In Between, Two Domes and a Buried Cathedral

At the Far End of Corso Garibaldi

As Unpredictable As Ever

The weather, yes, again.  But the Chiesa di S. Pietro proved to be full of surprises as well.

In the lore of European travel, the acronym “ABC” expresses a contemptible attitude toward the usual parade of churches visits arranged by tour groups. Understandable enough, in many cases.

More than most exterior architectures, that of S. Pietro has its Romanesque charms:

Yet once inside, the renovated interior could hardly keep pace.  Except for the rare anomaly, old and new somewhere juxtaposed in an arresting contrast, mostly disappointing.

Until, suddenly, Rebecca and I come upon the same smile at the same moment, seeing these chairs at the beginning, beside the pew, and then this sign at the end, in explanation of a sort:

Only there was much more in between left to ponder, from the obvious, to the still somewhat mysterious:

A prayer and a Bible story, child’s play.  But the itemizing of individual talents and interests, united under the banner of an “Orchestra,” such is the stuff that dream’s are made of.

As Predicted

Yesterday clouds threaten all day, never to deliver more in Spoleto than flashes of sunshine breaking through the haze, like the one that drew the cat to a third-story window to bathe.

We would have taken the photo, but our salads had our undivided attention.  Picture an old building—almost by definition—worn stucco, with shutters open and curtains revealing a feline outline.

For Whom the Bell Tolls (Yesterday Morning, 7:00 am)

The rains have arrived.  (Fall reigns, we wonder.)  About a week later than last year, but still a week too soon to suit our plans.

Return to Assisi will have to wait, it seems; as, increasingly, a return to the Ponte delle Torri–whence a walk to S. Pietro (a new adventure through the woods for us).

Rain predicted to follow us Monday to Firenze, and all throughout our brief stay there. Clearing perhaps by Thursday in Treviso.

Though as for that, the chances of a truly reliable weather report around here are about as likely as a Ouija Board foretelling bad fortune.  So who knows?

Chiuso

If I have learned any Italian word on this year’s trip, it is “chiuso“–“closed.”

“A picture is worth a thousand words” is an old saying I recall recalling.  One pic beside the other, then, must be worth either two thousand or a million (you do the math when the door marked “chained” stands between us and the church.)

Other photos follow the same motif (trust me, you don’t want to sit through that long-lasting picture show–any more than you want me to trot out the “bulleted list” format to give a go at testing the old memory).  Suffice it to say, “Chiuso.”