Bologna (Part 2)

BOLOGNA (March 12)
(for part one see Florence below)

After we spent Thursday, Friday and Saturday in Florence our little group parted ways. Since we had nice, inexpensive accommodations in Florence, I decided to add two nights to my stay and go by myself over to Bologna and Pisa on two day trips.

Proof there is a God!
Perhaps the most memorable part of all my trips have been the train rides to and fro. Bologna was no exception.

I wanted to get to Bologna early in the morning so I could be back in Florence early, since I read the exact phrase, "Solo travelers should not be in Bologna at night." There was only one train departure time where I could balance leaving early, while not leaving too early so as to miss out on my free breakfast.

A little background on our train tickets: We all decided at the end of February to buy Tren-Italia passes. This means we got ten days of train travel to use in one month. (This is why I've been traveling everywhere like a crazy person - I'm trying to use up the days I paid for!) When we bought them, the guy told us that they are good for all trains in Italy, except Eurostars, which we need to make a special reservation for. Cool, no problem. I don't need to take a fancy schmancy Eurostar, anyway.

But when I hop on this train to Bologna, I notice that it is a bit cleaner, and a bit more spacious than the trains I had been traveling on, and there are business types with nice shoes riding the train, no young people...interesting. I had traveled on InterCity trains before, but this was an InterCity Plus and that plus makes me a little nervous. Well, it's a direct train and there are no stops to get off at, so it's fruitless to worry about it.

I've had some interesting train experiences at this point, and I don't want to sit next to any crazy people, which seem to abound in Italy. So I stroll up and down the train several times trying to pick the perfect compartment (this train only has private compartments) to sit in. I finally settle into one with a 40-something man and woman, who are talking to each other in Italian.

As we're riding along, a little old man pushing a food trolly stops in front of our compartment asks us if we want anything. The guy next to me, who has the window seat, orders a coffee. Two seconds later, I have hot coffee all over m--the guy spilt it when he reached over me to grab it. This poor passenger is horrified as I am drenched. It's in my hair, in my shoe and all over my pants. Fortunatey I was wearing dark pants and my shoe and my hair are perfectly wipeable, so I tell the guy not to worry about it - no big deal. He's relieved, but also wants another coffee - Italians shant be deterred when it comes to their brown magic! In the process of ordering this second coffee, the guy and the trolly man start arguing. Before long, they are screaming in each other's faces like an umpire and a manager nose to nose arguing a call. I can't make out the Italian, but I think they're fighting about who's fault the coffee spill was and whether the guy should have to pay for another coffee. Meanwhile, the old trolly guy, who has probably been pushing that trolly for forty years without a promotion, keeps looking at me and yelling at me to back his side of the story up. He doesn't seem to get that I neither speak Italian, nor did I see who spilled. Well, my failure to back him up ticks him off even more and the arguing just gets worse. The minutes, each seeming eternal, keep passing by and the argument continues.

After about ten minutes of screaming and arm shaking, all right on top of me, as I am between the two guys, the conductor comes over to see what the problem is. He sends the old-trolly-man away and tries to sort it out with the passenger. The guy explains the whole drama with the spill, and the conductor sympathizes with him. Apparantly, they were trying to exchange coffee and money at the same time and in the process, dropped a Euro. It was this fallen Euro that sparked the argument. The train conductor finds the Euro, apologizes for the situation, and goes back to checking tickets.

About fifteen minutes later, the conductor comes walking by our compartment again, ticket puncher in hand. He takes a peak inside, looks at his ticket puncher, and passes right by our compartment, not wanting to bother us since we already had so much drama. We are the only compartment in then entire train whose tickets he does not check.

I had completely forgotten about my worry regarding my ticket's validity. But when I saw the conductor pass us by, I just knew what had happened! I knew in that moment none of this was an accident. I had sat in that compartment, after walking up and down the train three times, for a reason. The guy had spilled coffee on my for a reason, and all of that had resulted in the conductor not checking our tickets. My ticket was invalid. I didn't even check when I got off the train to verify this, I was certain. But that next day, a train official randomly mentioned to me that my ticket didn't work for the InterCity plus, and I didn't even ask him that.

Had that man not spilled coffee on me, the conductor would have called ahead to the police at the next station, kicked me off the train, and then they would have escorted me to the station and fined me a very large amount of money - I have seen them do this to other people. They are ruthless. I once saw them kick a mom and dad with their two young children off the train who had tickets but didn't know to validate (stamp) them as they were never told to do so. Such would have been my fate, had not the coffee spilt.

That poor guy didn't spill the coffee at all. My guardian angel knocked it right out of his hands! This was only one of many time the Lord took care of me on this trip.

Church Hopping and Bar Hopping
Bologna is an old, rustic looking town, filled with red brick buildings. I spent the first few hours wandering around the city's old center, popping into lots of churches.

