I started the day by using my broken German to explain to the hooligans that not everyone appreciates noise past midnight and at 6 am. Then I had my first Italian cappuccino for breakfast. The experience was soured by the fact that we were paying more to sit at a table to drink it.
Tuesday was set aside for St. Francis stuff. We started at the Basilica, lower level. Mass had just started, so we sat down and joined in whenever we could. At what point can you arrive at mass and have communion? We saw ladies running to get in the communion line . . .
The lower basilica had dark blue ceilings with gold stars and several side chapels. There were frescoes painted on the walls with scenes from St. Francis' and Jesus' lives. Beneath the basilica was the crypt of St. Francis and his 4 close friar friends. There were niches filled with photos of people who had prayed and received answers.
There was a courtyard, museum and gift shop outside of the lower basilica where I had my first Italian only, highly philosophical conversation. "The museum bathroom is open?" "No, the bathroom is in the plaza." (Note to future travelers: do not walk the hundreds of yards to the bathroom without change to get in it.)
The upper basilica was less ornate than the lower one. There were more frescoes of St. Francis' life, painted by Giotto, who has the next big thing at the time. Some chunks of the ceiling frescoes were missing because of the earthquake in 1997. Deb had read that they pieced together thousands of parts of the ceiling. You couldn't tell. After visiting the church, Todd and I walked uphill to get the car. I wanted to test my theory that you can't get lost in Assisi if you follow the signs and walk up. Todd wanted to prove that using the map was better. We split up and he got to the car first.
We picked up Deb and Allen and drove into the Assisi suburb to St. Mary of the
Angels Church, the 7th largest Catholic church. The holy water fonts were certainly large; Deb and I had to stand on tip toes to reach in. It is a newer church (1776) built over the small Porziuncola chapel Francis and his friars used. Off on the side of the church was a tiny cell with a sign saying "Here Francis Died." We spent some time going through the museum there too.
We drove back up the hill to San Damiano Church, where the cross spoke to Francis, he then rebuilt it, and now is the convent for the Poor Claires. It was no picnic. (Because the signs specifically sai
d "NO PICNIC.") From there we drove up to the Hermitage where Francis and the friars would go for solitude. Todd and I had walked the 3 mile road last time we were in Assisi, but this time we took it easy in the car. I enjoyed the Hermitage, it was one place where I felt tall. Todd, Allen and I went to a cafe to absorb the day with Peronis and journaling. Deb enjoyed St. Claire's Plaza and went there for some people watching. After dinner Todd and I went on another evening walk, ending at the Piazza Commune for some dessert. I had another Italian only (extremely unsuccessful) conversation when I tried to buy 3.50 worth of sweets with a 50 bill. Mi dispiace, signorina!
I ended the day by yelling at the hooligans. I am grateful I was taught German by a large, gruff Texan.
Tuesday was set aside for St. Francis stuff. We started at the Basilica, lower level. Mass had just started, so we sat down and joined in whenever we could. At what point can you arrive at mass and have communion? We saw ladies running to get in the communion line . . .
The lower basilica had dark blue ceilings with gold stars and several side chapels. There were frescoes painted on the walls with scenes from St. Francis' and Jesus' lives. Beneath the basilica was the crypt of St. Francis and his 4 close friar friends. There were niches filled with photos of people who had prayed and received answers.
There was a courtyard, museum and gift shop outside of the lower basilica where I had my first Italian only, highly philosophical conversation. "The museum bathroom is open?" "No, the bathroom is in the plaza." (Note to future travelers: do not walk the hundreds of yards to the bathroom without change to get in it.)
The upper basilica was less ornate than the lower one. There were more frescoes of St. Francis' life, painted by Giotto, who has the next big thing at the time. Some chunks of the ceiling frescoes were missing because of the earthquake in 1997. Deb had read that they pieced together thousands of parts of the ceiling. You couldn't tell. After visiting the church, Todd and I walked uphill to get the car. I wanted to test my theory that you can't get lost in Assisi if you follow the signs and walk up. Todd wanted to prove that using the map was better. We split up and he got to the car first.
We picked up Deb and Allen and drove into the Assisi suburb to St. Mary of the
Angels Church, the 7th largest Catholic church. The holy water fonts were certainly large; Deb and I had to stand on tip toes to reach in. It is a newer church (1776) built over the small Porziuncola chapel Francis and his friars used. Off on the side of the church was a tiny cell with a sign saying "Here Francis Died." We spent some time going through the museum there too.
We drove back up the hill to San Damiano Church, where the cross spoke to Francis, he then rebuilt it, and now is the convent for the Poor Claires. It was no picnic. (Because the signs specifically sai
d "NO PICNIC.") From there we drove up to the Hermitage where Francis and the friars would go for solitude. Todd and I had walked the 3 mile road last time we were in Assisi, but this time we took it easy in the car. I enjoyed the Hermitage, it was one place where I felt tall. Todd, Allen and I went to a cafe to absorb the day with Peronis and journaling. Deb enjoyed St. Claire's Plaza and went there for some people watching. After dinner Todd and I went on another evening walk, ending at the Piazza Commune for some dessert. I had another Italian only (extremely unsuccessful) conversation when I tried to buy 3.50 worth of sweets with a 50 bill. Mi dispiace, signorina!
I ended the day by yelling at the hooligans. I am grateful I was taught German by a large, gruff Texan.
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