Tuscany and Umbria

Assisi

I know that in saying this, I am echoing many other Rome students before me, but Assisi is, by far, the most lovely town I have ever visited. It is a city built on a hill, or rather, into a hill; the streets slant sideways and up and down every which way. Every building is made of a pinkish stone that is mined in that region, and the narrow winding streets are paved with cobblestones. Window boxes overflow with ivy and flowers, while quaint lamps with delicate ironwork light the dark streets after sunset. Walking through the streets and alleys of this little town, I felt that I would not have been the least surprised had someone dressed in medieval garb emerged from a side street, and I half expected Juliet to appear at one of the open windows. It actually reminded me strongly of a movie set, it was almost too idyllic to be real. Because of its beauty and also because of its association with St. Francis and Clare, Assisi is a tourist town, with several million visitors each year and only two thousand inhabitants. But for all that, it still seemed so quiet; it felt as though talking loudly in the streets was some kind of sacrilege. It is no wonder that such town produced two of the greatest saints in Christendom.

In the Basilica of San Francesco, St. Francis himself and several of his monks are buried. This Basilica is really two in one; the lower basilica was built earlier in the Romanesque style, and the upper is more Gothic, adorned with Giotto’s famous frescoes of the life of St. Francis. The church I spent the most time in during our stay in Assisi was San Stefano, and small stone Church with minimal decoration, yet beautiful in its simplicity. This was where we had most of our community masses and prayers, as well as our retreat meditations and talks. I was also privileged to attend Mass at San Damiano where Christ spoke to St. Francis from the crucifix. There I saw the refectory and convent of St. Clare as well. San Damiano is outside the city walls and down the hill among the olive groves. The sun was shining that morning, and the olive leaves glittered silver in its light. I picked an olive branch to take with me, but it sadly went the way of the world and dried up. At Santa Chiara’s I prayed before the incorrupt body of St. Clare, at San Rufino I saw the baptismal font in which both St. Francis and Francesco II of Stupor Mundi fame were baptized.

On Saturday Meredith and I wandered up to Rocca Maggiora, an old medieval fortress or castle. We wondered if the 2.50 euro to get in would be worth it, but we needn’t have worried. The views from the various turrets and terraces were worth it all. Best of all was the pentagonal turret at the far end of the castle. To reach this one we had to make our way through a long, narrow, and dimly lit passage (not for the claustrophobic), and climb a narrow winding stair. When we finally emerged the wind was blowing fiercely, and the view was breathtaking. Before us was the town of Assisi, the basilica, and the valley below it, behind were the rolling green hills of Umbria with their valleys and streams. I felt as though we were standing at the prow of a ship, since this turret was at the far corner of the castle, and facing into the wind, whose great gusts only added to the impression that we were sailing along. Personally, this was a highlight of the trip for me. Strong winds + breathtaking view = bliss.

On Sunday, a large group of us braved the rocky slopes of the hike to St. Francis’s hermitage. I realized at this time that walking all over Rome had really not put me in shape yet; nevertheless, I did finish with the front group, but more red than alive (no, I don’t mean dead). The hermitage was surrounded by green forests and the remains of a waterfall, which made me happy. I’m really a tree-hugger at heart.

Firenze

Florence was an interesting experience, but it is certainly not my favorite city. I didn’t think the city itself much more beautiful than Rome, although it did have some awesome works of art in the museums and churches. Sadly, most of Florence’s cathedrals and churches are owned by the state, and have become veritable museums and tourist traps. Most of my classmates fell in love with San Marco, where the original work of Beato Fra Angelico graces the walls of the old monastery. His “Annunciation” is such a spiritually moving work in the original, and the monastery of San Marco is certainly a very special place. Nevertheless, my personal favorite church was San Miniato, where we attended Mass twice. The church is kept by a reformed order of Benedictine monks in long white habits with huge sleeves. It was amusing to see their reactions when we chanted the ordinaries along with them, and responded to the chanted Latin Novus Ordo with the proper responses in Latin. I don’t think most Italians are familiar with all the Latin ordinaries and responses, so they are used to chanting the Mass themselves and simply being observed, and their surprise was evident. They kept looking at us, probably wondering who on earth we could be. After the first Mass one of the monks played the gigantic pipe organ, as we wandered around the huge church. It was an amazing experience to explore the dimly lit church as it reverberated with such powerful music. Music has such an effect on me, that this church might be my favorite just because of that, but I can’t tell. I need to find a piano store around here; I’m starting to starve for music.

I also experienced the Florentine outdoor market, with scarves, purses, and jewelry galore. I tried to bargain for some scarves and things, but I still thought the prices were too high, especially since I knew that I could get most of the same things for less in Rome. The venders were incredibly pushy, and I didn’t do so well there. It was fun wandering around there though, and some of my friends bought some really beautiful things.