But no matter where I roam in Italy, there is a universal and perpetual problem: crazy illogical store and Church hours. These hours get even weirder on Sundays, the "day of rest." (Of course, in Italy, every day is a day of rest. Sunday is just a day of extra rest.) So, from about 12 p.m. to 4 p.m. nearly everything was closed. I had managed to hit up a few Churches before this time, but I still wanted to see San Domenico, the place where St. Dominic is buried, which like every other place in town, didn't open for another four hours.

Add one more fabulous element to the equation: it's snowing! This is very rare, even in this more northernly part of Italy - so said several locals I confronted about the weather. Before I go on, let's review: hail in Siena, lightening and hail in Florence, snow in Bologna. Now back to the present predicament: it's snowing outside, I don't have a hotel in Bologna since I'm based in Florence and everything is closed for the next four hours. Oh joy. I knew going to Bologna was a good idea.

There are a few cafes of course, who sell out and stay opened during these sacred siesta hours, rejecting their Italian culture to take advantage of the lack of competition. These are usually the businesses that can't hold their own when everybody else is open, which is why they stay opened during siesta, which means, as Homer would say, they are the suckiest sucks that ever sucked.

There was one of these cafes every six blocks or so. The only way I, a shelterless vagabond could escape from the snow until San Domenico opened four hours later, was to hop from one crappy bar (the Italians call their cafes bars) to the next...that I might keep my toes.

So, I pick a bar, go inside, buy a hot chocolate for four Euro ($5.50) and train for the slow sipping olympics. After an hour of nursing my drink, the waitress has finally given my enough dirty looks to chase me out of the cafe. So, I venture back out into the cold, walk around and find another bar, buy another undersized, overpriced hot chocolate, and slowly drink it for another hour. (I eventually found that if I just got my tongue wet rather than actually sip it every time, it lasted much longer). Walk, buy, sip, repeat. Walk, buy, sip, repeat.

Four hot chocolates later I'm getting pretty darn sick of hot chocolate. So, at my fifth bar (I still had an hour to burn), I decided to get a "ciocolatta bianca" or white chocolate, just to change it up a bit. The waitress brings me a coffee, thicker than mud, with a white chocolate chip floating in the middle - actually, I shouldn't say floating, because floating implies there was a liquid involved, which there wasn't - with a white chocolate chip resting on top.

Now anyone that knows me knows I loath coffee with every tastebud in my body. I don't even like it when coffee fumes get near my coffee-free food. But I, the only customer in the place, didn't want to look stupid and uncultured to my very attentive waitress. So I decide to force myself to drink some. I will conquer this drink, I say to myself. After all, I have over an hour to do so. Three spoonfuls of this black brew and I've got a splitting caffeine headache and my tastebuds, screaming, 'they can take my life but they can't take my freedom,' have gone suicidal as they threaten to throw themselves right off my tongue.

That's it! No more hot chocolate! No more keeping up appearances! No more pretending to be an Italian enjoying the cafe/bar seen! No more attempts at self-inculturation! I'm going where everybody knows my name...where they're always glad I came. I'm going to the one place that is my salvation with every new Italian city - I'm going to McDonald's. I'm buying a six dollar American Big Mac to cleanse my body of this dark, dense Italian muck!

I dashed out of that stupid cafe. I left the money on the table and didn't even look the waitress in the eye as I left. I ran over to McDonald's, which I had seen on the way to one of the Church's. I went in, got myself some decent grub, and stayed as long as my little heart desired, glare-free and without molestation from any over-attentive waitresses.

Apparently, the Italians have learned the value of McDonald's as well, because although the entire city was dead, McDonald's was hoppin. Seemed like everyone in town was there. That's right, the kid who sprays anti-Bush graffiti on the wall, the lady who turns up her nose when she recognizes an American accent, they all bow to corporate America when they’re jonesing for some freedom fries. Because in the end, they have to appreciate regular store hours, a menu with prices that don't change depending on how rich you look, and a clean bathroom that anyone can use for free.

The Unexpected Tour
When I finally made it over to San Domenico, turns out I had missed the fifteen-minute English tour. So, I asked the little Dominican priest who gives it if he could point me in the direction of St. Dominic’s tomb.

“Sure, I don’t have much time, but I’ll show it to you quickly.”

Three and a half hours later, he was telling me to stand on a chair in the seminary library so I could peak into an Italian military base that used to be part of the Church but was usurped by the government in blobidiblah year and who so and so refused to return x amount of years later. He was an absolute doll of a man, whose enthusiasm for tour-guiding I unintentionally encouraged with my grateful smiles. Eventually, I had to pee so bad I finally had to cut him off – who knows how long he would have gone on.

But when I got back into the Church, I was able to pray at the tomb – finally! And I even got to go to mass. And at the end about 30 friars did a procession and had evening prayer around the tomb. It was way neat.

The Journey Back
I missed the bus stop at the train station, which meant I had to get off at the next stop and run about a mile back through a scary downtown area in the dark. When I finally got on the train I thought I was safe.

