Homeward Bound
At I write this, I’m sitting in the Firenze (aka Florence) airport waiting for a short flight to Frankfurt before connecting to a 12-hour flight home to Los Angeles. As absurd as it sounds, I’m anxious to say arrivederci to my vacation in Tuscany and get back to work in Fresno. I’ve enjoyed the trip overall, but after a week in the Italian hills as the black sheep of the yoga gathering, I’m looking forward to food and conversation I can understand.
The highlights of the last couple of days were a visit to Assisi, birthplace of the saint of the same name, and then one to Siena and the Museo della Tortura, a museum dedicated to torture. Visiting the two in sequence was a fitting metaphor for the week among the yoginis—peaceful reflection punctuated by unimaginable acts of cruelty that tested my will and spirit.
A time for reflection
Despite my sarcasm, I generally like hanging out with yoga practitioners. They tend to be creative and tolerant and every yoga class I ever took had a girl to guy ratio of about 15 to 1. I used to go several times a week before sports injuries and arthritis made it difficult for me to take classes regularly. I still incorporate lots of yoga concepts into my workout routine, but I miss the classes and the view from the back of the room.
The yoga instructor who sponsored this retreat is a favorite of my wife’s. He’s in his mid-twenties but showed the wisdom of a much older man when a couple of days ago, he ruled that the group should observe four hours of silence after class. I’m on the fringe of the group so he whispered his reasoning to me in passing.
“They just won’t shut up!”
I put my hands together, made a praying motion and nodded my thanks, “Namaste.”
For those of you who dismiss yoga as an eccentric notion, imagine if your job description allowed you to prompt a room full of women in Hard Tail gear to assume a variety of twisting poses and direct that they remain silent for extends periods of time. Right?
Assisi
Two days ago, on a whim, several of us took a car to Assisi, the Italian mountaintop village that was home to St. Francis, the monk who founded the Franciscan order in the 1200s. I didn’t know much about the famed saint, but when my wife suggested the day trip away from chatter about shopping and chakras, I embraced the gift from God and tendered an offering to the taxi driver.
By nature, I’m not particularly religious unless I’m all-in on the turn with a weak draw or shoving light on the bubble of a high buy-in tournament. In such circumstances, of course, I’m a true believer and will call upon the Higher Power with the conviction of a man reborn. Most times, though, I’m of the “live and let live” faith and believe that whatever makes you happy and doesn’t involve the infliction of suffering on others is a worthy calling.
Given my lack of regular Sunday schooling, my knowledge of St. Francis was limited to the portraits I’d seen with those of Christ and Kennedy in the homes of my Catholic friends growing up. The trio can be found under every good Catholic roof throughout New England, and by association, I knew I was going to a place of uncommon sanctity like Jerusalem or Hyannis Port.
After a two-hour drive, we stopped at the base of the town and visited Basilica of Santa Maria degli Angeli, a magnificent church which completely encloses a rustic 9th century chapel, the Porziuncula. It was here that St. Francis first heard the call of God, restored this hutch with his hands and started the Franciscan movement. Among pilgrims, the modest church is sacred place and I got my first look at the nuns and friars that we’d see throughout the day. You can see the Porziuncula in the photo below; it’s the small structure located at the end of the aisle below.
The outside of the big church
The little one inside
I’ve attended services at local churches and toured famous cathedrals like Westminster Abbey and Notre Dame, but those worshippers were like tourists at Graceland compared to the piety I found here. Inside the chapel were humble friars and nuns, kneeling and praying with clenched hands and conviction you could feel. I may be a heathen but I respect people of passion, especially those who can turn their back on material things and work for their fellow man. I certainly can’t.
We continued up to the town of Assisi, which is located on the side of Mt. Subasio. The village consists of a large church complex at one end and a couple of medieval castles keeping watch over the townspeople in-between. The entire village is a celebration of the life of St. Francis, who, at a young age renounced his family’s wealth, took a vow of poverty and committed himself to the word of God and the betterment of his fellowman. He’s credited with multiple selfless acts, inspirational sermons and the first acknowledged case of stigmata.
The widescreen view
The Church complex
The complex includes an Upper Church, a Lower Church and the Tomb of St. Francis and his closest followers. I wasn’t allowed to take photographs of the interior but you can get a sense of it from these photos I pulled from the web.
