis used which will become a central theme of the pilgrimage (to the point where people will start singing the prayer out of nowhere to make others laugh), we’re ushered into the dining room for dinner. We from the U stick together, as it’s our first dinner, although everyone in our group (just below forty of us) seems pretty reasonable. LN asks who in the group is a vegetarian and I raise my hand. They bring me some cheese when everyone else goes through the meat course. We get bread, wine, water, etc. along with some pasta.
Sidebar…I sure as hell can’t complain about the pilgrimage food. The food staff went out of their way to make sure I was ok, from a vegetarian perspective, every day. Some of my colleagues quibbled about how much cheese I received, like I was going to overdose, but I appreciated the idea the cooks did what they could to accommodate my vegetarian request. I loved the dining room, too. We sat around perhaps ten long tables covered with white tablecloths, every time we ate at the Casa, and talked through meals.
Over the course of the ten days I think I ate with all thirty-seven of my colleagues at one point or the other, and I never felt too self-conscious. You have to remember I almost always eat while reading the paper, even at dinner with my kids, so I found this family-style, all conversation meal setup alien. We’d have to sing grace (I wouldn’t sing, of course, I can’t sing) and gather our cloth napkins ourselves. We also bussed our own tables and tried to help out the food staff where we could. Breakfast was a little different, more self-serve and informal. Oh, the dining room ceiling was covered with weird, Redon-like frescoes, too, supposedly of the family of the person who owned the house back in the middle ages.
After dinner the pilgrimage leaders lead us to the small classroom where I will later discover we meet most mornings before heading off to wherever we’re going for the day. Priest does most of the talking during the initial orientation. Priest says the word “toilet” about seven thousand times to make sure we know how to use European bathrooms. LN talks about bidets. Priest also explains how Euros work while LN changes our cash (nice of her to do so, by the way) into Euros. We find out we’re supposed to take the pilgrimage book just about everywhere, since it has all the readings and historical information, and Priest cautions us 1) to be on time, and 2) not to tell him how to run his pilgrimage. I like Priest pretty much immediately.
Despite exhaustion I miss my family too much to sleep, so Ivan and I walk to the Assisi Piazza in search of phones on which we can use our (university supplied, thank you very much) phone cards. The piazza is somewhat crowded, due to the earlier peace march, but we find two open phones and spend twenty minutes figuring out how to work our phone cards. Apparently the Italian “country code” has changed, and the connections move slowly, but once we get used to the pattern the phones routinely work. I leave a couple messages until I get a hold of my family. I talk with the kids, eat some gelato with Ivan, return to the Casa, chat a little with River in our small room, and try to catch some sleep. I don’t fall asleep immediately. River and I take turns snoring, I think, while the other stays awake.
A small crowd consisting mostly of nuns and relatives is gathered near the departing pilgrims. As none of my relatives are present, I sit on a bench next to the U President and small talk about football and jet lag. Word about the Badgers loss spreads through the crowd. I pet a dog visiting for the traditional blessing of the animals taking place later in the chapel. Two vans pull up, and in a couple minutes, we’re on our way from Milwaukee to O’Hare. Our driver gets in the wrong lane just over the Illinois line, causing us to get caught in massive and unnecessary traffic, but we’re both way early for our 7:30PM flight and in mellow pilgrim-mode, so nobody sweats the delay. The driver still apologizes up and down when she drops us off at the airport.
The Swiss Air check-in line is short, so we check-in and head to the security gates. However, right after we drop off our luggage a group of about twenty Indians block our path. The group is apparently (Ivan told me later) saying goodbye to a Hindu priest (are they priests in the Hindu religion?) before he jets back to his homeland. The priest appears about 80 years old and weighs around 100 pounds. He wears a white robe while his followers take turns bowing in front of him. Their kids play near the windows. A white woman in a robe videotapes the scene. We push through the gathering and hit the security gates. Just past the gates I realize the food court is back past the metal detectors, and I’m worried the plane food will suck, so I walk back out and buy an abysmal veggie wrap for seven bucks. Plus, I can’t take my water back through security, so I scarf down the veggie wrap without water and pass through security for the second time in thirty minutes. River and Bob, fellow pilgrims, are both on their second beers when I return. Gladys, who appears to want this to be THE MOST SPIRITUAL EXPERIENCE EVER, tells me some pilgrims from another state have joined our party and demands I introduce myself. I make the rounds and return to my seat, where Ivan and I chat until departure.
I discover, upon boarding, that I’m in one of the middle seats of four in the center section. Thankfully the row in front of mine is empty, so River and I ditch our respective assigned seats and grab the empty spaces. I spread out, placing my backpack on the adjacent seat, and fire up the mp3 player. Walking past the duty free shops reminded me of Vic Chesnutt’s “Duty Free Shop”, so I put on “The Salesman and Bernadette” and listen to the first four or five songs. I experiment with the television in the seat in front of me and track the flight information (fascinating, they must use a GPS system or something), but I can’t get the sound to work correctly, so I watch “The Fantastic Four-Rise of the Silver Surfer” over Ivan’s shoulder in the next row while listening to music. I go through some Low, Oscar Robertson, and Eels until I settle on Stars of the Lid’s “Tired Sounds of Stars of the Lid.” Within an hour, after decent airline pasta (the kind flight attendant searched me out after I moved seats), I’m sleeping. I wake ninety minutes before Zurich.
After our Zurich deplaning we use the bathrooms and encounter the weird, completely enclosed bathroom stalls you see in Europe. There is no space under the door; you’re totally sealed into the stall. The stalls would be particularly effective for hiding from zombies or avoiding U.S. senators’ cruising signals. River and I walk the Zurich airport gift shops. The shops sell Swiss t-shirts (red with white crosses, like on ambulances), and we try to figure out if the Swiss take Euros, cash, or something else. After a consultation with Bob we decide the Swiss use Swiss francs and we ditch the gift shops. Floor to ceiling glass windows line the airport. We check out the mountains in the distance and talk about how tight Europeans wear their jeans. School groups pass every few minutes. A man at a little portable table stamps our passports and, about sixty minutes late, we leave for Rome.
Two hours later we emerge, somewhat exhausted (at this point I’m about eighteen hours removed from my front door), into the skuzzy Rome airport. The airport surfaces seem uniformly grime-covered. I don’t realize it yet, but I will later discover that in Rome, Zurich, and Chicago we will deplane in old, decrepit sections of the airports but depart in gleaming new sections. I would think cities would prefer the reverse, with travelers gaining positive first impressions of the cities in which they land, but I am wrong. I guess people spend more money when they’re departing; when they’re landing they want to get the hell out of the airport as soon as possible. The passport booth guy waves us through, decimating my trust of airport security, and we gather around a woman holding a “Franciscan Pilgrimage” sign. The woman, to whom from now on I will refer as “big nun”, or “BN”, states she will watch our luggage while we hit the bathroom. We run about a hundred yards to the nearest bathroom, following the retreat-leader priest (more on him in a minute), and return to our luggage. I’m happy to see no one stole my backpack, which I regret leaving behind the moment I hit the bathroom. Once everyone is together (about forty of us) the leaders take us outside, where grime also covers every available surface (including, it seems, palm trees), and we smell Italian air for the first time. I decide Rome smells like Gary, Indiana. We load our luggage under the bus and climb into our seats. I suppose this is the first time we really get a chance to see the entire pilgrim group as a whole, but we’re too exhausted and excited to speak much with strangers, and we settle in for the two hour plus ride to Assisi. Rome, however, at least near the airport, doesn’t just smell like Gary; the city looks like Gary as well. We pass factory after factory and encounter the first wave of ubiquitous Italian graffiti (including a funny string of “hot boys” tags along the highway, leading me to wonder if the Italian gay community has taken up graffiti as a hobby). The other female retreat leader, heretofore designated “little nun” or “LN” leads the bus in prayer. This feels very weird. I sleep a little more, once I realize we aren’t going to see much from the bus yet, and wake only when the priest (heretofore designated as “Priest”) interjects comments about the passing towns (e.g. “this one is known for pottery”) over the bus intercom. A horribly bright sun combines with my exhaustion, pissing me off, and I close the curtains and try to keep my eyes closed until we reach the flats below the mountains.
