September 1990 by Charlotte Mueller Italian Days, II (a more critical look, writen by me, alone.) Another trip to Assisi ... we three shared a room with a balcony We passed over the green Brenner Mountains in the rain into the Etschtal and by the time we reached Bozen it was sunny and warm. The brown Po Valley looked as if all the people had left, the houses empty and run-down, their dried-up fields yielding nothing How can a fertile valley with open land and soil deposited over centures by a huge and placid river become so desolate? Where have the people gone who once lived in theses ancient earthbrown stone houses now left to decay? Not driving on side streets (as in 1984) and not stopping in Padua... The autostrada (800 km to Rome?) is a busy expensive toll road laden with huge fast moving trucks and tour buses from as far away as Sweden and Belgium, few Austrians or Germans... This time we never come near Venice it's straight down the line to Perugia a fast trip on a fast road. Up over the Apennine mountains, the scorched hills (it hasn't rained in Italy this summer) and the hot gassy black tunnels full of diesel fumes swallow our fast moving little red car. What a relief to finally reach Lake Trasimene where Hannibal once fought a famous battle known to every Latin student The beach is empty except for one loud Italian family and one quiet German one whose children kick around balls (although not together) each sits in a separate spot the children keeping to themselves and Charlie is making a video of it. Gerhard changes his casual clothes and shorts into long pants and a black shirt with a clerical collar to dazzle some nuns to give us a room where others are turned away. Driving uop the hill where St. Francis lived the evening sun revealing burnt susnflowers and parched brown grasses Sister water and brother fire, gentle my way through the gate into the city where St. Francis lived-- getting lost, being detoured and running without fail into St. Anthony's guest house taken care of by Franciscan nuns from America. Strange ... old world ... shaped by new world ... past and present collapse into peaceful coexistence ... in style ... graceful old ochre stone building, cool dark narrow hallways, modern bathrooms with bidets. Surrounded by a lovely garden and an even lovelier olive grove where wild Thyme, basil, marjoram and rosemary grow. The fragrance of this abundance clings to my skirt after a scent fills the air. Evening meals with Mortadella and wine on the lovely ceramic tile table in the beautiful garden Breakfast with the nuns in their guest dining room accompanied by a tape of their chants-- unreal ethereal female voices (or is it angelic?) or what we think the angels sound like? (I hope not.) The Italian bread is good but their coffee is bad. Why can't one get a good cup of coffee in a place where every gas station serves delicious cappucino? It must be a penance. St. Francis did not care about comfort and the good thing this earth had to offer. Always denying himself. The spell we were under in his church looking at his holy sandals and tattered robe to be shocked back to reality by the busy gift shop with its expensive wares and rows of kitschy figurines gaudy likenesses of Francis and Clara as envisioned by sentimental third rate 19th century artists. And Charlie succumbs and buys an expensive video tape which is beautiful and well worth it. Driving back over torturous hot vile smelling choked roads made impenetrable by thousands of trucks all cutting us off left and right. In desperation getting off at the Eisack Valley and heading through endless fruitful orchards and vineyards towards Tramin and Kaltern spending a cool night in the comfortable and beautiful old White Horse Inn. The Frau Wirt has aged a lot. Gerhard lingering longingly because of the organists' contests going on in the parish church. Coffee break in Hall in Tirol in the pouring rain with traffic ticket. Reaching soggy Kirchberg and being met at the door by Romana who asks Gerhard to join her in evening devotions.