Here’s a great irony. When you sit in a seat surrounded by other people, you at least get to choose who you are sitting with. When you go for the seats with nobody else around, you never know who will choose to sit with you. Something to chew on.

I go the latter route and a nice looking 80-year old guy sits caddy corner to me. I notice he is staring a lot, but I figure, hey, when you are sitting across from someone on a train, there’s not exactly a lot of other places to look. Finally, he strikes up a conversation. Great, I like talking to natives who don’t speak any English. The usual inevitably followed – student, studying in Rome, 24 years old, from United States, blah blah blah.

To be polite I ask him where he’s from. He says some city I’ve never heard of. So I pull out my map of Italy to try and figure out where it is. Then, he moves over to the seat next to me, okay cool, he’s going to show me. Then, pinch, squeeze – holy cow I didn’t see that coming. This guy is old...really old. But, he made it abundantly clear that he wasn’t too old to get a hotel in Rome with me and party all night long. Stunned, but comforted by the fact that I could take this frail old guy should the need arise, I sent him back to his original seat. Well shoot. This all happened in the first ten minutes of the train ride and now I have to sit across from this guy for another two hours. But I’m not moving! There’s no way I’m going to be intimidated out of my seat. Fortunately, he didn’t say another word to me, and spent the rest of the time walking up and down the length of the train. I guess he was undaunted by my rejecting him and was still on the prowl.

I finally arrived in Florence. bBeautiful, sweet, beloved Florence...how I longed for thee.

The next day, Pisa.

Florence (Part 1)

FLORENCE
(March 10-12)

On Thursday, March 10, I headed up to Florence.

The trip started kinda iffy. On Tuesday, I couldn't find anyone to go with me to Florence, so I was gonna fly solo. Then, Hallelujiah! Nicole jumps on board. Then the next day, Henrietta and Father Mike join in. Hooray, we became a happy little foursome.

Our hotel was pretty sweet for a 22.50 a night plus free breakfast, which saves about 8 euro. It was smack dab in the center of Florence!

Of course, Florence, the hotbed of the Rennaissance is known for it's artwork...and it's everywhere you look. I read in a tourist book that doctors treat about 12 cases of faintedness a year, that is, people who become overwhelmed just by looking around the city. Though I didn't see anyone sitting on the curb breathing into paper bags, I have to admit, I can almost believe that statistic.

So where do we start in a place filled with such wonders?

The Duomo
Having caught a glimpse of the tower on our way to our hotel, we rushed, liked moths to a flame, over to the Duomo, which is the official image of Florence.

The outside of the Church is covered in pink and green marble, and of course, being Florence, beautifully carved statues overlook every inch of the entrance.

After touring the inside of the Cathedral, we climbed to the top of the dome. This was no easy feat. There are over four hundred steps, and towards the end, you're more scaling the walls than climbing actual stairs.

While we were at the top of the dome, a lightening and hail storm hit the city and we had an amazing view of the city under dark clouds for about eight minutes before we had to rush back inside to save our skin.

David
Of course, you can't go to Florence and not see Michaelangelo's famous David. I was prepared to be let down by the experience for three reasons:

First, after being in Italy for a month, I have literally seen thousands of marble statues. After awhile, once you've seen one marble statue, you've kinda seen them all. Second, I had already heard so much about the statue and seen it in pictures that I didn't figure it would shock or surprise me in any way. Third, the first night we arrived, we saw the replica of David in Piazza della Signoria, (which by the way, uninformed travelers think is the real thing...it's not...just shows you gotta do some research). So, I thought, how different could the real thing be?

I don't even know how to describe the experience. The David is amazing. By far the most wondrous piece of artwork I have ever seen! The detail, the perfection, the care that was put into every last detail makes it seem almost alive. It is absolutely beautiful from every angle, and it was originally supposed to have its back against the wall so half of it was never meant to be seen. But that didn't stop Michaelangelo from making every part perfect. We gaucked for ages. I wandered around the rest of L'Accademia (the museum it sits in) in a daze. I can't imagine that the Mona Lisa or any other famous piece of artwork could touch the David. Michaelangelo's talent and this piece of art are clearly ordained by God. There's no other way to explain it's perfection.

Giardino di Boboli
After two failed attempts and a good yelling from a police officer, the third time we tried to get into the gardens near Palazzio Pitti was the charm. It was worth it! These expansive gardens, which sit across the Arno river and rise into Florence's hills, have amazing views of the city.

I couldn't help but a get a sense of pomp from being in these gardens. While the gardens were beautiful and serene, I just know some royal family hundreds of years ago kept this beauty and wonder all to themselves, never letting any of the commoners go inside. No doubt this is where they had fancy parties, impressed foreign heads of state with the grandeur of this scenery, and talked about how much better they were than everyone else as they strolled along in their expensive hats.