We arrive at Assisi in the early evening after a few harrowing twists and turns and a few small towns. The bus is too large for the Assisi streets, so we park in a lot underneath the city (Assisi is built into a mountainside), load the luggage into taxis the priest has hired to haul our things to the Casa, and ride an outdoor escalator to one of the town’s gates. LN tells us a peace march took place earlier in the day. Small knots of teenagers hang out on patios and church stairs as we enter the city for the first time. The streets are narrow, mostly covered in cobblestones, and we quick-walk towards the Casa (I’m not trying to sound cool when I call the rooming house “The Casa”. The space actually has “Casa” in its name). I can’t quite take it all in, especially as we pass through the common piazza, as I just want to hit the room and get some sleep. However, once we arrive at the Casa, the leaders give us all of fifteen minutes to brush our teeth and stash our luggage in our rooms before gathering the group for evening activities. River and I are sharing a room on the fourth floor. We could either take a small elevator up, but Priest warns us it stops if you have too much weight on it, and people are loading on luggage, or the stairs. We opt for the stairs. I get used to the stairs after a couple days, and I like the stairway’s white marble and cool darkness.
The room is small, two beds, very simple, a shower that’s more like a raised area in the corner of the bathroom. There is no TV or phone. The view from the window is gorgeous, but I’m deathly afraid of heights (more on that in a minute) and the window has a shutter but no screen. I can’t fathom allowing children into the room, and I literally crawl to the window to take a couple pictures.
River and I function pretty well (in my eyes, anyway, you’d have to ask him about his perspective) as roommates. He’s more of a late night, sleep late kind of guy, and I’m not, but we get along fine. We both spread our shit out everywhere and claim specific spaces (drawer for me, top of the wardrobe for him).
This seems to be as a good a time as any for a brief description of the group leaders. I’ll flesh out these sketches as the journal continues, but you should know a bit about the leaders at the start since I’ll refer to them a lot over the course of the ten days.
First is “Priest”, the head honcho, if you will, a Franciscan friar (I’m not even sure if I should call him “priest”, but “friar” doesn’t sound right) from New York. He is older, probably late sixties, but he’s got a lot of energy and a shock of white hair on his head. Priest is smart, obviously, and liberal to the point of heresy. Priest is not to be fucked with. I repeat, priest is not to be fucked with. Over the course of the trip (you’ll see) Priest displays both compassionate patience and near psychotic impatience. I like Priest. He has a thick NY accent and glasses, so I sometimes feel as if Woody Allen, converted to Catholicism after studying theology, is leading our retreat.
Big Nun, or “BN” is also intelligent, apparently a former editor at some Franciscan publishing house. BN is calm and straightforward, funny, and seemingly focused on keeping the group relaxed and grounded. She is the least likely group leader to spontaneously speak up. BN is almost as tall as me, large (hence the name) but not fat, and at moments somewhat distracted. She will leave the pilgrimage before we arrive in Rome for some obligations back in the states. BN will also never learn my name, referring to me as “Tom” for seven days in a row.
Little Nun, or “LN”, initially creeps me out but eventually grows on me. LN cries practically every time she speaks. She’ll start to speak about our next planned visit or whatever, and she’ll remember the last time she was there, and out of nowhere she’ll say something like “the last time I was there I was filled with God’s love…God is good!” She will slur the last half of a sentence of that nature because she’ll start to cry. This freaks me out. I want to leave the room as soon as the tears start. LN turns out to be decent and not completely insane, thankfully, and provides a necessarily counterpoint to priest’s occasional abrasive side. You can approach LN about anything and you know she’ll treat you well. LN also knows a little more about the historical sites than both priest and BN. LN probably studied harder. She seems the type.
We first gather in the small chapel for a prayer service. This surprises me, I must admit, and I’m exhausted and somewhat resentful. Priest seems to perceive our exhaustion, however, so after handing out the pilgrimage “book” and teaching us a prayer Francis used which will become a central theme of the pilgrimage (to the point where people will start singing the prayer out of nowhere to make others laugh), we’re ushered into the dining room for dinner. We from the U stick together, as it’s our first dinner, although everyone in our group (just below forty of us) seems pretty reasonable. LN asks who in the group is a vegetarian and I raise my hand. They bring me some cheese when everyone else goes through the meat course. We get bread, wine, water, etc. along with some pasta.
Sidebar…I sure as hell can’t complain about the pilgrimage food. The food staff went out of their way to make sure I was ok, from a vegetarian perspective, every day. Some of my colleagues quibbled about how much cheese I received, like I was going to overdose, but I appreciated the idea the cooks did what they could to accommodate my vegetarian request. I loved the dining room, too. We sat around perhaps ten long tables covered with white tablecloths, every time we ate at the Casa, and talked through meals.
Over the course of the ten days I think I ate with all thirty-seven of my colleagues at one point or the other, and I never felt too self-conscious. You have to remember I almost always eat while reading the paper, even at dinner with my kids, so I found this family-style, all conversation meal setup alien. We’d have to sing grace (I wouldn’t sing, of course, I can’t sing) and gather our cloth napkins ourselves. We also bussed our own tables and tried to help out the food staff where we could. Breakfast was a little different, more self-serve and informal. Oh, the dining room ceiling was covered with weird, Redon-like frescoes, too, supposedly of the family of the person who owned the house back in the middle ages.
After dinner the pilgrimage leaders lead us to the small classroom where I will later discover we meet most mornings before heading off to wherever we’re going for the day. Priest does most of the talking during the initial orientation. Priest says the word “toilet” about seven thousand times to make sure we know how to use European bathrooms. LN talks about bidets. Priest also explains how Euros work while LN changes our cash (nice of her to do so, by the way) into Euros. We find out we’re supposed to take the pilgrimage book just about everywhere, since it has all the readings and historical information, and Priest cautions us 1) to be on time, and 2) not to tell him how to run his pilgrimage. I like Priest pretty much immediately.
Despite exhaustion I miss my family too much to sleep, so Ivan and I walk to the Assisi Piazza in search of phones on which we can use our (university supplied, thank you very much) phone cards. The piazza is somewhat crowded, due to the earlier peace march, but we find two open phones and spend twenty minutes figuring out how to work our phone cards. Apparently the Italian “country code” has changed, and the connections move slowly, but once we get used to the pattern the phones routinely work. I leave a couple messages until I get a hold of my family. I talk with the kids, eat some gelato with Ivan, return to the Casa, chat a little with River in our small room, and try to catch some sleep. I don’t fall asleep immediately. River and I take turns snoring, I think, while the other stays awake.
Monday, Oct. 8th
I sleep through the alarm but wake early enough to shower, etc. River doesn’t like getting up early, so we fall into a decent pattern in which I wake first, get ready, and wake River so he can get ready. I have some time to kill, so I run to the piazza and pick up two bottles of diet coke. I drink mine on the steps of the Minerva temple then buy an internet café card and check my email, sending one to the kids, before checking the sports sites to find the Bears beat the Packers. I trash talk at the football pool site before returning to the Casa, dropping River’s diet coke off at the room, and eating breakfast. Here’s a picture of the Assisi piazza. I will spend a lot of time here in the next ten days:
http://i72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/ImportedPhotos00005.jpg
After breakfast and a quick prayer service/historical lecture on the Casa roof (beautiful view) we head out into the city for our first real day in Assisi. The pilgrimage leaders walk us to the church associated with Francis’ boyhood home. I take a picture of the statue of Francis’ parents and listen to the leaders talk through the church. Later they show us a replica of the prison cell where Francis’ dad supposedly imprisoned his son. They also show us a tiny chapel, like a stable, where Francis might have been born. I guess there is some controversy on the sites’ authenticity, but I don’t mind.
Some pics:
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00007.jpg
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00006.jpg
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00008.jpg
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00009.jpg
The leaders next walk us up one of the many tight, ascending stairways that link the main Assisi roads. We emerge outside the San Ruffino church and gather around while Priest explains the site’s background (e.g. Clare supposedly heard Francis speak from her window just off the piazza in front of the church).
I need to interject something before I continue. I can best express myself here through two statements:
As I mentioned briefly earlier I am deathly afraid of heights.
I was either in high places looking down or looking up at high places a LOT while in Italy.
Other than my room at the Casa (fourth floor, no screen on the window...I avoided paralysis by pretending the window didn’t exist), the piazza outside San Ruffino was my first of many “heights’ experiences on the trip. I avoided looking up at the cathedral’s point until we entered the sanctuary, where I learned I damn well better not look up inside the sanctuary, either. Churches are high places. I spent a lot of time in them, while in Italy, with sweaty palms, pretending the ceiling was a couple feet above my head.
I like the San Ruffino church, though. I check out the baptismal font where Francis and Care were almost certainly baptized and look beneath the glass floor at unearthed ruins of Roman roads.