The greatest art experience for me was visiting the Uffizi museum, which ultimately became so overwhelming that I couldn’t really appreciate the works of art I saw last because I had seen too many at once. Luckily I saw the Bottecellis close to the front. Ever since I was little Bottecelli’s “Magnificat” has been my favorite painting of Mary; I always thought her hair looked like spun gold. When I saw it in person I realized that it is indeed made of the finest strokes of gold leaf. Bottecelli’s “Annunciation” also struck me with its beauty as it never had before. It was so very graceful; and the humility and grace of both Mary and the angel were evident in their postures. Bottecelli’s Madonas are always stunningly beautiful, yet pure and gentle at the same time. He is certainly one of my favorite artists. I saw so many other beautiful things there that I can’t describe them all.

Siena

I hadn’t heard much positive or negative about Siena before going, so I didn’t know what exactly to expect. I decided shortly after we got there, however, that I like Siena. Maybe that’s because I’m still doubtful that I like Florence, but Siena is a nice smaller town that is like a happy medium between Assisi and Florence, only more towards the Assisi end of the scale. Our first evening we had Mass in the chapel of San Francesco before a Eucharistic miracle in which a few hundred hosts have been miraculously preserved for a couple of centuries. This was another highlight for me. The priest there really loved our group and liked us to sing; I think we must have sung at least eight hymns in all. San Francesco itself is one of my favorite churches ever. It is actually fairly simple, but it looks so medieval that I fell in love with it. There are no arches and columns in the main transept; instead, large carved wooden crossbeams support the slanted roof. The entire transept itself is wide open, with paintings and votive candles lining the sides. Heraldic banners hung from the walls, which were striped black and white marble. It seemed like it could have been a Rohirric or Gondorian “great hall.”

On Friday night we gathered at the Campo, which is Siena’s giant piazza shaped like a shell. Here, twice a year, the contratas, or neighborhood clans hold a crazy horse race around the campo, for death or glory. The race is dangerous since the piazza is really too small for such a race. Anyhow, after we said the rosary in front of the Campo’s fountain, we noticed several obviously American guys racing each other around the Campo. They were racing in pairs, and some guys couldn’t even make it around the Campo, which is roughly the size of two track fields. When they realized that we were also an American college group like themselves (they were from Penn State), they challenged our guys to a race. It took us girls a while to get our guys to take the challenge, but they finally gave in. We girls got together and prayed a Hail Mary for our team, and the racers huddled and prayed. The Penn State guys seemed to immediately label us as Jesus freaks and when they heard us start cheering for Noah one of their loud guys started shouting, “Did you hear that guys? Their starter’s name is Noah, man, we’re totally screwed. Bring out Moses. We’re dead already, not a chance.” Most of the Penn State guys had clearly been drinking, so we were beginning to worry if this would all end in fun or if it would get nasty. Anyhow, Noah started out for us and dominated the first lap. That made the Penns angry, and the next guy cheated by cutting across the square. We were still ahead, however, so on the third lap some of their guys grabbed Micah to keep him from tagging up John. Even though they cheated twice, however, Christendom was victorious, and we were all so proud of our men. The Penns invited our racers to come drink with them, but were politely declined. It was a crazy evening, and I really wonder what the observing Italians thought. That was one moment when we really gave ourselves away as Americans.

That night we visited San Domenico with the head of St. Catherine, as well as her house. San Domenico is the Church where she used to go and pray, often spending most of the day there. I especially loved the paintings in her house of scenes from her life. She was such a great example of contemplative and conquering saint; one whose active apostolic life sprang from a deep interior life of contemplation.

Back to Rome

Best of all, as a treat for all of us, “because we had been so good,” we took a detour on the way back to Rome and stopped at the shrine of St. Galgano. There “history became legend; legend became myth; and some things that should not have been forgotten were lost.” In the center of the chapel was the sword in the stone. According to legend, and to truth, unless my eyes were cheated by some spell, St. Galgano was a medieval knight who realized that he was called to become a hermit, and, when he tried to break his sword on a nearby rock, symbolizing his rejection of his former profession, the sword entered the stone, and has remained ever since. I have seen it. I have touched my rosary to the rock. In a side chapel of the little stone church is a casket with two skeletal arms, the arms of an envious man who tried to draw the sword from the stone. A wolf who was a friend of St. Galgano tore them off as a warning against any who should attempt to do likewise. This chapel is located off the beaten path in the rolling hills and fields of Tuscany. The sun came out while we were there, and glinted on the golden trees and verdant pastures. It was like walking into a fairy tale come true. I was reminded of Tolkien’s reflection on the coincidence of legend and truth, of myth and reality. In the words of Aragorn, “A man may do both [live in reality and myth], for we walk the green earth, and that is a mighty matter of legend though we walk it under the light of day.” (forgive inaccuracy, I don’t have my LOTR with me here)