These thoughts were beginning to adversely affect my experience as we walked through the gardens. Then, I just imagined I was a princess and these were my gardens. As long as I was imagining myself a snobby royal and not a commoner peaking in through the gates, I was able to enjoy myself.

The Life
The coolest thing about Florence is simply the rhythm of life there. It's touristy, yes, but somehow that doesn't matter. It is still charming. There's old bridges, beautiful artwork, guys playing guitar in the street, violinists playing under archways, people walking their dogs, and kids frollicking in Piazzas - the city is just alive. It's other worldly.

I wasn't able to do the town justice in just three days. I will definitely be going back!

I'm Special

The vice president of Croatia shook my hand today. Just thought everyone should know.

Siena and Assisi (Part 1)

GETTING THERE
(March 2)

Last Thursday (March 2), Henrietta and I ventured out on our first trip outside of Rome. I spent the better part of Wednesday trying to figure out some basics, like how to get from Rome to Siena, Siena to Assisi, and Assisi back to Rome. Let’s just say all the information out there about Italian transportation is almost entirely in Italian, and what isn’t is either contradictory or flat-out wrong. So, we threw any plans we might have made to the wind and gave ourselves up to sponteneity. This probably would have been a disaster if not for a some knowledgeable bus drivers, the Good Lord, and some patron saints helping us along - not necessarily in that order. But as it turned out, everything went swimmingly, better than we could have planned for, and the trip couldn’t have been more lovely.

We started out on train, departing from Rome’s Termini station, gigantic backpacks and trusty money belts en tow. I have heard that at a stop, thieves will jump on the train, grab your stuff, then jump back off, your little nose pressed against the window as you watch the miscreants get smaller and smaller and the train continues on with you still on board. Well, my hat’s off to any ne’er-well-doer that could have managed to swipe my monstrous bag with any measure of agility, it’s awkwardly hanging sleeping bag bouncing against the calves and dangling straps getting caught in everything. I would have had my nose pressed against the window watching their disappointment as they discovered nothing more than some clothes, a towel, a sheet, lysol and makeup that isn’t their color inside. See, we keep our valubles in these dreadful but necessary money belts fastened around our waists. My passport insists on folding itself in half inside the belt, creating an unsightly bulge in the worst possible place (use your imagination), and Henrietta says her passport keeps “cutting” her. But I guess we gladly trade fashion and comfort (and in my case, femininity,) for peace of mind.

Siena and Assisi (Part 2)

SIENA
March 2-4

We arrived, our stuff safe and sound, in Siena and hopped on a bus. We told a young and handsome bus driver we wanted to go to the “ostello” (hostel), and hoped he would simply know where exactly where we needed to be. Turns out, he did. (And by the way, if you plan on doing any traveling in Italy by bus or train, the Italian word for “stop” is “fermata” - learn it, know it, love it. You’ll be light years ahead of where we started.)

When we got to the hostel, they told us our room wouldn’t be ready for an hour. No problem. It was 1 p.m. and we were starving for some lunch. The street was lined with restaurants and so we planned to drag ourselves, backpacks and all, to one of these little places and chat it up over an espresso and panini for an hour. But although there were plenty of restaurants, not a single one was open. We walked up and down the street about three times, checking for an open restuarant, nothing. Things were getting a little desperate. We were famished and couldn’t go far with our heavy stuff. I was about ten minutes away from looking at Henrietta and seeing a gigantic, steaming, cartoon porkchop. But then, we saw it – that universal symbol of deliciousness and satisfaction, that beacon of hope that shines bright in any language - the golden arches. Okay, so we actually weren’t that excited about it. But hey, we were hungry, and it was open, so we went to McDonald’s. (By the way, a number one is nine American dollars. And they charge you for ketchup. No kidding.)

Finally, we checked into our little room. Our hostel was pretty decent for 14 euro a night. We didn’t touch anything and we were just fine. Taking a load off, we were finally free to roam the Tuscan hills that are Siena.

San Domenico
We got on another bus, asked another bus driver where to go, and got dropped off near San Domenico (St. Dominic). You might recall that I mentioned that St. Catherine’s body is in Rome, but her incorrupt head is in Siena. San Domenico is the place. The Church itself is beautiful, but walking inside, I had a one-track mind to see this incorrupt head. (Is there a pun there? You be the judge.) So, I walk past the amazing paintings and stained glass windows, looking around, wondering at each turn if I would suddenly be met by the head of our wonderful Saint Catherine. Well, it didn’t quite go off that way. In fact, just so that nobody reading this will be disappointed should they venture to Siena in the future, I’d say her head isn’t exactly incorrupt, but it’s not really corrupt either. It’s somewhere in the middle. Semi-incorrupt might be a better description. Just don’t be expecting a flawless complexion, rosy cheeks or teeth for that matter. Hey, but you can expect skin. I think actually, the fact that she isn’t Snow-White-in-a-glass-case preserved makes the whole thing a more amazing experience. This really is her head and there hasn’t been any monkeying around to make it something it’s not. She is amazingly preserved considering she died in 1380. Really and truly miraculous.