Some pics:
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00010.jpg
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00011.jpg
We walk as a group back to the Casa for lunch (eggs for me). I slip out to the piazza to write in my journal and take some pics before re-visiting the home site and San Ruffino on my own. Some tourists are at the home site, but I manage a couple quick pictures of the inside of the stable/chapel (the Christ/Francis connection here a bit too convenient, to be honest) then walk up to San Ruffino. I don’t think we’re supposed to take pictures, by other people are doing it, so I snap a couple quick ones inside the cathedral. I also light a candle (on my second attempt) for half a Euro and ask God to bless my family back in Wisconsin. I do the holy water and sign of the cross thing for the first time in twenty years, since I’m in a good mood, and head back to the Casa after a quick phone call and email home. I count back the hours and discover that, if we have free time in the early afternoon, say, 2PM, the seven hour difference has my family eating breakfast back in the states.
I sit on the rooftop garden for a few minutes before we’re hustled off to another historical site. I can’t name one building with a rooftop garden in my city back in Wisconsin, and I start to think the Italians are on to something. Despite the fact I don’t go near the edge (heights!), I enjoy the garden immensely. You can either look out into the Spoleto valley or down into town. Beautiful. Here’s a pic:
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00012.jpg
In the afternoon we visit another church. Honestly, I can’t remember anything about this one besides 1) the bishop’s residence was next door, 2) the 1997 earthquake hit the space pretty hard and 3) Jewish people hid there during WW2. Some frescoes were under restoration while we visited, and Priest pointed out the white walls where the church lost frescoes in the quake and warned us not to lean on too many walls. We have mass, including a reenactment of the famous “stripping” scene, where Francis gave his clothes back to his father and symbolically stripped off his wealthy existence in front of the bishop, his family, and everyone else. One guy from the pilgrimage, included in the reenactment, actually takes off his shirt, and for a moment I think he’s going full monty, but he doesn’t. At least he is in good shape. After mass we walk down into the church’s lower level and check out some Roman ruins. Priest says Virgil might have visited a friend here, so I take a bunch of pictures after everyone files out, basking in the idea that I’m standing, alone, where Virgil might have stood.
Some pics:
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00013.jpg
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00014.jpg
When we get outside Priest tells us stories about how the priests living here in World War II saved a bunch of Jews and their artifacts by hiding their holy books, etc., in the walls and laying bricks over them before hiding the families as well. We wander the church courtyard until the group disperses. We’re not walking back as a group, so Ivan and I decide to walk downhill on one Assisi’s snaky streets to check out more shops. We get insanely lost, turning up near the St. Francis Basilica (the site of his tomb), way on the low end of town, before heading back up another street. We accidentally leave town via an ancient gate before we remember Priest said, during orientation, that as long as we stay within the gates we shouldn’t get too lost. We grab some gelato, gather our senses, and find our way home after about an hour. Dinner time is near, and I’m exhausted, so I stick by people I know and limit my post-dinner activity to the piazza. A few colleagues are hanging out at the wine bar after I e-mail a couple people and make another phone call, so I snag a diet coke and join them. We hang out for a while, chatting, before heading back to the Casa and a small garden just off our floor, sort of a side-rooftop garden, if you will. A few guys are kind of blitzed and drink lemonchello (I think I spelled that wrong). They get loud and I start to worry about the noise. I try some (fucking awful) lemonchello before wussing out and heading back to the room, where I discover the caffeine in the diet coke won’t let me sleep. I read Kevin Smith until about midnight before I pass out.
http://i72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/ImportedPhotos00005.jpg
After breakfast and a quick prayer service/historical lecture on the Casa roof (beautiful view) we head out into the city for our first real day in Assisi. The pilgrimage leaders walk us to the church associated with Francis’ boyhood home. I take a picture of the statue of Francis’ parents and listen to the leaders talk through the church. Later they show us a replica of the prison cell where Francis’ dad supposedly imprisoned his son. They also show us a tiny chapel, like a stable, where Francis might have been born. I guess there is some controversy on the sites’ authenticity, but I don’t mind.
Some pics:
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00007.jpg
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00006.jpg
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00008.jpg
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00009.jpg
The leaders next walk us up one of the many tight, ascending stairways that link the main Assisi roads. We emerge outside the San Ruffino church and gather around while Priest explains the site’s background (e.g. Clare supposedly heard Francis speak from her window just off the piazza in front of the church).
I need to interject something before I continue. I can best express myself here through two statements:
As I mentioned briefly earlier I am deathly afraid of heights.
I was either in high places looking down or looking up at high places a LOT while in Italy.
Other than my room at the Casa (fourth floor, no screen on the window...I avoided paralysis by pretending the window didn’t exist), the piazza outside San Ruffino was my first of many “heights’ experiences on the trip. I avoided looking up at the cathedral’s point until we entered the sanctuary, where I learned I damn well better not look up inside the sanctuary, either. Churches are high places. I spent a lot of time in them, while in Italy, with sweaty palms, pretending the ceiling was a couple feet above my head.
I like the San Ruffino church, though. I check out the baptismal font where Francis and Care were almost certainly baptized and look beneath the glass floor at unearthed ruins of Roman roads.
Some pics:
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00010.jpg
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00011.jpg
We walk as a group back to the Casa for lunch (eggs for me). I slip out to the piazza to write in my journal and take some pics before re-visiting the home site and San Ruffino on my own. Some tourists are at the home site, but I manage a couple quick pictures of the inside of the stable/chapel (the Christ/Francis connection here a bit too convenient, to be honest) then walk up to San Ruffino. I don’t think we’re supposed to take pictures, by other people are doing it, so I snap a couple quick ones inside the cathedral. I also light a candle (on my second attempt) for half a Euro and ask God to bless my family back in Wisconsin. I do the holy water and sign of the cross thing for the first time in twenty years, since I’m in a good mood, and head back to the Casa after a quick phone call and email home. I count back the hours and discover that, if we have free time in the early afternoon, say, 2PM, the seven hour difference has my family eating breakfast back in the states.
I sit on the rooftop garden for a few minutes before we’re hustled off to another historical site. I can’t name one building with a rooftop garden in my city back in Wisconsin, and I start to think the Italians are on to something. Despite the fact I don’t go near the edge (heights!), I enjoy the garden immensely. You can either look out into the Spoleto valley or down into town. Beautiful. Here’s a pic:
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00012.jpg
In the afternoon we visit another church. Honestly, I can’t remember anything about this one besides 1) the bishop’s residence was next door, 2) the 1997 earthquake hit the space pretty hard and 3) Jewish people hid there during WW2. Some frescoes were under restoration while we visited, and Priest pointed out the white walls where the church lost frescoes in the quake and warned us not to lean on too many walls. We have mass, including a reenactment of the famous “stripping” scene, where Francis gave his clothes back to his father and symbolically stripped off his wealthy existence in front of the bishop, his family, and everyone else. One guy from the pilgrimage, included in the reenactment, actually takes off his shirt, and for a moment I think he’s going full monty, but he doesn’t. At least he is in good shape. After mass we walk down into the church’s lower level and check out some Roman ruins. Priest says Virgil might have visited a friend here, so I take a bunch of pictures after everyone files out, basking in the idea that I’m standing, alone, where Virgil might have stood.
Some pics:
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00013.jpg
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00014.jpg
When we get outside Priest tells us stories about how the priests living here in World War II saved a bunch of Jews and their artifacts by hiding their holy books, etc., in the walls and laying bricks over them before hiding the families as well. We wander the church courtyard until the group disperses. We’re not walking back as a group, so Ivan and I decide to walk downhill on one Assisi’s snaky streets to check out more shops. We get insanely lost, turning up near the St. Francis Basilica (the site of his tomb), way on the low end of town, before heading back up another street. We accidentally leave town via an ancient gate before we remember Priest said, during orientation, that as long as we stay within the gates we shouldn’t get too lost. We grab some gelato, gather our senses, and find our way home after about an hour. Dinner time is near, and I’m exhausted, so I stick by people I know and limit my post-dinner activity to the piazza. A few colleagues are hanging out at the wine bar after I e-mail a couple people and make another phone call, so I snag a diet coke and join them. We hang out for a while, chatting, before heading back to the Casa and a small garden just off our floor, sort of a side-rooftop garden, if you will. A few guys are kind of blitzed and drink lemonchello (I think I spelled that wrong). They get loud and I start to worry about the noise. I try some (fucking awful) lemonchello before wussing out and heading back to the room, where I discover the caffeine in the diet coke won’t let me sleep. I read Kevin Smith until about midnight before I pass out.
Tuesday, Oct. 9th
I wake at six, shower, shake River up, and hit the piazza for diet cokes. The usual bar is closed, so I can’t use the internet, but I hit another one and head back for breakfast. A stray dog with a lame leg digs through the Casa garbage. After breakfast (where every day I seem to arrive at the table just as the oatmeal cereal runs out) we gather in the classroom for LN’s presentation on the San Damiano cross. Francis apparently thought the Christ on the San Damiano cross (now hanging in St. Clare’s Basilica, not San Damiano’s chapel, which confused me early in the pilgrimage) told him to “rebuild the church”. Francis took the direction literally and started looking for stones to rebuild the church.
