assisi, italy...fountains, frescoes & St. Francis

Assisi

There is a place...a sacred place, tucked away into the hills of Umbria. Some would say it's a holy place.
It is the small chapel which St. Francis rebuilt with his own two hands. Where he wrote and prayed and figured out a path for his life, and many others.

St. Francis was by all accounts an interesting fellow. Born wealthy, he was a playboy, loving the lavish lifestyle known at the time. What changed his life was, what impacts most of us, meeting others who influence or make an impression on us, and a shocking life experience such as an accident or illness.

The hilltop town of Assisi

 

St. Francis, born in the late 1100's with the name Giovanni which his mother gave him, and soon renamed Francesco by his father, had a few influencing encounters with beggars and pilgrims which he wrote about, was then taken prisoner in 1202 while in the military, whereupon he became quite ill. In the following years he began to re-evaluate his life's meaning and purpose, which didn't suit his father one bit. There was much conflict between the two and Francesco turned his back on his father's money, and began a life of service to those in need.

 

He spent most of his time in and around Assisi, the incredibly charming hilltop town in central Italy. The narrow lanes are lined with geranium-filled pots hanging from windowsills and dotting doorsteps. Modern-day pilgrims flock to here to visit the Basilica di San Francesco d'Assisi where his tomb was discovered buried beneath in 1818.

While the basilica is impressive, and the views alone are for sure worth a visit, I was mostly interested in finding the stone chapel which St. Francis built and where he spent most of his time, and where he gathered with his followers, officially beginning the Franciscan Orders in 1209.

It took a little while. Most guidebooks and signs point people to the imposing basilica atop of the town. But, the chapel lies just outside of Assisi, on what was once empty fields far (by foot) from the town. Called the Porziuncola, you will find it inside the Basilica of Saint Mary of the Angels which was built in the late 1500's enclosing the chapel, most likely to protect it and the legions of Franciscans who visit it.

It really is incredible inside. I'm not Catholic, but I was moved to tears being within the tiny Porziuncola's stone walls, knowing that St. Francis built these with stones he collected in Assisi, that here he heard God's direction to devote his life to the poor, and that here he wrote his famous words which have long been hanging on my wall:

"Make me a channel of your peace,
Where there is hatred, let me bring love

Where there is darkness, only light
And where there's sadness, ever joy

Grant that I may never seek
So much to be consoled as to console,
To be understood as to understand,
And to love."

The Franciscan Orders follow the teachings of St. Francis, but also those of St. Clare of Assisi, who was one of St. Francis's closest friends. She wrote the first set of monastic guidelines written by a woman. She reminds me a great deal of Hildegard of Bingen...another early power frau who commanded the attention of the men of the time with her intelligence and thought...and whose writings are still revered today.

Perugia

Piazza IV Novembre

 

A short drive from Assisi, about 30 minutes, is the university town of Perugia. It is the capital city of the province of Perugia and is a bustling place with lots of young people (obviously), lots of cafés and restaurants, and much interesting architecture. Walking around this hilltop city for a day, or an afternoon, will not be boring.

 

One of my favourite Renaissance painters, Raphael, was mentored in Perugia, and painted some of his paintings and frescoes here, but unfortunately none of them are here anymore. Still, the atmosphere of art and culture thrives here, as if it is in the bones of these incredible buildings. There are a great many festivals which take place here and exhibitions...so much to do, so little time.

Palazzo dei Priori

 

Along with watching a wedding party descend from the Palazzo dei Priori in the centre of town for a good long while, I couldn't help but take a lot of photos, as inconspicuously as possible, of the glamourous Italians. I can't help myself in Italy. They have a style like no others...unaffected and assured, like the French, but without looking like they're trying at all. A woman I met in Milan once told me, without being the least bit arrogant about it, that they grow up dressing with style...it's in their blood...they just can't help looking this good. I kind of loved that.