Actually, her finger appears to be in better shape. It is kept only a few feet away, and aside from a greyish tinge, should in no way be over 600 years old. It is strangely set in this tall vase-like thing, pointing straight up. The whole thing looks like a centerpiece from the Addams Family dinner table.

The next day, we were able to go down into the crypt, where they had Stations of the Cross and Mass in Italian. It was lovely. There was, however, a bit of a ruckus at the beginning of mass. This little, old, bald man was frantically searching around in front of us, as if he had lost something. He was actually being loud enough for everyone, including people on the altar to hear. He kept walking around, touching and rubbing his head saying “mia cappella.” Now, I know that the word for hair, which is always said in the plural, is “cappelli.” Words ending in “a” are singular, so I thought, oh crap, this bald guy has lost his toupee and he’s totally freaking out cause its probably really expensive or something! So, sitting behind these people and watching the scene unfold, I’m scanning the pews for some headless hair. Well, he found it. Only, it wasn’t a toupee. I guess cappella is also the word for hat. He actually just lost his hat. This made me sad. I admired the little old man who was humble enough to ask a bunch of people to help him look for his toupee in the middle of mass.

The City Center
But strange relics and strange people aside, Saint Catherine took amazing care of us in Siena and her city is absolutely gorgeous. On the outskirts of the city center, there are beautiful, lush Tuscan hills. The city center itself is this dense collection of stone and brick buildings with steep roads that tunnel and weave through and around these structures.

Much of the center has been turned into shopping for what is now a University town stuffed with students. But strangely, I don’t think this in any way diminishes the old-fashioned charm that penetrates from every little ally. Perhaps this is because there isn't very much big business in Italy, and no big business in Siena. Even the shopping areas are filled with cute little coffee shops, bakeries, gift shops with cakes and wine and religious items, and meat markets with the meat actually hanging from the ceiling. That last one may not sound charming but it really is quite a sight. I’d venture that even a vegetarian could appreciate the old-worldiness of it all. And of course there are no lack of churches, which is true in any part of Italy. And the churches are just absolutely gorgeous. I think they are even more stunning than many in Rome on account of their Gothic architecture, which Rome doesn’t really have.

Saint Catherine’s House
A two-minute walk from San Domenico and just inside the boundaries of the city center is the house Saint Catherine grew up in. Now a convent and a memorial to her memory, the house is beautifully situated on a little hill with both a view of the expansive Tuscan hills and the dense town center. Not a bad place to grow up...not bad at all.

The Duomo (Cathedral)
Getting to the duomo was very entertaining – thank you Henrietta. A little background: back in Rome, Henrietta had bought an umbrella from a street vendor for a couple of Euro. It looked like a pretty sweet deal, but it didn’t last very long. Before she knew it, Henrietta was minus two Euro, plus one flipped up, broken umbrella. She vowed not to buy another cheap umbrella. Fast-forward to Siena. It’s hailing, hailing hard. It’s windy, real windy. I had I hat, a nice hat, so I was fine. I’m walking a little bit ahead when Henrietta rolls up at my side with another umbrella. This time she spent five Euro – way to splurge Henri. Now, I wasn’t exactly sure what made this a five-euro umbrella because it looked exactly like her old two-euro umbrella. But, I guess since she bought it at a real store, you know, a store where the merchandise doesn’t get rolled up into a big white sheet every time the coppers come by, she figured the umbrella was legit. Five minutes later, the thing is flipped up and broken again. Now, Henrietta is down seven Euro and still doesn’t have a working umbrella. She’s sworn off umbrellas for good. So, I’m founding a Titanium-Umbrella-for-Henrietta fund. Send check or money-order to my home address. Thanks.

So, finally, wind-blown and hail-beaten, we get to the Duomo, which is just absolutely unreal! It has amazing artwork, marble carvings, paintings, gigantic illuminated manuscripts, beautifully laid floors, high vaulted ceilings, strong collumns patterened with both black and white marble, and an amazing dome which reaches to the heavens. Of all the churches going for the grandness theme, this one takes the cake! It’s a truly Gothic-styled church. Henrietta and I took a self audio-guided tour, which means we were running from spot to spot while listening to this little telephone-like thingie. I was overcome with a few sudden bursts of “unbelievable” and “wow,” getting so into the moment that I forgot everyone else in the place wasn’t listening to what I was listening to.

Piazza del Campo
In the middle of the town center is the shell-shaped Piazza del Campo where Henrietta and I sat for over an hour just people (and pigeon) watching. (You know, statistics say that Americans are fatter than Italians. I don’t think those statistics take into account that Italian pigeons are fatter than American pigeons. Eat that Milan supermodels!) We were just hanging out when this little old man comes up to us and starts speaking in Italian. I didn’t understand a word and eventually we managed to convey that to him. He smiled and walked away. We shouted “Ciao” after him...and that was all the encouragement he needed. He turned back around and belted a little song, “Ciao Bambina,” in the middle of the square...er...shell. He went on for a couple of verses, we clapped, then he walked away. It was quite a lovely little encounter.

