Assisi

By John Huddleston

It was the air. It bore the intoxicating scent I had been longing for since leaving Rome that morning, driving north on the A1 autostrada. I was heading to Umbria, on a pilgrimage to the birthplace of St. Francis, and I knew the first succor I would receive would be the air. Umbria, Italy's serene central province, is stitched with fresh-flowing rivers, sprinkled with ancient hill towns, and suffused with an unforgettable velvety scent, and I finally encountered it on a sinuous little road that climbs into the terra cotta Umbrian hills flanked by the plunging blue-white Trasimeno River. I drew in healing lungfuls; wild fennel, ripe pears, freshly-baked bread, olive groves, with  undertones of wood smoke and red earth. Although I wouldn't reach Assisi for another hour, I was as good as there. On a journey to Umbria your nose arrives first.

Assisi occupies a luminous realm between heaven and earth, floating above Italy's sun-washed central plain, on a deep green shoulder of Monte Subasio. The ancient ocher town walls are anchored by the famous Basilica of Saint Francis to the west, and crowned by the stone battlements of a 4th century castle, La Rocca Maggiore. The town's houses cascade across the slope washed in the colors of a faded Tintoretto, each the hue of a different rose; pink, cream, red, yellow, blush. Centuries of absorbed sunlight radiate from warm stone walls that beg to be touched.

Assisian life revolves around food, and as I strolled in la Piazza del Comune-the town square- kitchen doors exuded the warm scents of garlic, oregano, olive oil, basil and asigio, as clusters of chattering housewives sat in deep doorways shelling peas, while old men dozed in the late afternoon sun. 

Assisi's most luminous spiritual site is the Basilica of Saint Francis, celebrating the Saint who, in 1206, formed a religious community whose members lived among the poorest members of society. His deep love for all God's creatures has made him one of the most beloved Christian saints. Restored since the '97 quake, the Basilica is actually two churches built one on top of the other. You begin in the dark, subdued 13th century Bacilica Inferiore (Lower Church) amid flickering candles, curling incense and murmured prayers. Here you view Pietro Lorenzetti's graceful Saint Francis with the Four Angels, Most evocative of all is the Saint's rough burlap tunic and cowl, tattered and patched, in the Inner Sacristy. As you leave the Lower Church and ascended to La Basilica Superior, you step out of the insular world of the Romanesque and into the vast explosion of color and light that is Early Gothic. The Upper Church holds the famous 28 panel cycle of The Life of Saint Francis, that heralded the dawn of Renaissance painting. But the fin de siecle is Giotto's "Saint Francis Preaching to the Birds", which has drawn pilgrims for centuries. Here the little Saint stands in a long brown cassock, beneath a young oak, and offers the gospel to his winged flock. But for an even more moving sight than the painting itself, stand and watch the faces of visitors as they approach. They are transformed. In an age of cynicism and aridity, peoples' first sight of Francis' luminous and open-hearted act is wondrous to watch. Some weep. All are moved.

To discover Assisi's true nature, toss away your guidebook and fling yourself into an unknown neighborhood, discovering twisty alleys, heavy iron-banded oak doors, wrought iron hanging lanterns, and churchyards in warm tones of cinnamon and burnt sienna. Or just sit in any square with eyes closed and just listen; distant church bells toll matins, water from a cisterna drips onto a stone bench with big fat plops, a woman sings softly in a second story window, a priest's footsteps echo on herringbone brick as he hurries to mass.

Assisi's delights are not confined to the town itself. Outside the town walls, deep in the heavily wooded slopes of pine and blue hemlock on Monte Subasio, a little road revealed a simple stone hermitage. No Giottos here. Just the primitive courtyard where Saint Francis came to lose himself in prayer. And if you continue walking you'll find an old oak in a natural bowl above a rocky ravine. The first time I encountered it, it seemed familiar. The centuries swirled and blended, carrying me back to the Basilica. The landscape had been painted on her wall. This was the grove where Francis stood when he blessed the birds. The centuries-old sacred terrain Francis trod, marked only by the intervening seasons. The branches of the ancient oak held a population of birds; white doves, rooks, speckled brown magpies, just as in the fresco. These were the descendants of the avian congregation of Saint Francis. I closed my eyes and offered a prayer to Francis. Time slowed and I felt bathed in peace. Opening my eyes, I felt the birds, once blessed by Francis, were passing that grace on to me. When you go to Assisi, you'll find the spirit of Saint Francis is still there. Just walk out of his eight-gated city through La Porta Cappuccini to the Hermitage of the Carceri. Then keep going. Something luminous will be waiting for you.

John Huddleston reports on travel and foreign affairs, and is Contributing Editor at Deja Vu Publishing. E-mail John at: johnhuddleston@california.com