Anyway, the cross is quite intricate, so LN darkens the room and presents a PowerPoint on the details. I sit in back, near Priest, who says “Jesus Christ” under his breath when Bob enters after the presentation began. Priest is not, again, to be fucked with, and you fuck with priest by showing up late. I find out later that Bob, on the first day, asked priest about whether or not guys could wear shorts at the holy sites and Priest went nuts on him. The question “can we wear shorts today?” becomes a running joke for the rest of the pilgrimage.
After the presentation we walk across town to St. Clare’s Basilica. The Basilica is cool, with the cross hanging on taut wires above the altar. Hardly anyone is around but the little, Asian-looking nuns who take care of the church. We’re not allowed to take pictures. Priest walks us through the building, talking through the history, before we go into the basement where Clare is buried. We walk in a circle around Clare’s tomb before moving upstairs. Supposedly some cool relics are in another part of the basement but the area is closed for renovations. Some pilgrims later say they returned later and found the area open. I like the St. Clare Basilica, I guess, and in retrospect I wish I would have returned later in the week.
I take this pic near the St. Clare’s Basilica end of the city, just before we leave for San Damiano’s.
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00021-1.jpg
We leave the city gates, near where we disembarked from the bus, and walk down a long, steep cobblestone road to San Damiano’s church (I don’t think it’s a Basilica, but I could be wrong). Olive trees line the road. Ivan asks everyone in earshot whether or not black and green olives grow on the same trees, but he fails to arrive upon a definitive answer. He wants to steal a branch, but we’re worried the authorities will swoop down and deport him, so he resists the urge to cut one from a tree. An easy camaraderie pervades the group and people wait for each other and help the slower among us over the tougher stretches down the hill. When we arrive at the church courtyard Priest runs off to arrange a room and we sit on the courtyard steps or low walls and catch our breath. I take a quick pic of the chapel:
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00022.jpg
Within a few minutes we’re ushered into a tiny, airless chapel for a combination history lesson/prayer service. I cannot keep my eyes open and miss most of the Clare history. After the lecture priest and both nuns give us a tour of the grounds. The second floor is interesting. One corner of the large dormitory room is marked off by chalk, and a small lamp and fresh flowers sit isolated from the rest of the empty space. Apparently this corner is where Clare spent most of her last years and eventually died. This is quite moving for many, but esp. for LN and Gladys, who both cry a lot as BN provides the background. Afterwards the leaders walk us through a brief healing ceremony. We’re supposed to line up and approach one of the leaders to get a brief healing blessing. I skip the blessing but cut in line at the last minute and get my free little San Damiano cross. I’m tired and just want to go back to the Casa. Bob and I lead the walk back uphill, which is surprisingly easier than the downhill walk. We reward ourselves by taking the escalator from the last parking lot, much to the amusement of our colleagues.
After a couple minutes in the room, a quick call home, and a decent lunch, a small group of us, mostly U colleagues, decide to walk up to the fortress above Assisi. Somebody asks LN for directions, and we start up a rock path behind the Casa. A dog barks at us as we pass. We find our way to the fort easily, take some pictures of the grounds and the city view then pay our three euros at a trailer near the entrance. We’re way above the town now. Apparently the forts were always on the top of town as a strategic measure.
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00024.jpg
Once inside we split up into loose groups. I climb the first tower and more or less shit my pants when I see how high we are. I have to sit on the floor inside the tower to catch my breath. The stairways and tight and circular, so I let some German (I think they’re German) tourists pass then find my way to the long tunnel that links two parts of the castle. The tunnel is fascinating. The space can’t be more than between six and six and a half feet high (it varies) and three feet wide. I read that the tunnel spans 110 meters in length. Small arrow slits provide most of the illumination, but small lights dot the walls as well.
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00025.jpg
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00026.jpg
I plunge into the darkness and nearly reach the end before I bang my head and yell “fuck!” A couple of English tourists heading in the other direction check on my health before moving back through the tunnel themselves. I decide to wait for my colleagues.
After a quick glance at the second tower I return through the tunnel and check out the bigger fort rooms. They’re interesting, I guess, mostly stone and practical, but I feel like ditching the group, so I sneak off on my own and head back into the city down a long stairway. Here’s a quick pic, by the way, inside the castle.
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00027.jpg
I mumble my way past a couple of construction workers fixing some of the stairs, who say something in Italian at me because I knock their railings out of place. The path leads me through a terraced neighborhood. I emerge near the San Ruffino church. While I’m walking downhill, back towards the piazza, I see a couple of boys about my kids’ ages, with long hair, and I miss home. I grab a diet coke, sit in the piazza, and take notes. An English tour guide tells his group, “Today is a good day to visit Assisi because there are not many Americans around.” Fuck you, English tour guide. An Italian man also motions for me to move over as I sit on the Minerva stairs. Whatever. I pick up a couple “Peace for Assisi” shirts for the boys and head home. I lie down on the bed, with River out, and take in the rest and quiet.
After a shower I head to the Casa classroom for a late afternoon lecture on Franciscan theology. I sit in the back, on a long bench, and catch myself falling asleep over and over again. Priest is talking, and he’s pretty good in this area, but I can hardly stay awake. I ask a question about Francis’ background connected to learning and detachment, then another about Plato and Aristotle in medieval theology. Priest pushes the “everything is good” facet of Franciscan theology, which seems revolutionary, but I miss my family so much I struggle with the message. We eat dinner, after which I join a small group for gelato and chocolate. We peek in all the good windows and settle on some insane hazelnut/chocolate cannoli. I think of the boys I saw and miss my kids even more. After returning to the room, River and I talk until midnight, when he leaves to call his wife, and I fall asleep.
Anyway, the cross is quite intricate, so LN darkens the room and presents a PowerPoint on the details. I sit in back, near Priest, who says “Jesus Christ” under his breath when Bob enters after the presentation began. Priest is not, again, to be fucked with, and you fuck with priest by showing up late. I find out later that Bob, on the first day, asked priest about whether or not guys could wear shorts at the holy sites and Priest went nuts on him. The question “can we wear shorts today?” becomes a running joke for the rest of the pilgrimage.
After the presentation we walk across town to St. Clare’s Basilica. The Basilica is cool, with the cross hanging on taut wires above the altar. Hardly anyone is around but the little, Asian-looking nuns who take care of the church. We’re not allowed to take pictures. Priest walks us through the building, talking through the history, before we go into the basement where Clare is buried. We walk in a circle around Clare’s tomb before moving upstairs. Supposedly some cool relics are in another part of the basement but the area is closed for renovations. Some pilgrims later say they returned later and found the area open. I like the St. Clare Basilica, I guess, and in retrospect I wish I would have returned later in the week.
I take this pic near the St. Clare’s Basilica end of the city, just before we leave for San Damiano’s.
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00021-1.jpg
We leave the city gates, near where we disembarked from the bus, and walk down a long, steep cobblestone road to San Damiano’s church (I don’t think it’s a Basilica, but I could be wrong). Olive trees line the road. Ivan asks everyone in earshot whether or not black and green olives grow on the same trees, but he fails to arrive upon a definitive answer. He wants to steal a branch, but we’re worried the authorities will swoop down and deport him, so he resists the urge to cut one from a tree. An easy camaraderie pervades the group and people wait for each other and help the slower among us over the tougher stretches down the hill. When we arrive at the church courtyard Priest runs off to arrange a room and we sit on the courtyard steps or low walls and catch our breath. I take a quick pic of the chapel:
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00022.jpg
Within a few minutes we’re ushered into a tiny, airless chapel for a combination history lesson/prayer service. I cannot keep my eyes open and miss most of the Clare history. After the lecture priest and both nuns give us a tour of the grounds. The second floor is interesting. One corner of the large dormitory room is marked off by chalk, and a small lamp and fresh flowers sit isolated from the rest of the empty space. Apparently this corner is where Clare spent most of her last years and eventually died. This is quite moving for many, but esp. for LN and Gladys, who both cry a lot as BN provides the background. Afterwards the leaders walk us through a brief healing ceremony. We’re supposed to line up and approach one of the leaders to get a brief healing blessing. I skip the blessing but cut in line at the last minute and get my free little San Damiano cross. I’m tired and just want to go back to the Casa. Bob and I lead the walk back uphill, which is surprisingly easier than the downhill walk. We reward ourselves by taking the escalator from the last parking lot, much to the amusement of our colleagues.