 

If at all possible, and I've said this before about Venice, try staying in any Italian town you're visiting until after dark. Experiencing the sights and smells (oh the smells!) while walking past the osterias, trattorias and ristorantes amidst these ancient stone buildings is always an incredible treat. And, it goes without saying, you absolutely need to eat...like everywhere! There's nothing better...

 

except maybe the view!

camogli...the most gorgeous italian fishing village you've never heard of

Nestled on the edge of the Italian Riviera is the small fishing village of Camogli. Overshadowed by its more popular neighbours of Portofino and further south, Cinque Terra, Camogli is where Italians outnumber tourists, where an espresso dopio costs only 2€, and the array of colour amidst rock and waves astound.

Not for nothing is this area of northern Italy called the 'Golfo Paradiso'. Just 45 minutes south of Genoa, by train or car, Camogli is the perfect inexpensive day trip or a destination to relax, rejuvenate and hike from for a week or two or more.

In its heyday Camogli was home to hundreds of tall ships, and with over 500 registered ship captains it was a thriving seaport.

Castello della Dragona

Perched on the edge of the black pebbled beach is Castello della Dragona, a fascinating setting to let your imagination run wild with images of Napoleon's ships at anchor in the cove, warring factions of Italy's five maritime superpowers during the Middle Ages, and

centuries of fishing boats streaming out at dawn in search of their daily catch.

The fishing method still used in Canogli is called Tonnarella - a 17th century system of netting fish while not killing them directly, so that all the fish caught which can't be sold that day are released. Nets, made of coconut fibres, are lowered and raised three times a day.

The backdrop of the town is definitely colour. Russet, pink and mustard-coloured buildings guide you along the small fishing harbour, and through the town's main street and high up into the hills.

With a sprinkling of love in the air it was "amore a prima vista" for me.

Laundry, consisting of cute Italian clothes (do they have any other kind?) and bed sheets, covers the delicately painted faux facades around every corner...and I couldn't get enough of it!

On my next visit (and there will be one!) I will make sure to hike from Camogli, along the cove's coast to San Rocco church which is perched high above the town. If you keep going along the waterline or through the national park to the hidden gem of San Fruttuoso you will find its Benedictine Monastery and magical cove, which is only accessible by foot or ferry.

Then, I might just keep on wandering to Portofino...all apparently doable in a great day of walking. If you're interested in doing this too check out the trail site at Portofino Trek, which I will be doing the next time I visit!

But at the end of the day, traveling and these words continue to inspire me...

Stay curious, keep learning, love deeply...and most of all, be kind.

When you go:

Train schedule - www.trenitalia.com

Portofino trek information - www.portofinotrek.com

Just 45 minutes by train/car from Genoa, it's an easy and inexpensive day trip.

parma love...cheese, ham, and an Italian

I was excited about Parma. After booking nights in Venice, Milan and Bologna, I knew that I wanted to spend a little bit of time in the countryside, to find some quiet, to write, and to eat. What I actually mean is, I wanted to experience the local specialities that Anthony Bourdain had shown me on a late-night re-run, which I just couldn't get out of my head.

Flash forward a couple of weeks, and I was pulling up in a taxi in front of an old monastery about 5 kms outside of Parma, smack dab in Italy's northern region of Emilia-Romagna...the mecca of all things Italian cuisine.

This is the land of sun-kissed tomato fields, damp, sea-salted cellars filled with hanging Mortadella, Prosciutto di Parma and Culatello di Zibello, and where chunks of Parmigiana Reggiano sit on shelves and wait and wait and wait some more.

(My mouth waters just writing this...and remembering.)

Think Italian and food, and there's a good bet you're picturing something that has its roots in Emilia-Romagna - the much-touted 'food basket of Italy'. Lasagne Verdi. Bolognese. Prosciutto e Melone. Aceto Balsamico di Modena. Porcini Mushrooms. Tagliatelle.

As the taxi came to a halt in front of the arched entrance to the inner courtyard, dust from the gravel path enveloping me as I stepped out, a man stood up from the bench beside the doorway. He greeted me warmly and we shook hands. I gave him my name and said that I had a room for two nights. 'Yes, I know', he said and waved me inside, taking my small suitcase out of my hand.