An Evening with Tony the Bus Driver
We were headed back for our second evening at the ostello. We had already taken the bus there at least three times. Each time we asked the bus driver to tell us when to get off the bus. But we figured by now we ought to know the place, so we didn’t ask for any help. There were several problems with this little plan. First of all, it was dark outside and everything looks a bit different in the dark. Secondly, the windows on these buses are always filthy, making it even more difficult to discern our surroundings. Finally, we were thinking we would recognize the stop when the driver stopped there. Well, I, a public-transportation-incompetent Californian, didn’t immediately realize that unless we requested the stop before it came, he wasn’t going to stop at all and we wouldn’t even have the opportunity to peak outside and “recognize” it. When I finally figured this out, we decided we had better swallow our pride...again...and ask the bus driver, another young male kid, for help. Unfortunately, this bus driver didn’t speak a lick of English, and he said something like "we'll stop there in a little while." No big deal, even if we had to go around the route again it’s not like we had anywhere to be.

Stop after stop comes along, and no ostello. About twenty minutes after our plea for help, the bus driver, now in the outskirts of town, pulls up to a stop and everybody gets off the bus. Then, the bus driver turns off the engine, turns off lights inside the bus and gets off. Henrietta and I are still sitting on the bus, looking at each other like, Oh My Gosh, We Are in the Middle of Nowhere Sitting in a Darkened, Abandoned Bus! What the Heck!?!? Everybody was gone and the bus driver was outside, talking on his cell phone.

Is this the end of the route? Is he waiting to be relieved by another bus driver? But we are not at a bus station, we are in the hills. Oh my gosh, when he kidnaps us nobody will even start searching for at least a week since they think we’re on vacation. But if he was going to kill us, he would kill us and then catch up on his cell phone correspondence. Then again, maybe he’s making arrangements to transport our lifeless bodies. No, he’s clearly talking to his girlfriend. Best case scenario, he lets us live, but we have to walk home and somebody else will kill us on the way. Well, we’re not getting off the bus until he makes us, it’s cold outside.

So, for lack of anything better to do, Henri whips out her phrase book and we try and learn a little Italian, maybe to plead for our lives, in these, possibly our last moments on earth. So, we’re reading in the dim light, and the bus driver comes behind over my shoulder and starts trying to learning some English from the little book. Hey, he turns out to be a fun guy. So, we get into a little conversation with him, and somehow work out that we will indeed be going to the ostello, eventually. Pheww. So, apparently, this kid’s name is Tony and he just loves being a bus driver. It seems to be a rather popular occupation for young males in Siena. Who knew?

Eventually, he starts up the bus and we get on our way again. He’s still talking to us from the driver’s seat, looking in the rear-view mirror about 80% of the time and the road 20% of the time. No biggie, it’s just the two of us on the bus and he probably knows the roads like the back of his hand. Pretty soon, the bus fills up again. He stops talking to us like a good bus driver and starts paying more attention to the road. That is, until, his cell phone rings. And, he answers it! Did he answer it because it was the station calling? Nope. His girlfriend again. And, he talks on the cell phone for the rest of the time we are on the bus! No headset, no nothing! He’s not even shy about it. Henrietta and I are cracking up, hunched over with laughing pains...and we can’t stop as long as he’s talking. We are clearly making a scene, and nobody on the bus can figure out what the heck is so funny. I’m also thinking, oh great, he’s talking on the phone and this distraction will make him forget when to tell us to get off. We’re going to have to go through this whole thing again. Fortunately, he didn’t forget, and we finally made it back, about an hour and half from when we got on the bus in the first place.

You know, I think I’d love being a bus driver too if they let me talk to people all day on the cell phone.

On the morning of our third day in Siena, we got on another bus headed for the train station – we immediately asked the bus driver which stop it was, we didn’t care how obvious fifteen sets of train tracks were – we were gonna make him tell us when to get off. When we got to the station, we caught another bus over to Assisi.

Siena and Assisi (Part 3)

ASSISI
(March 4-5)

So, you'll recall that we didn't have much of a plan for Siena. Well, we had even less of a plan for Assisi. At least in Siena we had an idea of where to stay...not so in Assisi. We had heard about one hotel, Hotel Rocca, only because the Austria undergrads, who also happened to be in Assisi at the same time, were staying there.

When we got dropped off on the little, windy hillside that is Assisi, I had a two-fold reaction:

First, I was just completely awe-struck by the beauty the little town. I had thought Siena was so amazing that there was no way Assisi could be better. Guess what, it is! The valleys are more sweeping, the town more ancient, and the whole place truly alive with the spirit of St. Francis. It was exactly where I pictured St. Francis would live. It is humble but beautiful and so alive. You can't help but be one with nature on this mini-mountain. All my ideas about what small-town Italy should look like, every picturesque scene my imagination dreamed up, were all fulfilled in Assisi.