After a couple minutes in the room, a quick call home, and a decent lunch, a small group of us, mostly U colleagues, decide to walk up to the fortress above Assisi. Somebody asks LN for directions, and we start up a rock path behind the Casa. A dog barks at us as we pass. We find our way to the fort easily, take some pictures of the grounds and the city view then pay our three euros at a trailer near the entrance. We’re way above the town now. Apparently the forts were always on the top of town as a strategic measure.
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00024.jpg
Once inside we split up into loose groups. I climb the first tower and more or less shit my pants when I see how high we are. I have to sit on the floor inside the tower to catch my breath. The stairways and tight and circular, so I let some German (I think they’re German) tourists pass then find my way to the long tunnel that links two parts of the castle. The tunnel is fascinating. The space can’t be more than between six and six and a half feet high (it varies) and three feet wide. I read that the tunnel spans 110 meters in length. Small arrow slits provide most of the illumination, but small lights dot the walls as well.
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00025.jpg
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00026.jpg
I plunge into the darkness and nearly reach the end before I bang my head and yell “fuck!” A couple of English tourists heading in the other direction check on my health before moving back through the tunnel themselves. I decide to wait for my colleagues.
After a quick glance at the second tower I return through the tunnel and check out the bigger fort rooms. They’re interesting, I guess, mostly stone and practical, but I feel like ditching the group, so I sneak off on my own and head back into the city down a long stairway. Here’s a quick pic, by the way, inside the castle.
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00027.jpg
I mumble my way past a couple of construction workers fixing some of the stairs, who say something in Italian at me because I knock their railings out of place. The path leads me through a terraced neighborhood. I emerge near the San Ruffino church. While I’m walking downhill, back towards the piazza, I see a couple of boys about my kids’ ages, with long hair, and I miss home. I grab a diet coke, sit in the piazza, and take notes. An English tour guide tells his group, “Today is a good day to visit Assisi because there are not many Americans around.” Fuck you, English tour guide. An Italian man also motions for me to move over as I sit on the Minerva stairs. Whatever. I pick up a couple “Peace for Assisi” shirts for the boys and head home. I lie down on the bed, with River out, and take in the rest and quiet.
After a shower I head to the Casa classroom for a late afternoon lecture on Franciscan theology. I sit in the back, on a long bench, and catch myself falling asleep over and over again. Priest is talking, and he’s pretty good in this area, but I can hardly stay awake. I ask a question about Francis’ background connected to learning and detachment, then another about Plato and Aristotle in medieval theology. Priest pushes the “everything is good” facet of Franciscan theology, which seems revolutionary, but I miss my family so much I struggle with the message. We eat dinner, after which I join a small group for gelato and chocolate. We peek in all the good windows and settle on some insane hazelnut/chocolate cannoli. I think of the boys I saw and miss my kids even more. After returning to the room, River and I talk until midnight, when he leaves to call his wife, and I fall asleep.
Wednesday, Oct. 10th
I catch six hours of sleep before the alarm sounds, but I can’t find the ringing clock in the small space between my bed and the wall for a good thirty seconds. River, however, doesn’t move. I sleep a little later but wake with enough time for a shower and a diet coke. The internet café opens early enough for firing off a couple of emails before I run back to breakfast, where some fascinating twinkie-like pastries are included for the first time since our arrival. After breakfast we walk to the edge of town and catch a city bus down into the valley. Now, the bus isn’t crowded before we boarded, but the additional forty or so American tourists pretty much pack the space to capacity. I’m fairly sure we lower the regular bus riders’ “what we think of Americans” quotient substantially. We follow the leaders off the bus about twenty minutes later onto a large public square in front of the huge “porcincula” basilica.
By this point I more or less tag along with the group without paying too much attention to our plans or destination. In turn, I am not prepared for the size and set up of this basilica. Here’s a pic from the square in front of the basilica.
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00028.jpg
We avoid panhandlers in the square while waiting to enter. One of our group takes a prayer card from an old lady, which priest warned us not to do, and we all get to watch while she bangs on his arm until he gives her a couple of coins. The space inside the basilica is huge, and the “heights” fear returns as soon as I raise my eyes upwards, either inside or outside the building. I don’t realize, however, that there is a small church inside the large basilica until we enter. I also don’t realize, until Priest starts the historical lecture, that this was one of the churches that Francis rebuilt and where he spent a ton of time and eventually died (I think). Francis also apparently asked an angel (again, I think) that anyone who crossed the threshold of the smaller church be granted “pardon” for their sins. We can’t take pictures here, again, but I don’t mind. After a couple minutes checking out the larger space priest ushers us into the small church. I barely cross the threshold, standing in the back as priest sets up for mass, so I’m trying to figure out if I’ve entered enough to be pardoned. Priest runs us through mass, with groups of Italians joining us here and there for the service, but my legs are killing me so I don’t get much out of it. Priest really pushes the “mother as caretaker” angle today, I’m not sure why.
There are some cool artifacts in the basilica, too, so we wander around and see, for example, a rope Francis wore around his waist. After we leave BN explains that the concept of virginity fits here to characterize someone as “full of possibility.” Very interesting. There’s a little bookstore nearby, devoted specifically to Franciscan writing, so I walk through alone and go peruse the small English section. I find a book Priest edited but choose not to buy it. I read through some of the original Franciscan writings as well. Apparently Francis didn’t mess around with rule breakers in the order. The first page I read declares that anyone fornicating should be ejected from the order without question.
After a while BN leads us back into the building. We visit a few narrow hallways and pass a rose garden where Francis supposedly bled after he jumped into some roses to avoid impure thoughts. Gladys tries to coax a dove (pigeon?) down from the rafters by cooing at the bird until I want to smack her. The bird never leaves the rafters. Smart bird. Laura and I go through a somewhat boring museum near the church then wait outside for lunch. Priest recruits a couple of us to carry the boxes full of lunches back across the square into a small patch of grass. BN splits us in pairs by pulling names out of a hat. I don’t want to get stuck with anyone lame, as I’m tired and hungry, but luckily I draw an older Irish (at first I think Canadian) nun. She’s amused when I refer to her as Canadian. We first sit at a picnic table near a hospital, until some guy emerges from the building and yells at us in Italian. We move to the grass under a tree and chat for a while about the pilgrimage and health care (she works for a hospital system) while we eat. We run through the bookstore again, where a couple of our pilgrimage colleagues are playing the ugly American card by complaining about the lack of poster shipping tubes. We walk to the bus stop and discover just about everyone from the pilgrimage is ready for the next bus back. Teenagers crowd the bus with us, so I have to stand, but Ivan finds a seat and promptly falls asleep. I shake him awake when we near the city. We get off one stop too late, as a group, and walk down a long hill, next to a residential area, until I split off from the group for some shopping. I buy M a cool Assisi t-shirt and call home. Apparently Wisconsin is cold.
After returning to the Casa I catch some rest with the mp3 player in my room. My mp3 player and clock are slightly off, time-wise, so I synchronize the two and walk down to the evening lecture early so I can get a seat on the bench near the back of the room. The group talks about Francis’ desire for isolation. An old guy asks about “turning off the mind” and we have an interesting group conversation about drive, interaction, and solitude. After the lecture we pile into taxis and ride to the leper sanctuary (there are no lepers there now) just below Assisi. We park in a lot across from some modern crypts. The leper colony gates are locked, but priest somehow gets them open, and we enter a small grassy courtyard. You can see Assisi in the distance, so a few of us take pics:
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00029.jpg
Priest gives the background and talks about a leper colony in Hawaii he visited. He also checks with me on the quality of the vegetarian food (it’s fine). Ivan and I talk about olive trees a bit more before we walk through a gritty alley, past a couple of cats, to a chapel that’s almost underneath a superhighway. BN reads the horrifying text from the mass through which lepers were supposedly separated from civilization back in the days of Francis and Clare. Scary. I touch the walls, described as holy, and let the electricity pour through me. I walk back alone, digging the silence, and wait for the rest of the group in the parking lot. We cab up to town again just as dusk falls. The old guy and I talk about Chicago for a while. He says, “You must be from the north side.” Yep. Not too many white guys from below downtown. We eat dinner at 7:30PM, way late for me, but I survive. The pasta is great. I hit the IC after dinner and email a couple people from work before running into Ivan and Gladys. We grab some gelato, hang out, then I separate from the group and head back to the Casa. I read a little bit of Murakami, take some melatonin, and fall asleep.
By this point I more or less tag along with the group without paying too much attention to our plans or destination. In turn, I am not prepared for the size and set up of this basilica. Here’s a pic from the square in front of the basilica.
