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Umbria: St. Francis of Assisi |
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Umbria... the name, like Sienna, evokes the scent of Crayola crayons. When I was a child my mother the painter explained that it was a place in Italy where the earth was this color and perhaps that is when the travel seed was planted.
I followed winding roads past hill towns the color of marble and dirt, and I didn't know quite where I was going until I saw the sign for Assisi. It was evening by the time I had camped and rode into the town, and music students were singing on the church steps with the sweetest voices I had ever heard.
I wandered the streets amongst the music students and the monks in brown robes with the white tasselled belts, amongst the tourists and the shops selling wine and spices and ceramics, and ate pizza and red wine in front of a fountain that seemed to spout water in slow motion. In the morning I rose before dawn under a clear black sky, and broke camp as the light began to erase them. The basilica was bathed in the rose of the morning and for a while it was just me and the sweeper watching the sky change color behind it.
Inside it was too dark to see the frescos and my flashlight was too weak to sweep the breadth of the works, but there was lots of gold leaf that glowed. This is a wealthy place, this place of monks who take a vow of poverty. Where does all the money go? I hope to the poor, who don't want to be poor.
A march for peace will end here on Sunday. It is a strange time to travel, when your country is bombing another's. I stopped for fruit today on a country road and the seller said, "Bush... what is he doing?" I shook my head and he shook his and I caught his eye. Tears came to both of us. We quickly shook them off and made our transaction. He charged me too little for some beautiful small pears, a huge bunch of grapes and a melon. Then he shook my hand. "Brava, Americana," and I rode away.
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