I should say that the place looked deserted. In Milan, where I had had two meetings the day before, the woman who had driven me to each appointment told me that in August all of the Italians head to the sea. Milan had also been deserted, and here, as I looked out across the golden fields surrounding the monastery I barely even saw a car, let alone a person. Except for this one Italian, who was now checking me in.

He had thinning hair, a three-day beard, was wearing a t-shirt and cut-off jeans and seemed molto rilassato (very relaxed). The Italian led me across the courtyard, past large abstract sculptures which were elegantly scattered around (I later found out that most of the monastery is a museum, while only the monks' former quarters are part of the hotel) and in very broken English he said, "Oh by the way, the bistro is closed. The owners are on holidays." I stopped walking, and in my most friendly tone, said something like "WTF?" I'm kidding. But, I did stop and say, "What do you mean it's closed? I don't have a car as you know, and I will need to eat something over the next two days." "Yes, yes, no problem. I cook for me, so I cook for you too. Yes?" YES!

I asked the Italian when I should come down for dinner and he said around seven. "We'll start with a drink. Prosecco? Yes?" YES!

At the door to my third floor room, he took out a large iron key (the exact one the monks probably used) and opened the small wooden door. I felt a little bit like Alice as I bent down to go into the room. The walls were massively thick...feeling ancient and cold, but the room, actually two rooms (a sitting room plus bedroom and bath) was beautifully new and clean, with a gorgeous fresco painted on one wall. I thanked The Italian and he left, and I began to unpack my things and take a look around.

I decided to go outside and walk the grounds surrounding this impressive building. The warm wind blew over the fields of tomatoes lying dormant among golden arms of grass waving softly to and fro. I have never seen tomatoes growing like this, endless plants just lying out on the ground. The Italian would later tell me that this area around Parma is known for growing some of the best sauce tomatoes in Italy. They smelled earthy and meaty and sweet as I held one to my nose; it looked like a large Roma tomato to my amateur eyes, but I didn't understand what he called them when I asked.

Shortly before seven, I slowly made my way downstairs and outside. My long summer dress, which I had paired with a denim jacket and ballerinas, swayed in the breeze as I walked across the gravel courtyard towards the bistro. The doors were locked, but the Italian came out almost immediately and let me in. He smiled and checked me out a little bit, in a grinning Italian kind of way (which I just ignored) and asked if I would like a drink. I nodded and looked around at the open room which had small white tables and chairs neatly arranged around the edge, while a large bar filled the entire centre of the bistro - wine glasses waiting on glass shelving, bottles standing at attention along the counter, and braids of garlic hanging and wafting.

The Italian served me a glass of a local, chilled, sparkling red wine, called Lambrusco, which I had never heard of and immediately fell head over heels in love with. I took my wine outside onto the patio. I wasn't the only guest, which I began to realize as another couple saw me and immediately came over to the patio. They got the Italian's attention and ordered drinks (of course) just as he was about to join me. He apologised, went to serve them and then returned a few minutes later with a plate of thick slices of white Italian bread, buttered with heaping layers of prosciutto di parma, mortadella and salami di parma. "You hungry?" YES! The Italian said he wanted to show me the great hospitality the region is known for. I thought he was already doing a fantastic job of that.

Once the other couple left, and the sun had gone down, he said he would start cooking us dinner. It would just be a simple bolognese sauce with spaghetti, if I was okay with that, because there was a family who he also had to cook for. That would be no problem, I assured him and followed him back into the bistro. I had no where to be. Just here...with my Lambrusco.

The steaming plates of Spaghetti Bolognese came out, first to me, then to the others. At some point during this first evening he started calling me 'princess' which no one has ever called me in my life and I don't know why he started. Quite possibly it was the only 'flirty' word he knew in English. Eventually, he joined me and we ate the simple, but magnificent pasta. He had sautéed shallots in olive oil, and added black olives, and diced tomatoes from the field he had picked that morning.