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00028.jpg
We avoid panhandlers in the square while waiting to enter. One of our group takes a prayer card from an old lady, which priest warned us not to do, and we all get to watch while she bangs on his arm until he gives her a couple of coins. The space inside the basilica is huge, and the “heights” fear returns as soon as I raise my eyes upwards, either inside or outside the building. I don’t realize, however, that there is a small church inside the large basilica until we enter. I also don’t realize, until Priest starts the historical lecture, that this was one of the churches that Francis rebuilt and where he spent a ton of time and eventually died (I think). Francis also apparently asked an angel (again, I think) that anyone who crossed the threshold of the smaller church be granted “pardon” for their sins. We can’t take pictures here, again, but I don’t mind. After a couple minutes checking out the larger space priest ushers us into the small church. I barely cross the threshold, standing in the back as priest sets up for mass, so I’m trying to figure out if I’ve entered enough to be pardoned. Priest runs us through mass, with groups of Italians joining us here and there for the service, but my legs are killing me so I don’t get much out of it. Priest really pushes the “mother as caretaker” angle today, I’m not sure why.
There are some cool artifacts in the basilica, too, so we wander around and see, for example, a rope Francis wore around his waist. After we leave BN explains that the concept of virginity fits here to characterize someone as “full of possibility.” Very interesting. There’s a little bookstore nearby, devoted specifically to Franciscan writing, so I walk through alone and go peruse the small English section. I find a book Priest edited but choose not to buy it. I read through some of the original Franciscan writings as well. Apparently Francis didn’t mess around with rule breakers in the order. The first page I read declares that anyone fornicating should be ejected from the order without question.
After a while BN leads us back into the building. We visit a few narrow hallways and pass a rose garden where Francis supposedly bled after he jumped into some roses to avoid impure thoughts. Gladys tries to coax a dove (pigeon?) down from the rafters by cooing at the bird until I want to smack her. The bird never leaves the rafters. Smart bird. Laura and I go through a somewhat boring museum near the church then wait outside for lunch. Priest recruits a couple of us to carry the boxes full of lunches back across the square into a small patch of grass. BN splits us in pairs by pulling names out of a hat. I don’t want to get stuck with anyone lame, as I’m tired and hungry, but luckily I draw an older Irish (at first I think Canadian) nun. She’s amused when I refer to her as Canadian. We first sit at a picnic table near a hospital, until some guy emerges from the building and yells at us in Italian. We move to the grass under a tree and chat for a while about the pilgrimage and health care (she works for a hospital system) while we eat. We run through the bookstore again, where a couple of our pilgrimage colleagues are playing the ugly American card by complaining about the lack of poster shipping tubes. We walk to the bus stop and discover just about everyone from the pilgrimage is ready for the next bus back. Teenagers crowd the bus with us, so I have to stand, but Ivan finds a seat and promptly falls asleep. I shake him awake when we near the city. We get off one stop too late, as a group, and walk down a long hill, next to a residential area, until I split off from the group for some shopping. I buy M a cool Assisi t-shirt and call home. Apparently Wisconsin is cold.
After returning to the Casa I catch some rest with the mp3 player in my room. My mp3 player and clock are slightly off, time-wise, so I synchronize the two and walk down to the evening lecture early so I can get a seat on the bench near the back of the room. The group talks about Francis’ desire for isolation. An old guy asks about “turning off the mind” and we have an interesting group conversation about drive, interaction, and solitude. After the lecture we pile into taxis and ride to the leper sanctuary (there are no lepers there now) just below Assisi. We park in a lot across from some modern crypts. The leper colony gates are locked, but priest somehow gets them open, and we enter a small grassy courtyard. You can see Assisi in the distance, so a few of us take pics:
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00029.jpg
Priest gives the background and talks about a leper colony in Hawaii he visited. He also checks with me on the quality of the vegetarian food (it’s fine). Ivan and I talk about olive trees a bit more before we walk through a gritty alley, past a couple of cats, to a chapel that’s almost underneath a superhighway. BN reads the horrifying text from the mass through which lepers were supposedly separated from civilization back in the days of Francis and Clare. Scary. I touch the walls, described as holy, and let the electricity pour through me. I walk back alone, digging the silence, and wait for the rest of the group in the parking lot. We cab up to town again just as dusk falls. The old guy and I talk about Chicago for a while. He says, “You must be from the north side.” Yep. Not too many white guys from below downtown. We eat dinner at 7:30PM, way late for me, but I survive. The pasta is great. I hit the IC after dinner and email a couple people from work before running into Ivan and Gladys. We grab some gelato, hang out, then I separate from the group and head back to the Casa. I read a little bit of Murakami, take some melatonin, and fall asleep.
Thursday, Oct. 11th
I wake at 5:45AM, shower quickly, and head out for some diet coke. Upon my return I find the inner Casa door, the glass one, locked. I ring the doorbell for about ten minutes until one of the breakfast ladies figures out what’s up and lets me into the building. I eat breakfast with the NYers. We talk about Brooklyn and the literature that may have influenced Francis’ life. I run upstairs, brush my teeth, grab my backpack, and walk through the city with the group to the tour bus. Juan, a Dominican, apparently oversleeps and we leave without him. We drive through the Italian countryside, past tobacco fields, and start climbing small hills that remind me of Western New York and Pennsylvania. Within a couple hours we’re in Tuscany. The mountain roads are a bitch. I luck out into a seat near the back on the right (this will become my seat for the rest of the trip, as a loose “saved seats” system emerges) so I miss most of the heights. When we arrive in Laverna, Francis’ mountain retreat, the wind is blowing cool and leaves scatter across the pavement. I’m reminded of Wisconsin in late October. The Laverna grounds are surrounded by old forests that wouldn’t be out of place near Milwaukee. We walk up the hill to the small chapel and take some pictures around a cool wooden cross placed near the edge of the mountain. I don’t get too close to the edge, of course, but I like the view. Fog is covering the peaks but the sun is climbing and the air clearing.
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00030-1.jpg
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00032.jpg
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00034.jpg
We cross into a small church where we listen to BN for a while, then into a larger church with absolutely beautiful ceramic work on most of the little altars. One particularly beautiful piece, in which the angel asks Mary to bear Christ, fascinates me. I love the look on the angel’s face, and I wish I had more time to check out the church’s art.
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00038.jpg
BN and LN give us the tour of the grounds. We see a huge boulder that supposedly broke when Christ died and a small rocky gorge with a cross propped up against one of the walls. People had scratched hundreds of crosses into the rock near the bottom of the narrow, elevator-shaftlike space.
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00031.jpg
We also see the rock in the small chapel where Christ supposedly chatted with Francis. The rock on which Christ sat, and which Francis wanted cleaned with milk, sits behind a glass case. Motion sensors keep turning the lights off and on, which makes me laugh, and Ken takes on the job of waving his hand in front of the sensors every thirty seconds or so. We walk down a long interior corridor, supposedly built so the daily procession of the cross could take place even during snowy weather, and check out the frescos lining the walls. I take a pic of a cool one of Francis and the sultan together. You don’t see that scene in art very often.
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00033.jpg
We enter the small chapel where Francis received the stigmata. The very spot is marked with a octagonal piece of glass. BN locks the glass doors and we crowd into the space for mass. Tourists gather outside while we run through mass. I don’t like locking them out…the idea seems contrary to the inclusive nature of Francis, but I’m not going to argue with Priest. He’ll whoop my ass. I almost fall asleep in mass. After the service I help load some chairs into storage and we meet in a cold, windy courtyard for lunch. I snag a vegetarian sandwich and sit on the floor in a small hallway with a couple pilgrims. We eat and chat. I decide to skip the walk up to the top of the mountain, begging off because of heights, and feel badly because River and I had talked a while back about making the trek together. Still, he’s got a group of people with him, and I could use the solitude, so after a quick gift shop perusal, I return to the large chapel with the ceramics.
The chapel is deserted save for a nun cleaning the tiles. She shoots me what I interpret as an unwelcoming look, but I sit in the side chapel, maybe six feet from the ceramic piece with the angle and Mary, and take in the chapel’s feel. The ceramic scene, by the way is maybe eight feet by five feet. Here’s a picture.
I sit in front of the piece and pray for a long time, at least thirty minutes, and let my mind go in the holy place. I am at peace as much as I have ever been. Laverna becomes my favorite pilgrimage place and day. I love the chapel’s silence, it’s isolation on the cold mountain, and the life emerging from the solid rock. I find later that many others feel the same way about the space.