And the weather was absolutely gorgeous! And by gorgeous I mean bitter cold and three times as windy as Siena. But it was beautiful because it's just exactly what the weather should have been like and it made me feel like we were even more in the time of St. Francis.

Below: A view from Assisi, the mountain, down to the valley below, Santa Maria degli Angeli.

My second reaction...Holy Cow! it's freezing out here and we haven't got any place to stay. Enter divine intervention...

Hotel Rocca
We hopped on a bus, which took us even farther up the mountain. We were searching for the one hotel we had heard of, but with 100 undergrads staying there, we were pretty sure there wouldn't be any room at the inn, so to speak. Well, we had to start somewhere, so that's where we started.

We got off the bus at Piazza Matteoti and went around searching for the hotel. Now, in Assisi, it's not like you can just walk up and down the street to look for the place you want to go to. There are only a few roads. To reach the majority of dwellings, you have to venture onto little walkways that twist and turn and creep between walls of houses. Then there are mysterious staircases descending through low-hanging arches, disappearing around bends or simply coming to a dead end. And forget about finding any kind of name for these walkways. Our free little tourist map was useless.

Eventually, we got there. We went up to the reception desk looking like a couple of bums with messy hair and all our belongings on our backs. We asked the guy if he had a room and he said, no. Bummer. But then he said apologetically, "Well, we do have one room on the side. But it's not in the hotel. Forty-five euro a night."

Yes! Hooray! Absolutely! We don't care if its a shed at this point, just put us somewhere!

So, he leads us away from the hotel to this little side area more towards the mountain. We are grateful, but at the same time, we don't know what to expect from this little side room he seemed so sorry to have to give to us.

He opened the door to the room and it was beautiful! Beautifully made beds, clean as a whistle, marble floors, amazing! We were shocked, stunned and amazed! When he left us, we opened up the window! What the heck?!? We have the most beatiful view ever of the vast green valleys Assisi towers over. We sat there awe-struck at our unbelievable fortune! Thank you Jesus!

Below: Part of the view from our hotel window

San Francesco
We settled in then got roaming through the town, which just becomes more and more beautiful as you grow more acquianted with it. We made our way down to San Francesco, a large Church where St. Francis is buried. It was wonderful to pray at his crypt...his spirit is still so alive there! I could have stayed for hours.

We turned in early, and nestled into our little hotel quarters for a peaceful and much needed nights rest.

San Damiano
In the morning we wanted to head over to San Damiano, another St. Francis pilgrimage site. We thought it was close. We actually thought it was a church that was right next to our hotel because there was a sign which seemed to point to it which said "San Damiano." When we found the Church closed, we busted out our little map and tried to figure out a place to go until it opened later. We took a look and thought, man that's weird - they got the name of the Church wrong on the map. Man, I know the map was free, but come on, try a little harder for accuracy, jeez. Well, the Lord humbled me a little when a few minutes later, we realized it wasn't San Domenico at all. The sign was pointing to the street next to the church, not the church itself. Woops. Idiots! Oh well, it's just on the next street.

We go walking along to the next street, which has another sign, then another sign, then another sign. Ummm...we kept getting suckered into following more and more signs, thinking, it's got to be coming up. About six signs later, we're following yet another sign down the steep mountain. We keep walking, and walking. At one point, I think I saw what can only be described as a mirage because I was convinced for a few seconds that this tiny little hut was the Church...St. Francis wasn't exactly into being ornate, after all. Well, it wasn't and we kept going down, down, down. Oh my gosh! We are going to have to walk back up this mountain! No, maybe we just took a side route, there must be a bus when we get to the bottom...afterall, it's a major pilgrimage site.

We finally get there and arrived just in time for Sunday Mass! Sweet! When we got out of Mass, we went looking around for the Portciuncola - the Church that St. Francis built when he heard Christ say from the Crucifix, "Francis, rebuild my Church!" and which Franciscan University built a replica of. But we can't find it. We flag down a sister and ask her in broken Italian, "Dov'e il Portciuncola?"

"One hour on foot!"

What? It's not here?

"Um, we'll just take the bus back up the hill and find it from there."

"No bus."

Yes, we had to walk all the way back up the hill. It didn't turn out to be as far as I thought going down, but it was no mole hill neither. I kept telling myself, it's just Vernal Falls, Yosemite, no problem...I've done this a thousand times.

Santa Chiara
After we made it up the hill and had a little snack, we went to the Church of Santa Chiara (St. Claire). Again, it was beautiful and there were relics from both her and St. Francis and her tomb in the crypt of the Church. There is also a very old set of frescoes illustrating the story of her life. I never really knew much about her, but now that I've had a taste, I want to learn more.

Santa Maria Degli Angeli
We finally figured out where the Portciuncola was and took a bus over to the basilica of Santa Maria Deglia Angeli, which isn't actually in Assisi, but rather the town down in the valley which bares the same name.

