And I will die here

We met Giuseppi today.  He was born and raised in Assisi.

Like the patron saint of nature, Giuseppi loves animals--he keeps dozens of cats, doves, a donkey, a goat, and other animals. In some cases, he finds a home for the animals after going to great pains to ensure that the family will take good care of the animal. Otherwise, he rescues and helps everyone that crosses his path.

As he led us up the long, stone road that zigzags upward into the 10th-century town, a grey cat scampered by us. He said, "Hello, Ivan!" with affection glowing in his cheery red cheeks.

Inside the Basilica of St. Francis, Giuseppi treated us to a moving lesson. As he shared the particular facts about the basilica--stone, frescos, stained glass--he gave us time to visit the bones of St. Francis. Solemn-eyed nuns knelt and prayed by the tomb. A lone man sat in a dimly-lit corner with an open book--he seemed to reflect on the book and the place all at once.

Giuseppi led us from the basilica and into the church. Damaged from an earthquake in 1997,  many frescos were gone or had partially crumbled into dust.

Two remained unscathed. Giuseppi taught us about them.

One of the paintings was a favorite of Pope John Paul II. St. Francis, already a saint, appears in the clouds and reaches down to a group of Muslims. Each religion is shown as respecting and acknowledging the other. Giuseppi said the Pope often reflected--if people could come together in the 12th century, then why not today?

Giuseppi asked, "Where did the idea for such a painting come from?"

In the other painting, St. Francis, alive and well, travelled to Egypt to meet with the Sultan Malik ai-Kamil. Each man intent on converting the other to his religion.

Neither converted.

And here is the lesson imparted to us by Giuseppi: each man, each religion, came to understand and respect the other.

Not tolerate. 

We have it wrong in many spaces today where we say we teach "tolerance"--we might tolerate a rash or a stone in our shoe, but we should not anchor ourselves to "tolerating" religion or people.

Giuseppi said that every four years, the leaders of all of the world's religions gather in Assisi to pray for peace...through respect and understanding.

At the last gathering, three-hundred and fifty religions were represented.

Three-hundred and fifty!

When I think about that number, I think of how many good people are in the world. And it redefines for me just what religion is: peace, joy, and generosity. Being good to one another.

My experience in Assisi was moving and humbling. As Guiseppi shared, "respect, and understanding, and peace cannot come from any one person--we all must play our part."

I felt happy about that space and the bones of the man we visited and the voice of the man we listened to. Religion, like skin color or gender or age or language, didn't matter as much as goodness.

Giuseppi asked, "What makes one man good and another not so?"

And then, with that question in my heart, our tour was over, and we exited the church beneath a fresco of St. Francis loving and talking to the animals. Giuseppi said goodbye to our group on the wide, stone patio--wet from a mild snowfall--and posed for some photos.

After the group thinned out and broke away for lunch, we remained with Giuseppi for a long time. This clearly peaceful, happy man talked with us about his animals and listened to us talk about ours. He and my wife shared pictures of pets and he asked questions and made a fuss over each.

As they bonded, I asked him if he was born and raised in Assisi. He said yes, but then added one thing--"and I will die here."

He was so happy to say it. He had no fear in those words. If anything, he spoke with satisfaction and pride.

We traveled to Assisi to become acquainted with a saint but met a living man today who reflects everything one could want from another human being: respect, understanding, and peace.

Above the Rest

Because it is late November, we have benefitted from the low season in several ways. Crowds are minimal--the longest we have waited in a line to enter a building is five minutes. We have had our pick of restaurants. Traffic has been typical of what one would find in any major city. And our access to the greatest works of art by the Italian masters has been unimpeded.

Yesterday, I walked right up to Botticelli's "The Birth of Venus" and orbited Michaelangelo's "David" as if it were in my living room.

"David" radiates.

Well, the original radiates. Three can be found in Florence. The original stood outside for three centuries before being moved indoors. Three centuries in the elements and no flash photography permitted today! (The image included in this post is a bronze copy overlooking Florence)

The original stands 17 feet tall, 4 feet wide, atop a massive pedestal at the end of a row of his unfinished sculptures--which are equally impressive. By viewing these works on the way to feet of "David" one gathers a sense of how Michaelangelo worked. He didn't start at the top or at the bottom. He started everywhere. He chiseled and filed all over a human form--slowly allowing it emerge from a block of marble as if it were some beast forcing it's way out of the rock.

And then, David...pictures don't capture him. David has a presence. He glows. It stunned me. 

Our guide shared that while Michaelangelo and Leonardo daVinci were contemporaries, neither liked the other. Leonardo, the mathematician, went out of his way to criticize sculpture as an art form--it was dirty, hot work and closer to the work of a baker than being close to God. Michaelangelo, moody and friendless, countered that anybody could paint--painting is easy--you make a mistake and you could scrape it away or cover it up--but in sculpture there can be no mistakes. You must be immersed in your work to such a degree that you take no notice of sweat, or sunshine, or dust--you are as close to God in that moment, in the creation of beauty and perfection, that can never be replicated with cold paint and numbers.

It is common knowledge to say that Italy is filled with great art. I can appreciate much of it on its own merits.

But one piece stands above the rest.

Dipping Cookies into Wine

Several days into our journey, we're finding that people like to ask, "what do you think? Is it what you expected?"

I now realize, I never know what to expect from life until it is lived.

Every experience here adds one more touch--it makes me say, now that really made the trip."

The charms of Venice appear around each bend and bridge. Since then, we spent a day travelling by coach alongside the Alps and through the Appenine mountains into the rolling, slumbering hills of Tuscany. 

The views made the trip.

Having stopped at a Tuscan winery to sample seven wines and a shot of stinging grappa, we were treated to a feast of simple, luxurious Italian staples: handmade pasta in a light sausage sauce, salami, sopressotto, cheese, olives, sun dried tomatoes, crusty bread, bruschetta, and tiny biscotti to dip into one particularly sweet wine.

Dipping cookies into wine--that made the trip.

Afterward, we visited Pisa. Turning the corner into Miracle Square, the leaning tower made us gasp--the icon of all icons. Perhaps I did not carry an expectation--the gasps of our other 42 travel partners makes me think that none of us knew what to expect.

Is Italy what we expected? No--rarely do I imagine a place where each experience can be labelled, "that made the trip."