The church begins to fill in anticipation of the procession, so I cut out, call home from next to the women’s bathroom, and pick up some postcards from the gift shop. I then sit on a ledge outside of the chapel with Bob, Laura, and Tim. River joins us after upon his return from the heights. Juan, the late-sleeping Dominican, took a cab up to Laverna, I discover, and he and I chat about the cost (over 100 Euros!). Later pilgrims will toss money in the hat to cover the cab ride. We chat about work gossip, including some funny stories about guys back on campus, until the procession starts and the nun gives us another look while opening the chapel doors. The friars pass, chanting, into the corridor. The time for departure is near. I return to the gift shop a third time, pick up a book on Laverna, and walk down the hill to the bus. The ride down is pretty tough, I feel like I’m going to barf but remain vomit-free. I listen to New Order, Nick Cave, and Moby, closing my eyes, trying to push my stomach down my throat.
We arrive back at the parking lot below Assisi late in the afternoon. I hit the internet café quickly upon our return to the city, on the walk back through the city, before returning to the Casa. I mess up dinner, arriving an hour early, and talk with LN a while in the classroom. I’m grateful for another chance to walk through town. I spot some Italian puppets I think the boys might like and run into Laura. We chat about work before hitting the Casa. At dinner I have more cheese (Suzie thinks they’re giving me too much) and change some cash from U.S. to Euros. I skip the post-dinner gelato run, chat with Ivan about how to bargain effectively, take a hot shower, read, and fall asleep.
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00030-1.jpg
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00032.jpg
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00034.jpg
We cross into a small church where we listen to BN for a while, then into a larger church with absolutely beautiful ceramic work on most of the little altars. One particularly beautiful piece, in which the angel asks Mary to bear Christ, fascinates me. I love the look on the angel’s face, and I wish I had more time to check out the church’s art.
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00038.jpg
BN and LN give us the tour of the grounds. We see a huge boulder that supposedly broke when Christ died and a small rocky gorge with a cross propped up against one of the walls. People had scratched hundreds of crosses into the rock near the bottom of the narrow, elevator-shaftlike space.
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00031.jpg
We also see the rock in the small chapel where Christ supposedly chatted with Francis. The rock on which Christ sat, and which Francis wanted cleaned with milk, sits behind a glass case. Motion sensors keep turning the lights off and on, which makes me laugh, and Ken takes on the job of waving his hand in front of the sensors every thirty seconds or so. We walk down a long interior corridor, supposedly built so the daily procession of the cross could take place even during snowy weather, and check out the frescos lining the walls. I take a pic of a cool one of Francis and the sultan together. You don’t see that scene in art very often.
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00033.jpg
We enter the small chapel where Francis received the stigmata. The very spot is marked with a octagonal piece of glass. BN locks the glass doors and we crowd into the space for mass. Tourists gather outside while we run through mass. I don’t like locking them out…the idea seems contrary to the inclusive nature of Francis, but I’m not going to argue with Priest. He’ll whoop my ass. I almost fall asleep in mass. After the service I help load some chairs into storage and we meet in a cold, windy courtyard for lunch. I snag a vegetarian sandwich and sit on the floor in a small hallway with a couple pilgrims. We eat and chat. I decide to skip the walk up to the top of the mountain, begging off because of heights, and feel badly because River and I had talked a while back about making the trek together. Still, he’s got a group of people with him, and I could use the solitude, so after a quick gift shop perusal, I return to the large chapel with the ceramics.
The chapel is deserted save for a nun cleaning the tiles. She shoots me what I interpret as an unwelcoming look, but I sit in the side chapel, maybe six feet from the ceramic piece with the angle and Mary, and take in the chapel’s feel. The ceramic scene, by the way is maybe eight feet by five feet. Here’s a picture.
I sit in front of the piece and pray for a long time, at least thirty minutes, and let my mind go in the holy place. I am at peace as much as I have ever been. Laverna becomes my favorite pilgrimage place and day. I love the chapel’s silence, it’s isolation on the cold mountain, and the life emerging from the solid rock. I find later that many others feel the same way about the space.
The church begins to fill in anticipation of the procession, so I cut out, call home from next to the women’s bathroom, and pick up some postcards from the gift shop. I then sit on a ledge outside of the chapel with Bob, Laura, and Tim. River joins us after upon his return from the heights. Juan, the late-sleeping Dominican, took a cab up to Laverna, I discover, and he and I chat about the cost (over 100 Euros!). Later pilgrims will toss money in the hat to cover the cab ride. We chat about work gossip, including some funny stories about guys back on campus, until the procession starts and the nun gives us another look while opening the chapel doors. The friars pass, chanting, into the corridor. The time for departure is near. I return to the gift shop a third time, pick up a book on Laverna, and walk down the hill to the bus. The ride down is pretty tough, I feel like I’m going to barf but remain vomit-free. I listen to New Order, Nick Cave, and Moby, closing my eyes, trying to push my stomach down my throat.
We arrive back at the parking lot below Assisi late in the afternoon. I hit the internet café quickly upon our return to the city, on the walk back through the city, before returning to the Casa. I mess up dinner, arriving an hour early, and talk with LN a while in the classroom. I’m grateful for another chance to walk through town. I spot some Italian puppets I think the boys might like and run into Laura. We chat about work before hitting the Casa. At dinner I have more cheese (Suzie thinks they’re giving me too much) and change some cash from U.S. to Euros. I skip the post-dinner gelato run, chat with Ivan about how to bargain effectively, take a hot shower, read, and fall asleep.
Friday, Oct. 12th
By this point I’m counting the days and hours until I fly home. I miss my kids enough to bring them in conversation just about every meal, etc. and people are noticing. I run to the phone or IC at every opportunity. I keep a running total of hours until we depart.
River leaves early for the piazza with the NJ ladies (apparently they’re all coffee hounds) while I hit breakfast. I eat something like Italian Cocoa Puffs and the usual bread and yogurt mix. I don’t get a diet coke and a slight headache works into my system. Kyle, a retired man on the pilgrimage with his wife, and I talk about the pros and cons of his retirement during breakfast. After a few minutes to gather our things we leave for the walk to St. Francis’ Basilica. I take a couple pictures from right in front of the basilica just as the shadows arrive.
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00039.jpg
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00040.jpg
Priest takes us directly to the tomb, past the guards and through the growing crowd. Large slabs of rock, I don’t know what kind, are behind grates in the center of a chapel. Four small spaces radiate like spokes from the center. I’m not sure if this is Francis’ burial place, at first, but somebody tells me Francis is buried under the slabs. Maybe I should have paid attention in lecture. His closest friends are buried near each of the spokes. Priest and Brother J say mass while BN bars tourists from breaking into the chapel during the service. I’m tired, worn out, so I have a hard time focusing on mass. After the service we go out into the courtyard and chat until we get a set of small receivers with clear plastic tubes from a speaker into your ear. The earpiece itches and keeps falling out of my ear, you can’t make much noise inside the basilica, so the tube has to do. I don’t know if tourist exhaustion has reached me or not, but I don’t care much about most of the paintings lining the basilica walls. At one point Tom and I talk about his running, and he tells me Priest told him not to run in certain areas of Assisi lest wild boars attack him. I find this much more interesting than most of the paintings. LN gives us a blow by blow report of every single piece of art in the huge basilica, and for the first time on the trip I want the historical visit part of the day to end early. I only find two paintings interesting. The first portrays Francis as very ugly, with big ears, and is supposed to be the most realistic picture of his physical form. The second is of a guy leaping or falling from a tower. I can’t figure out if he’s leaping or flying, but I don’t get a chance to ask because of the crowds and tour speed. Oh, LD also mentions an earthquake killing some people in the very spot we’re standing, so between the wild boars, falling plaster exhaustion, and fear my palms are sweating and I want to go home.
After the visit I skip the gift shop (too crowded) and walk uphill back to the Casa. I take a precautionary Alleve and listen to New Order’s “Power, Corruption, and Lies” in my room. After a while I figure out how to check out my camera’s pictures and listen to Tom Waits’ “Never Let Go.” I miss my kids so much it hurts. M had the boys store a picture for me on the camera. Here it is:
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00000.jpg
The afternoon is young, and I’m feeling better after a short rest, so I walk across town to the glass painting place and buy a couple of posters for ten Euros each. I run into Bob on the street and walk back with him to the glass painting place to show him where the cheaper posters are stored (in drawers near the back of the shop). We walk a little more, talking about Italian women in tight jeans, until we hit the piazza and split again. I cut down a street leading to a toy shop and buy three Italian puppets and one domino set for the kids. The guy at the cash register is sleeping. He wakes in time to ring me up.