The family left, he cleared the dishes and filled my glass. It was late (Italian dinnertime is always late) and he poured himself a glass of white wine and sat down beside me on the bench against the wall. He chattered about his work; he was just filling in here at the monastery for ten days and would then head back up to Milan where he worked as a chef. He told me about his girlfriend, who he had earlier mentioned was missing him and constantly sending him loving texts. 

Her name was Francesca or Magdalena or some beautiful Italian name like that. He put his arm me, casually, like he'd done it a million times before. I laughed because it was just so subtle, so, I don't know, Italian. I took his arm and gave it back to him, and said ‘Just friends.' And he grinned, leaned into me and said, "Yes, but really good friends, no?" Ahhh no. "No, no, just normal friends." And with that, I decided that sitting here in the middle of nowhere and drinking with a super-friendly Italian dude might not be the best idea. I said good night.

I slept like a baby in the stillness of the Italian countryside, and awoke to an azure-blue sky with just faint wisps of clouds rolling gently by. The Italian lit up when he saw me, and enthusiastically said good morning, as I entered the bistro for breakfast. I laughed and returned the greeting. He reminded me a bit of my puppy. Very, very friendly. Always in a good mood. Pretty much the perfect kind of host if you think about it.

Before taking a taxi out to the monastery the day before, I had wandered through Parma's old town wanting to get a feeling of this region's reputation of being the culinary centre of the world (or maybe just Italy). The old town was easy to navigate, quaint and pretty, and almost completely empty. Except for me, pulling my orange carry-on suitcase over the cobblestones (not easy my friends), and two middle-age ladies exploring the church, there was not much going on here, on this hot, August day.

I almost always read a lot about a place before I visit, checking blogs and platforms, in order to glean recommendations from locals. Therefore, on this day in Parma, I made my way to La Forchetta, a small trattoria on a quaint side lane within the centre of town. And, when I saw 'Parmigiana-reggiano 26 mesi' on the menu I ordered it almost immediately. How lovely, and a bit strange, to be able to order just chunks of really old parmesan! What I didn't know of course (but had expected) was that this was no ordinary parmesan.

The plate came with bricks of crumbly, pungent cheese along with two small pots, one with honey and one with aceto balsamico di modena (originating just miles away). I dunked and dipped, experimenting with the lovely contradiction of flavours: sweet and savoury, creamy and smooth, mild and intense. Honestly, this was a truly unique dining experience for me...and it was divine.

I spent my free travel day hunkered down in my monk's room, trying to work out some finicky details  within my book project, for which I needed a distraction-free zone. This room was perfect - no TV, barely-functioning wifi, no radio, just quiet.

At around 7 pm, as I walked back across the courtyard towards the bistro, I saw the Italian sitting on the bench under the arched portico smoking a cigarette. “Where were you for lunch? I had cooked for you.” I took a step back. “Really? Oh! Sorry about that (the Canadian in me never sleeps). I just decided to keep writing. I hope I didn’t put you out.” He brushed his hand away although I’m not quite sure that he had understood me. He stubbed his cigarette out and flicked it into the terracotta pot on the ground beside the bench, and stood, waving me through the bistro doors.

Again, he offered me a cool glass of Lambrusco, and again I accepted it very hapilly, and brought me a plate of thick bread heaped with ham. Now this was no ordinary ham, which he made clear to me. Unfortunately, I’m not a foodie (and I'm not going to pretend to be) so except for the salty, flavourful meat, which was delicious, I can’t really describe more about it. Of course, I couldn’t tell that there was about a 40€ difference between this and what I ate yesterday. All I can say was that it was very tasty.

The Italian took great care of me, often checking if I was hungry and apologising that he had to cook for the other guests first. I definitely wasn’t hungry, and it was honestly so sweet having that kind of attention paid to me after what has been a rough couple of years in that department. I assured him that I was blissfully content sipping wine, and then he asked if I wanted to come into the kitchen while he cooked. I loved that idea, and followed him with wine in one hand, and my camera in the other.

