Assisi (1995)

Assisi! Caro Dio! It's a holy place, like Jerusalem or the Vatican and tour buses from all over the world pile into its two major churches. it was a Diane Arbus scene: I saw nuns pushing the terrifically physically and mentally challenged in wheelchairs up steep ramps. I saw nuns holding the elbows of the near-dead. I saw dozens of elderly German, French and Italians debark from buses and go into Saint Francis' basilica expecting miracles, or at least to offer up a prayer.

The frescoes in St. Francis are startling and the most beautiful I've seen in Italy: flat, with crazy perspectives and bizarre iconography. Shapes I will remember: a bat-like shape bearing Jesus as he inflicts St. Francis with the stigmata, crockery raining down past the edge of a table, the hand of God and bat-like demons being driven out of Arezzo. To the left of the altar there is a fresco that has changed from positive to negative; that is, all the white paint has oxidized to black with time and vice-versa. Incredible. The ceiling has a dark blue ground with gold stars on it, but rain damage caused rings of turquoise to arise, like clouds, on the dark background. I got a strong feeling of this place being authentic and begin to tear up at the power of the third fresco panel I viewed. Then I went downstairs to see the crypt of St. Francis, but a very crowded Mass was being said. Like in La Dolce Vita, I saw pious women break off flowers from the altar flower arrangements at the crypt. I said my first prayer in Italy at the Chapel of the Magdalene and lighted a candle.

Then, off across town on foot for the church of Saint Clare and the cloisters of the Poor Clares. While waiting to go inside when the church reopened at 2:00 p.m., I wandered around the side into a beautiful courtyard through a wide-open gate. There were some striking architectural fragments displayed high up on a wall, which I photographed. Then, a young, tall, handsome Franciscan monk (wearing fabulous black leather sandals!) came by and told me nicely the space was private. Embarrassed, I apologized and immediately turned to leave. But then he said, good-naturedly, "Oh, come along with me," and took me to the third (outside) door of the cloister, inside which some seventy Poor Clares are cloistered under vows of silence for life. He showed me the window one would call at, in an earth-shaking family emergency, for the nun, and the tiny space, like a dumbwaiter elevator, where she would appear if summoned by the outside world. Then a tiny old nun, not a Clare, came up and proceeded to ream out the poor young priest in Italian, so I said my dispiaci and scooted. I put my hand on the door, the door through which Clares first pass when entering the cloister, or the final door of their exits, should they ever decide to leave as I fled. Poor young priest! I hope your kindness to me didn't cause you trouble!

Clare's church is much less grand that St. Francis. The frescoes are mostly obliterated by time. St. Clare's tomb, however, was intense, with her wax effigy laid out, and, behind bars, her ashes in an urn. Most intense of all was the performance of a nun, draped in sheer black, like an Arab woman, pacing back and forth in a cage in front of the glass cases containing the cloaks of Saints Francis and Clare. You put a coin up to the bars of the cage and the nun takes it from you and gives you a holy card in return. Between "customers" she paces and prays.

Assisi is almost blinding -- lots of white, quarried stone. Lots of embroidered baby and children's clothing displayed for sale everywhere: white, blue chambray, red or blue cross-stitch embroidery. Handkerchiefs.

At the end of the day, I went by bus to the church that contains St. Francis' meditation site. The church itself is overblown and wants to be French, like a wedding cake, with Lawrence Welk crystal chandeliers, but the tiny shed-like church inside the church was touching and seemed very real. Pious pilgrims knelt and prayed and wept. Assisi is a powerful, loaded place. Saint Francis' mojo is still working, hundreds of years later.