River is packing when I return to the room. We discuss the advantages and disadvantages of different packing techniques then go for a walk, cruising different shops while searching for cigars. The manly search for cigars feels good, but we can’t find any quality smokes in the shops near the Casa. I pick up a diet coke and drink it while walking. We find cheap cigars down by St. Clare’s Basilica, but they’re nothing special, and we continue through nearby shops looking for fireworks. Ivan joins us and expresses a concern about packing, e.g. what the airlines allow you take on your carryon luggage, if he has enough room for presents, etc. We enter a pottery shop where the Italian clerk shows us pornographic pottery. I’m serious. He brings out three vases depicting people in various sexual positions. We nearly pee our pants laughing at the true communal spirit of pornography. The Italian man points at the vase and says “artistry!” but we choose not to buy due to the pressing issue of how to explain the vases to custom officials. We also see slingshots, which I consider for the boys, but I decide against weaponry as presents. I ditch the group, go through a few more shops, paying special attention to Assisi snowglobes.
Before dinner we’re called to a mandatory healing ceremony in the small Casa chapel. One of the pilgrims is facing post-pilgrimage surgery and asked for the Catholic healing sacrament. Six others decide they want to take part, and all seven wait in chairs in the center of the chapel while we sit on the benches lining the walls. The priest invites everyone to form a hug-line for each of the seven, but I pass, earning a couple of mean looks from Gladys. Priest also says he’s going to bless the objects we’ve purchased but I pass again. The U group meets briefly after the ceremony to discuss what to buy the people who sent us on the pilgrimage. I really don’t care much. The U group also decides to go out to dinner, but I’ve been too social today, so I beg off and walk the streets. The group looks confused, but I’ve confused people all my life with my desire to go off on my own. I guess I’ve managed to alienate my friends on a couple continents. I’m in the mood for pizza. I walk the streets, starting low, near St. Francis Basilica, and work myself back towards the piazza. I settle for the last small pizza at a shop near the piazza and eat in an empty patio by the fountain. I’m not sure I want to be alone, and I’m feeling somewhat restless, away from my family for so long, but I don’t want to be with anyone from the pilgrimage. I’m also pissed because the shops are closed, and we’re leaving in the morning before they open again in the morning, so I won’t be able to get an Assisi snowglobe. Oh well. I stop at the IC, get a beer, and discover the U email system is down. I can’t see my kids’ e-mails. Shit. I send a message home from my yahoo address and finish my beer. The piazza is more or less empty, so I stand on the stairs across from Minerva and film about fifteen seconds of footage. Later I will find out the night footage didn’t turn out.
When I return to the Casa I try to visit the rooftop garden, but the door is locked, so I settle for the second floor patio. I can hear the NY guys below me, but I stay quiet and listen to music. Over an hour I listen to Stars on the Lid, Tom Waits, and Eels. Someone sets fireworks off nearby. I just want to go home. My heart beats hard in my chest. I return to my room, read some Kevin Smith, and fall asleep. I dream about a gathering of forty teachers on a hill. My notes reference swimming and silver bracelets, but I don’t remember the dream well.
River leaves early for the piazza with the NJ ladies (apparently they’re all coffee hounds) while I hit breakfast. I eat something like Italian Cocoa Puffs and the usual bread and yogurt mix. I don’t get a diet coke and a slight headache works into my system. Kyle, a retired man on the pilgrimage with his wife, and I talk about the pros and cons of his retirement during breakfast. After a few minutes to gather our things we leave for the walk to St. Francis’ Basilica. I take a couple pictures from right in front of the basilica just as the shadows arrive.
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00039.jpg
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00040.jpg
Priest takes us directly to the tomb, past the guards and through the growing crowd. Large slabs of rock, I don’t know what kind, are behind grates in the center of a chapel. Four small spaces radiate like spokes from the center. I’m not sure if this is Francis’ burial place, at first, but somebody tells me Francis is buried under the slabs. Maybe I should have paid attention in lecture. His closest friends are buried near each of the spokes. Priest and Brother J say mass while BN bars tourists from breaking into the chapel during the service. I’m tired, worn out, so I have a hard time focusing on mass. After the service we go out into the courtyard and chat until we get a set of small receivers with clear plastic tubes from a speaker into your ear. The earpiece itches and keeps falling out of my ear, you can’t make much noise inside the basilica, so the tube has to do. I don’t know if tourist exhaustion has reached me or not, but I don’t care much about most of the paintings lining the basilica walls. At one point Tom and I talk about his running, and he tells me Priest told him not to run in certain areas of Assisi lest wild boars attack him. I find this much more interesting than most of the paintings. LN gives us a blow by blow report of every single piece of art in the huge basilica, and for the first time on the trip I want the historical visit part of the day to end early. I only find two paintings interesting. The first portrays Francis as very ugly, with big ears, and is supposed to be the most realistic picture of his physical form. The second is of a guy leaping or falling from a tower. I can’t figure out if he’s leaping or flying, but I don’t get a chance to ask because of the crowds and tour speed. Oh, LD also mentions an earthquake killing some people in the very spot we’re standing, so between the wild boars, falling plaster exhaustion, and fear my palms are sweating and I want to go home.
After the visit I skip the gift shop (too crowded) and walk uphill back to the Casa. I take a precautionary Alleve and listen to New Order’s “Power, Corruption, and Lies” in my room. After a while I figure out how to check out my camera’s pictures and listen to Tom Waits’ “Never Let Go.” I miss my kids so much it hurts. M had the boys store a picture for me on the camera. Here it is:
http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i196/randomanthony/?action=view¤t=ImportedPhotos00000.jpg
The afternoon is young, and I’m feeling better after a short rest, so I walk across town to the glass painting place and buy a couple of posters for ten Euros each. I run into Bob on the street and walk back with him to the glass painting place to show him where the cheaper posters are stored (in drawers near the back of the shop). We walk a little more, talking about Italian women in tight jeans, until we hit the piazza and split again. I cut down a street leading to a toy shop and buy three Italian puppets and one domino set for the kids. The guy at the cash register is sleeping. He wakes in time to ring me up.
River is packing when I return to the room. We discuss the advantages and disadvantages of different packing techniques then go for a walk, cruising different shops while searching for cigars. The manly search for cigars feels good, but we can’t find any quality smokes in the shops near the Casa. I pick up a diet coke and drink it while walking. We find cheap cigars down by St. Clare’s Basilica, but they’re nothing special, and we continue through nearby shops looking for fireworks. Ivan joins us and expresses a concern about packing, e.g. what the airlines allow you take on your carryon luggage, if he has enough room for presents, etc. We enter a pottery shop where the Italian clerk shows us pornographic pottery. I’m serious. He brings out three vases depicting people in various sexual positions. We nearly pee our pants laughing at the true communal spirit of pornography. The Italian man points at the vase and says “artistry!” but we choose not to buy due to the pressing issue of how to explain the vases to custom officials. We also see slingshots, which I consider for the boys, but I decide against weaponry as presents. I ditch the group, go through a few more shops, paying special attention to Assisi snowglobes.
Before dinner we’re called to a mandatory healing ceremony in the small Casa chapel. One of the pilgrims is facing post-pilgrimage surgery and asked for the Catholic healing sacrament. Six others decide they want to take part, and all seven wait in chairs in the center of the chapel while we sit on the benches lining the walls. The priest invites everyone to form a hug-line for each of the seven, but I pass, earning a couple of mean looks from Gladys. Priest also says he’s going to bless the objects we’ve purchased but I pass again. The U group meets briefly after the ceremony to discuss what to buy the people who sent us on the pilgrimage. I really don’t care much. The U group also decides to go out to dinner, but I’ve been too social today, so I beg off and walk the streets. The group looks confused, but I’ve confused people all my life with my desire to go off on my own. I guess I’ve managed to alienate my friends on a couple continents. I’m in the mood for pizza. I walk the streets, starting low, near St. Francis Basilica, and work myself back towards the piazza. I settle for the last small pizza at a shop near the piazza and eat in an empty patio by the fountain. I’m not sure I want to be alone, and I’m feeling somewhat restless, away from my family for so long, but I don’t want to be with anyone from the pilgrimage. I’m also pissed because the shops are closed, and we’re leaving in the morning before they open again in the morning, so I won’t be able to get an Assisi snowglobe. Oh well. I stop at the IC, get a beer, and discover the U email system is down. I can’t see my kids’ e-mails. Shit. I send a message home from my yahoo address and finish my beer. The piazza is more or less empty, so I stand on the stairs across from Minerva and film about fifteen seconds of footage. Later I will find out the night footage didn’t turn out.
When I return to the Casa I try to visit the rooftop garden, but the door is locked, so I settle for the second floor patio. I can hear the NY guys below me, but I stay quiet and listen to music. Over an hour I listen to Stars on the Lid, Tom Waits, and Eels. Someone sets fireworks off nearby. I just want to go home. My heart beats hard in my chest. I return to my room, read some Kevin Smith, and fall asleep. I dream about a gathering of forty teachers on a hill. My notes reference swimming and silver bracelets, but I don’t remember the dream well.
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