He said he would be making us something different, as he didn't want to eat spaghetti again. "Something better for us" he grinned. Okay. I was just thinking that this is all pretty perfect and I can watch and learn how to make a few different Italian dishes, from an actual Italian person - glad I hadn't wasted extra money on a cooking class here!

Before I had come to Italy I had looked into cooking classes, food tours, cheese-tasting afternoons and walking excursions around Parma, Bologna and Cinque Terre, but most of the tours were for a minimum of two people, and I was flying solo. So, since he kept reiterating that he wanted to show me the area’s "very good" hospitality, I was more than pleased with this turn of events.

I just hoped that I would remember how to make these, actually very simple, dishes and then also really do it. My problem is follow through. I have lots of great ideas, but the fewest come into fruition and there are no good excuses for why that it is. Well actually, I blame it on netflix.

I watched as the Italian cut off a large, and I’m talking huge, chunk of butter - was it possibly half of a stick, and put it into the already warm pan. Then he picked up a bundle of long, luscious-smelling sage leaves and began pulling off the leaves and added them to the butter. Done. Simple as that.

Add to that Tortelli, a regional stuffed pasta, ravioli-like, from Lombardy, filled with ricotta and spinach, and we had the most savoury and simple meal which would have cost loads in an Italian restaurant in Germany. He spooned seven large Tortelli pockets on my plate, coating them with the sage butter mixture and I’m telling you, it was more than plentiful. We should all try and eat as simply, as locally, and as serenely everyday. I think we would be happier, lighter on our feet and the world would benefit.

“You like?” he looked uncertainly. “Yes, I love!” I assured him. “It really is perfect,” I complimented. He beamed and said, “Ya? Good. Good.” So sweet really.

Receiving two home-cooked meals while on my seven-day Italian vacay was so not on my radar. But, it sure made me happy. And as the Italian drove me to the train station the next morning (“You don’t need to take a taxi! Princess, I have a car of course.”) I knew that these two days spent outside of Parma, being be-cooked (a lovely German term, meaning that someone who cares about you cooks a ton of food for you, while you sit and do nothing) with plump tomatoes, juicy hams, regional pastas and wines, was going to stay with me for a long while. I’m not sure if it was just the cooking, or maybe the monastic-infused hallowed rooms, or maybe just the inspirational Italian-ness of it all. You know, the cooking and loving and gesticulating with such passion and abandon!

The Italian took my head in his hands and pulled me down for a kiss - really, so fast I didn’t have time to react, and as he held me there, I gently pushed him away and smiled and said “Okay, okay, stop the kissing.” “It’s just a kiss!” “Yes, but what about your girlfriend?” “I have no problem!” “Wouldn’t she have a problem?” He grinned and held his hand to his heart, “But I have no problem!” Oh my. I laughed, said goodbye and turned towards the station’s entrance.

alberto, francesco, giovanni...and a whole lot of lemons.

I'm standing amidst ten-metre tall lemon trees, snapping photos, inhaling deeply and trying to take in every inch of this place. Dark green leaves, give way to mango-sized, bright yellow lemons, that are just hanging around.

I have fallen in love with lemons...and Alberto. I lean my head back, running my eyes along the strong Acacia timbers embracing each tree in a protective frame; as if strong arms are cradling each lemony-full branch. These trees, some nearly 100-years old, producing hundreds of lemons a year, have become my obsession. We are in an old lemon greenhouse, Alberto and I.

I would love to say that I was alone with Alberto, that he only had eyes for me, and that we've run off together like in a movie, but that would be a lie. First off, I was with my mädels (my group of girlfriends who I hang out and travel with) and so I had to share Alberto's attention with them (sigh). Secondly, he's Italian, enough said. But a girl can dream. I'm getting carried away though. The Italian names send my mind into flights of fantasy. Alberto. Much more romantic than the actual man standing in front of us (he was about 68). But, as Alberto, his richly tanned and wrinkle-eyed face, animated and gentle, proudly showed us a childhood photo of him holding a crop of lemons, I fell head over heals....for lemons.