Upper Church
Lower Church
Tomb of Assisi
The interior of the Upper Church is decorated with a series of frescos recounting St. Francis’s life, and there was one striking painting of the Saint preaching to a flock of attentive birds which gave me pause. St. Francis was keeping their interest with scripture rather than bread crumbs, but I resolved to be more respectful to the next homeless guy I see conversing with birds in the park across from Club One. He may have more clout than I’ve bargained for.
“There’s a Lexus across the street…”
Touring the Church complex and reading about the Saint’s life was a humbling experience. According to the brochures, Francis died at 44 and was canonized by Pope Gregory IX less than two years after his death. In a time when the primary form of communication was word of mouth, the Holy See acknowledged his sainthood without hesitation or debate. Impressive. Even Major League Baseball makes you wait five years after retirement for eligibility into the Hall of Fame and puts it to a vote of the writers.
Doing the math, I felt ashamed of my life accomplishments. Within 46 years of St. Francis’s birth, the most powerful institution on the planet validated his life on Earth and beyond. At 46, I’m running a card room in downtown Fresno, ducking state regulators and wondering if anyone even reads what I write. I like to think I have ambition and purpose, but in the aura of the Saint’s greatness, I felt insignificant.
But what’s this? St. Francis is the patron saint of animals, birds and the environment? With three stray cats and a peacock in my house and the hybrid in my driveway, I felt at least some connection to his calling. And upon further reflection, it dawned on me that like the Saint, I’ve spent most of my life combating poverty. Admittedly, the first 26 years focused on my own economic despair, and the last 20 feeding and clothing impoverished women, but surely these selfless acts count for something? Think globally, act locally right?
It was a weak attempt at rationalization. My selfless acts notwithstanding, I think it’s unlikely I’ll ever be accepted into any organized faith, much less canonized by one. Frankly, if I’m lucky enough to get to the Gates of Heaven, I intend to go through like Shaundeeb through customs—moving quickly, avoiding eye contact and hoping that no authority asks for a closer look at my baggage. Best that I just acknowledge the greatness of the man and move on…
After buying a few souvenirs, we left the church complex and wandered around the village. The town itself is a series of genuinely old buildings and new buildings designed to look old. One of the things I really like about Europe is the respect given to old structures. To me, there’s something cool about buildings pre-dating Columbus with interiors renovated in modern style. Walking through Assisi and other towns in Europe, every few yards there’s another “Oh, wow” view that makes any path interesting.
Standard stuff
Monks
Also available in grey
“I’ll be at the bar by the entrance to the rampart.”
We spent the balance of the day wandering around the village, browsing shops and taking photos. Around 7p, we met our driver for the ride home, and just as we headed down the mountain from the village, a flash thunderstorm soaked the area. My fellow travelers congratulated themselves on their “good timing” but I couldn’t help but thinking if God himself stared down, saw me leaving and decided a good flush was in order.
Siena
The following day a group of us headed into Siena, yet another medieval town, albeit 80 kilometers closer. I knew sienna as the color of the interior of my wife’s car, which is to say I knew even less than I did about Assisi. According to the guidebook, Siena is a village within a fortress and home to Piazza del Campo, reportedly the best town center in Italy. The book gushed about its unparalleled charm, incredible basilicas and many buildings of historical import.
More to my interest, the guide noted that the town’s symbol is a she-wolf, it’s home to the world’s oldest surviving bank (Banca Monte dei Paschi di Siena, a former pawnshop) and every August, they fill the Piazza with dirt and hold the Palio di Siena, a wild horse race in the town center. Even with that sales pitch, Siena was a bit of a letdown—it was more crowded and less spiritual than Assisi. To its credit, there were striking churches and towers and better shops and restaurants, but for me it didn’t have the same gravitas as Assisi.
Still pretty cool
The best town center in Italy
When we reached the Piazza (above), the group leader talked my wife into taking a couple of pictures for a forthcoming yoga book. A few years ago, my wife appeared in a black and white yoga calendar in a twisted headstand pose. It’s an artistic and tasteful photo, but she’s not wearing a stitch of clothing, so it caused a few awkward moments when one of my favorite health food haunts back home decided to a full-size poster of the original on its wall.
