Assisi Overlooked: Solace in a Sunrise

My roommate hits the snooze button for the third time. Finally, a revelation acts as a wake-up call: it’s now or never.

We pull the blankets off our adjacent twin beds, throw on our warmest sweatshirts and coats, several pairs of socks, and our sneakers–still soaked through from trudging through last night’s puddles.

I look out the window where darkness is still settled in over the commune. It’s 4:30 am and the sun is about to show its face.

We meet up with some friends in the lobby of our hotel, which feels more like a cross between a monastery and a castle. The air outside is smoky and thick; it makes me want to cough. A chill flickers up my spine, and I pull my hands back into the sleeves of my jacket. I feel like an oompa loompa as I stand there, huddling in my fleecy blue.

The ground is slippery against our shoes. The pathways seem untouched except for dew, though I know they have evolved over the course of centuries, not to mention two devastating earthquakes. I suddenly become conscious of each step I take–that is, what it is I’m stepping on. Who else might have walked these trails? Left their footprints in these malleable bricks?

I can make out St. Clare’s Basilica in the distance, a checkerboard of dark and light bricks enforcing a pattern of routine despite this particular morning’s abstractions: thinking about St. Francis and charity and the juxtaposition of Assisi and the surrounding tourists, flocking to Rome and Venice and Pompeii–all spectacular, but missing a certain simplicity. Maybe it’s the obsession with food, culture, people, place. Here, more was less. Even the cracks in the roads knew it as they embraced the rain as a cleanse of history’s debris.

As we arrive at the spot, I think about dinner the night before: greens with balsamic, warm rolls from the oven, and pasta with olio. I am full of carbohydrates and vino. Thinking about it, I feel satisfied in another rather simple way–there are no beggars on the streets, no noticeable mouths to be fed. I am guilty for believing that in this moment, ignorance is bliss. Back in Rome, the hungry and homeless await.

We gather with friends in the huge lookout square, trees dancing down into the horizon like flimsy monkey limbs. Just as a platform of light reaches its arms out into the sky, skimming the grass below, a sound becomes audible: a deep, ominous chanting from far away. It’s both sweet and harsh, like the first time I heard my piano teacher play a minor chord–ivory keys demonstrating that even some sadness can be beautiful.

It was the monks, humming soft but coherent prayers for peace. In the nearby hills, the sun rose higher.

Tagged as: italy, nonfiction, Travel