"Lemons were gold", Alberto told us, "after the war when there was nothing here in Limone." This is a town perched on the edge of Lake Garda, Italy's largest lake, omniously being pushed by the mountains from behind. This area had been hit hard during WWII - very little was left, but the greenhouse and lemon trees survived. After the war, four lemons would buy a kilo of flour and a kilo of sugar; seven lemons would buy you a trip across the lake.

Even before the war, each young soldier would be given three lemons a day, to ward off diseases such as scurvy. Alberto's passion for lemons has rubbed off on us, as if a slight lemon breeze was swirling around us. We stand above the greenhouse and absorb the view.

It is market day in Malcesine, so we decide to have a look, crossing the lake on a tourist-filled ferry. We don't need to use lemons.

Vendors are here, offering every type of leather article you can think of, along with sunglasses, scarves, jewellery. Small shops dot the passages where you can find cheeses, pasta, olive oils, pestos, many delicious flavours of gelato...

and Luciano. As we amble through narrow, cobbled lanes, we come across a very small studio. Three of us veer off from the rest to have a peek in the dark, crowded room. Eyes, hands, breasts, backs, trees, mouths, water greet us from photos covering every inch of wall space. Beauty. Then all of a sudden, I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn as a small man repeats quickly, "I touch, I touch, I touch". It is Luciano. I stand still, hoping this unusual situation will change before I need to react. What does he mean? The thought crosses my mind, "is this how he recruits his subjects?" But, in the end, it turns out all Luciano wanted was to squeeze past me...his English really needs improvement.

After us girls share a light lunch of platto freddo della casa and prosecco, we cross back to Limone.

Towards evening, after we have freshened up and gotten fancy (more white pants and maxi dress, less bikinis and shorts), we make our way up the steep, narrow streets, above Limone, towards Osteria Livino...and Francesco. 

Through the Guardian newspaper, I received this geheimtipp (insider tip); a rustic garden restaurant dotted with olive trees, serving down-home Italian excellence, high up on the mountain.

Francesco did not disappoint. Homemade spinach-ricotta ravioli in a sage butter sauce (yu-um, let me tell you), fresh spaghetti carbonara like I could never make at home (gg's favourite meal), and bruschetta, antipasta, and cheeses; along with an Italian World Cup soccer match. Bueno!

Later when I stole a moment of Francesco's time, stealing him away into a dark corner....sorry, again, the name carries me away into a fantasy far exceeding any reality. Let me start again: Later when I stole a moment of Francesco's time, as he quickly poured one beer after another for a thirsty table, he told me that the osteria had been in his family for a long time. He had grown up among the pasta-making, serving, laughter and hard-work; eventually taking it over from his father twelve years ago. Mementoes of labour from long ago dot the osteria's gardens.

Food has been an almost constant subject during our days in Italy; as anyone who has been here has already experienced. The Italians know how to eat well. Before we left, I made sure to duck into a macellaio and buy the perfect souvenier for great guy: Sopressata salame.

And for your sweet-tooth, gelato won't be your only poison here. The lightest, lemoniest cookies scream your name as you pass by. You will need to introduce yourself to: Brutta Ma Buoni, Amaretti, and Crumiri (just to name a few). Oh, the names...makes me salivate just typing them.

As evening moves into night, we amble back down the hill amidst laughter and selfies, towards Garni Gian Martin...and Giovanni. 

Located in Piazza Garibaldi, the centre of Limone, Giovanni, his brother and father have worked hard over the past eight years to build up their small, perfect boutique hotel. 

If you're looking for comfort, cleanliness and a giovanni...this is where you need to be. He will grant all of your wishes, as he repeatedly mentioned to us! 

Limone enchanted me; the food, the view, the lemons. The perfect 3-day break from reality.

From slow, early morning jogs along the lakeshore to lemoncello nightcaps before bed and with all sorts of delicious sights and sounds in between, Limone satisfied all of my senses. From now on great guy has a new name: Francesco. Bella Italia!

P.S. When life gives you lemons, find your giovanni, alberto or francesco and squeeze tightly.