PilgrimDance

Perugia

We were packed into our tiny bus by nine, and by ten we were chugging up a mountain road outside of Perugia lined with vines and cisto and ginestra, our driver blowing his horn at every curve. Shortly we were at the farm where our energetic and talkative hostess Raffaella lives with her saxophonist husband, children and mother-in-law Alberta. We did not meet Alberta but she seems as energetic and hardworking as Raffaella; Alberta planted 780 of the farm’s 850 olive trees and she still produces the farm’s supplies of olive oil, wine, vegetables and jam. Raffaella runs the cooking school, operates the B&B, takes care of the chickens and who knows what other perpetual motion activities. Her mission for the day was to guide eighteen of us in cooking a four-course Umbrian special occasion meal using traditional recipes, methods, ingredients and plenty of garlic and olive oil. In the main room of her farmhouse we donned red aprons and, since she said she’d never had such a big group before, posed for a picture for her Facebook page (check it out and let me know, Facebook people, as I am not one of the in crowd).  Keep reading

While Maurice set up near the top of Spello’s old town to paint, I went down the hill to visit Pintoricchio in Santa Maria Maggiore. Two small paintings of Mary and Jesus, and a faded angel, were hidden in a back chapel, but the main attraction was the Baglioni chapel off the nave. Richly-colored scenes of great beauty and captivating detail displayed gospel personages and stories: the annunciation by a Renaissance angel to Mary in her Renaissance bedroom, the nativity with everyone arrayed on the green grass under a floating platform of brightly-robed angels singing from the same songsheet, and more, all with backdrops of dreamy Italian hill towns. No pictures allowed, and the bureaucrat collecting money was keeping a keen eye on all of us suspicious characters who wandered in. Keep reading

All was quiet when we ascended upon San Gemini, una citta’ slow.  The town had also been infiorata the day before, but only bits of tape stuck to the street and a few stray petals were left.  The broad welcoming central plaza, smoothly paved, was ringed by a cheerful white municipal building, a gelateria, an archway into the medieval city, the 13th-century church of San Francesco with some relatively recently uncovered frescoes, several businesses and a wide walkway going higher up into the town.  Naturally the tourist office was closed, but my hiking pal Christina and I were directed to a nearby travel agency, a cubbyhole of a shop where the helpful young woman did her best to assist us, in her limited English and our very limited Italian, in accessing a hiking trail (and a WC in the equally pleasant Albergo Duomo).  Back in the piazza as we tried to figure out exactly how to leave town, Jerry offered to take us to find the start of the trail, which was a very good thing, because it turned out to be miles away on shoulderless Italian back roads.  Just at the entrance to Cesi I spotted the sign to Sant’Erasmo, hidden behind ragged brush in typical Italian fashion. Keep reading

Big doings were afoot in a number of Umbrian hill towns and one was Spello, right up the road.  It was the weekend of the flower festival. Actually, “flower festival” is a poor translation of infiorata.  Perhaps “beflowered Spello” is better.  Streets of the old town were being decorated with intricate designs all made of dried flower petals and other plant parts (but no wood) to provide festive and colorful carpet for the Corpus Christi procession bearing aloft through the streets the body and blood of Jesus.  Huge industrial metal-framed tents had been erected in the streets, each covering a complex design whose segments were numbered paint-by-number style.  Stacks of boxes of dried flowers surrounded teams of workers who had been carefully filling in the designs since 6 am Saturday.  We arrived about 7 am Sunday, in time to park nearby and peer through tent flaps to watch the artistry being completed.  By eight it was so crowded our group of four could hardly stay together, though Maurice was a helpful focal point with his red Italia hat.  As the designs were completed the teams disassembled the tents in a flash, displaying their art fully to admirers. The flower pictures were breathtaking to behold.  Here was Noah’s ark askew on the sea with God’s strong hand under the waves.  There was Paul stretching out to encompass the churches of his missionary travels.  And David with shepherd’s crook and slingshot, and the Roman centurion bowing before the dead savior–most of the art we saw had Biblical themes.  Of course I wanted to stay and see every single picture (over 100) and then watch the procession, plus see the town’s highlights while I was there, but I had another appointment at 9 am.  Keep reading

The day was warm when we drove to Montefalco, the “balcony over Umbria,” where in the 13th century Emperor Frederick II destroyed a Roman town and built this new-now-old one in its place.  Streets radiate down from a central plaza on the crest of the hill through medieval gateways to wide views of the valley beyond.  Crooked lanes curve around stone buildings to tiny unexpected piazzas.  Maurice selected a flowered doorway in a small plaza to paint; his criteria for the day was that he sit in the shade while he worked.  I headed off to explore the town.  I knew there were medieval paintings and I’d heard rumors of mummies. Keep reading

Road between Spello and Collepino

After lunch I set off on what started as a Club Alpino Italiano (CAI)-signposted trail to San Silvestro…or a monastery…or something. The trail turned up a steep and stony forest track.  Among the trees it was cool, but I was not, because the trail seemed to go straight up.  (Will the Camino be like this?  Hmmm.)  The fresh air was silent except for the thumping of my heart.  I managed the 100-meter elevation gain in about fifteen minutes.  On the gravel road at the top, a trickle of water flowed into a big stagnant trough labeled “San Silvestro.”  Indeed.  I walked to an intersection and a sign suggested there was an eremo…somewhere.  Eventually I spotted a CAI sign and continued that direction.  The path widened and the forest started looking more like a lawn with a lot of trees.  Neat placards informed me this was a place of prayer and asked me to respect the silenzio.  All was as silent as the forest I had just left, except for the twittery birds and the cuckoo, who were definitely not obeying instructions.  At a sharp turn in the path a gray-habited sister stood in front of the stone convent. We looked at each other and nodded; I dared not break the silence. Keep reading

Collepino, Umbria

We hopped into our little panda-colored (as Ted pointed out) Smart car for the trip to the day’s painting spot, Collepino, a tiny medieval hill town in the mountains beyond Spello.  It seemed almost deserted–the group’s arrival must have at least doubled the population–though there are surely some locals because there was a bar/cafe open.  I wandered through the stone streets while the artists found their spots and set up.  Janice was right–it only took ten or fifteen minutes to see everything.  Curving stone streets, crooked stone buildings, steps, passageways, nooks and crannies (all stone), the big public laundry basins, the minuscule fortress church plunked down at the fork of a tiny stone lane–the town was solid and serene, with flowerpots here and there but not many just to pretty it up for tourists.  When I’d seen enough I walked out the road we’d driven in to enjoy the blowing poppies, dusty green olive trees in blossom, yellow ginestra (turns out that’s the wonderful scent in the air) and views back to the town.  As the church bells rang at noon we converged on the cafe for lunch, overwhelming the staff…. Keep reading