September 16th: At one with the Backpack

And I am officially sunburned!

The pinkish glow that has blushed my cheeks is well worth it; earned, as it was, by lying contemplatively with my head against the walls of San Francesco after a rapturous tour of Giotto's frescoes. Lying on the hot stones that pave the courtyard in front of the church, I was aware of how idyllic it was for once to have a backpack - I really looked the part of a pilgrim (albeit with Geox driving mocks instead of the traditional thong sandals).

From the train station in Assisi we found a bus that would take us up to San Francesco. We ended up riding for free since the driver took pity on us, sad as we looked with our cumbersome loads (I feel St. Francis would approve). The bus dropped us off at the foot of a steeply inclined road up to the church. Feeling the full weight of my pack, my shoes slipping on the stones paving the road polished by millions of feet making the same trek, I thought, I am really toiling for this. A monk smiled at me. This is great, I thought! Apparently, as long as I look like I have a religious purpose, my gauche appearance is totally justified.

At the summit we threw off our bags and simply stared in unadulterated appreciation. San Francesco is an appropriate tribute to St. Francis' greatness. Wonderfully, it manages to be both majestic and humble at the same time. Standing in front of its facade, the church is unassumingly simple looking: a flat, white wall punctuated by a simple rose window. However, from the side, one can appreciate its sheer size, with a long line of arcaded wall stretching into the distance.

At the doors of the church we inspected the signage indicating what was prohibited inside. There was the usual: no flash photography, pets, food, drinks etc. All of this was perfectly understandable in international sign language...all except one sign. I can't draw it for you here, but to my eyes it looked like two figures of unknowable sex wearing sleeveless and almost bottomless ensembles. Our possible interpretations were: no leiderhosen, or no effeminately gay swiss men, or (and least likely) no Village People groupies. Either way it didn't help us understand if we could take our backpacks into the church. We couldn', and took turns waiting for one another outside, resulting in my sunburn/sunstroke.

Though both the upper and lower chapels were stunning, I did ponder the lower space for quite some time afterwards. There is almost no free wall space. Every square inch (the ceiling included) has been decorated. As much as I enjoyed the individual scenes, I walked away from the experience feeling like it was a little busy. The effect, I must admit, is awesome (I use the word in the biblical sense); the walls actually seem to melt away, time collapses and you are left feeling like the heavens are pressing in on you.

Nina and I debated the issue for some time until she said, "Italy is so beautiful naturally that one must have to make an even greater effort to create truly impressive art." That struck a chord with me. Italians are a razzle-dazzle kind of people; they are lovers of sparkles, bold colours, figurine based decoration, and even more melodramatic soap operas. Why would you wear plain, unadorned jeans when you could add a rhinestone decal on the back pocket? Why wear flats when you could wear stiletto heels? And, why expose chest hair plainly when you could drag unwilling eyes towards it with a flashy gold chain?

So why not get a little carried away with frescoes. Go big or go home.