This photo shoot was a bit more tame—a simple double lotus pose, fully-clothed—so I took the opportunity to wander around. I turned down a random alley and happened upon the Museo della Tortura (Museum of Torture). The brochure offered a simple pitch “Terrible instruments of torture in history.” and claimed I’d see “more than 100 original instruments produced for causing pain and death. An authentic anthology of horrors and human cruelty.” Ok, I’ll bite. I dug out five euro for a ticket.
Whatever. Not my first dungeon.
The museum comprised several dungeon-like rooms filled with pieces of ancient torture equipment, all presented with a graphic write-up of their use and effect in Italian and English. It’s shocking what the human mind can conjure up to exact repentance or revenge and I made mental notes in the off chance I’m ever diagnosed with terminal cancer. In such a spot, a better man might look to the afterlife with heart full of forgiveness, but I’m not that guy. I intend to settle some scores. Call it my “fucket” list.
“What? You don’t remember me? Third grade…Roosevelt School…recess? That ring a bell? Perhaps one more turn of the screw…”
All of the items looked highly effective for sorting out harlots and heretics and reflected a time in which a good public hanging was considered quality entertainment. Standouts for me included the Judas Cradle, a sharpened pyramid upon which the naked victim was slowly lowered, and Flaying, the equivalent of being skinned alive. Ok, that would make me talk. Some were amusing even in their horror—the Goat’s Tongue, in which the victim was tied to a fixed spot, his feet immobilized and salted and a tethered goat left to lick the victim’s flesh clean off. But the one that really made me squirm was the Pear of Anguish, a disturbing device which can be inserted into any of several bodily orifices (depending upon the offense) and expanded. Ouch.
Visitors aren’t allowed to take photographs and a place whose inventory included hanging cages, head crushers and breast rippers doesn’t inspire disrespect of posted rules. In the interest of the continuing education of 2R readers, though, I pulled some photos from the museum’s website for viewing here.
“Mind the pedicure!”
A good deterrent
Several items were oriented toward public humiliation—say you hadn’t abided by your husband’s will or failed to make timely payment on a gambling debt. I liked the Barrel Pillory, which you wore around town subject to scorn and ridicule. Likewise the Shrew’s Fiddle, a violin shaped object with hole for the victim’s head and arms, was an impressive piece. I made particular note of one item, a “Good for nothing’s necklace” which was a chain of weighted cards and dice for those who had incurred gambling debts to wear in shame.
The Barrel for you, sir!
Head goes in the big hole
Some items weren’t particularly frightening. Frankly, the Inquisitorial Chair looked more comfortable than the piece of junk behind my desk at Club One. I considered offering the bastard to the museum for a display but I couldn’t find “swivel” and “Office Max” in my English/Italian dictionary. And, what would a museum like this be without a chastity belt?
Mine's worse, trust me.
“Do you know a locksmith who can keep his mouth shut?”
After I left the museum, I rejoined the group in the Piazza but kept my detour to myself. I didn't know how they'd take to me talking breathless about such things as evisceration or impalement. My discretion was unnecessary. In keeping with the theme of the afternoon, they tortured me all the way back to the car by lingering in tacky shops they wouldn’t give a second look in any American city. I kicked myself for not grabbing a bull-whip or heretic's fork when I had the chance.
Back at the entrance to the town, we were waiting for our driver and the yogi talked me into posing for a couple photographs for a book he was writing. It's been awhile, but my ego took over. I tossed him a couple of poses for the book.
Trikonasana, obv
Overall, if I had to choose, I’d take Assisi over Siena. Spiritual power and presence vs. better food and infernal devices? Let’s put it this way. The sister cities of Assisi are Bethlehem and San Francisco. The sister cities of Siena are Buffalo, New York and Weiner, Germany. Which would you pick?
We returned from Siena and packed for our 6a departure from Tuscany to Florence to Frankfurt to Los Angeles. The last leg commenced with yet another crazed taxi driver who didn’t speak a lick of English and ended with some little mutt at LAX sniffing my bags like he was preparing to mark them as his own. Two weeks ago, I’d have chased the cur away, pelted his chubby TSA handler with my cell phone and spent the night in an airport holding cell. But that was then, this is now…the new, tolerant me complimented the agent on her fine-looking partner and cleared customs without incident.
Tanned, rested and surprisingly tolerant…
Edmond
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