The port was beautiful in a simple kind of way. It is actually inside the larger basicala and doesn't really look that much like the University's replica. But the spirit is the same and it was a blessing to be able to go inside and pray. St. Francis has been the patron of my whole trip to Rome, so I was especially grateful to be able to visit his little church. It's actually funny, because in this grand basilica with so many fancy paintings and expensive fixtures, the focus of everybody visiting there is the humble little stone edifice sitting in the center.

There is also a memorial at the spot where St. Francis died just to the right of the altar.

We finally hopped back on the train bound for Rome. But it was a beautiful trip. We planned for nothing and wanted for nothing thanks to the Lord's generosity.

Our Mardis Gras Menu

Head Chef - Mark
Sous-chefs - the rest of us


1st Course
Three-mixed green salad with fire-roasted bell peppers, fried peas, and crumbled parmagiano reggiano dusted with fresh herbs, salt and pepper.

Choice of dressings: red-wine vinegar, balsamic vinegar, extra-virgin olive oil, or a dressing marinated in freshly pulled lemon thyme and majorum leaves.

2nd Course
Fried squash blossoms breaded in wheat and served with a fresh marinera and dried herbs sauce.

3rd Course
Slow-baked, beer-soaked pork roast, fused with fresh herbs and served with mushroom caps stuffed with peas, parmagiano reggiano, thyme and majorum.

4th Course
French baguette bruschetta topped with onions, warmed tomatoes and basil, melted gouda, and pan-roasted garlic blossoms sweetened in olive oil.

5th Course
Hot fruit salad fried with thinly sliced mangos, papaya chunks and two varieties of pear.

6th Course
Tequila-lime beef fajitas with avocado chunks, fresh cilantro, and oven-toasted torilla chips.

7th Course
Kiwi and strawberries served over hand-whipped champagne cream and drizzled with champagne syrup.

8th Course
Chocolate and vanilla gelati served over freshly baked brownies and a choice of champagne, coffee, or tea.

Austria and Rome Collide

Austria and Rome Collide! No, I'm not talking about an anticipated meeting of futbol teams, nor am I talking about WWIII. I'm talkin grads and undergrads.

This last week, I joined the Franciscan University kids studying in Austria for their tour of Rome. They came over on a little University-sponsored trip. This, of course, meant a lot of walking around - a lot - and mostly to places I've already been. But the distinct advantage is that we get information as we go, because they are actually getting tours, with like, guides! We have had no tours, no guides. So, we have sorta been wandering around the streets, making up our own history to various buildings and churches. But this time, the sheep had a shepherd, and I can't tell you how much it changes the experience when you actually know what you are looking at.

So there are literally hundreds of churches in this town, and every single one is just beautifully adorned, even the humble ones. In fact, I'd say the smaller ones have turned out to be my favorite. We saw some of these little churches on our tour:

St. Praessede
Probably my favorite. First, because you can walk into a room made entirely of mosaic. And second, because there is a large part of the pillar that Christ was scouraged on, supposedly.

St. Clementine
This church has two more churches buried beneath it that you can tour for a couple of Euro.

St. Peter in Chains
This has the chains St. Peter was bound in - uh, hence the name. One set from his imprisonment in the Holy Land, the other from his imprisonment in Rome. Apparantly, when they brought these chains together, they somehow merged into one great chain.

St. Maria Sopra Minerva
This one has St. Catherine's body. Now I know what you're thinking...St. Catherine's body is in Mary Sopra Minerva...right? which is what I just said. But I mean, literally, it has her body, just her body. Her head is in Siena. Interestingly, her head is incorrupt but her body is not.

The Pantheon
Formerly a pagan temple, it was converted into a church. But it is just one huge dome with a big hole in the ceiling. Since I've been in Rome, some things have just hit me as awesome, and others, even ones I would expect to hit me, have not (like St. Peter's Basicila oddly enough). Anyway, the keyhole I mentioned before was one of those awesome things, and so is the Pantheon...I guess maybe because it is not in the traditional shape of the Church. The walls are 12 ft thick, our tour guide said. Apparantly, no one could figure out how to construct a dome that big again for like another thousand years. On Pentacost, they rain down thousands of rose pedals through the giant hole in the ceiling to symbolize the tongues of fire. So cool!

It was a very fun trip. We saw some undergrads we know and love, and the ole Frannies came to Mass at the Basilica of Sts. Cosmas and Damian, which is where we live in. Unlike our usual Masses there, with over a hundred undergrads, it was distinctly a Franciscan University style Mass. It was in English, with the oh so familiar Mass parts popular only in Steubie, and of course, the characteristic arms raised to the sky...we definitely haven't seen that since we've been in Rome! I don't think the charasmatic renewal has quite made it over here yet.




Father Mike (Rome) and Father Dave Pivonca (Austria) meet up in St. Peter's square.