Assisi is sublime. Florence is the third circle of hell.

I left a piece of my soul in Assisi the last time I was in Italy, and there it resides, still. Happily. Assisi is situated on a hill of olive trees and grapevines and from the top of this hill rests Rocca Maggiore, and you can see much of rolling Umbria. My Dad and I got kinda drunk at dinner, and left my Mom at the hotel (where she was happiest) and climbed up there. Magnifico.

Have to say that so far, one of the best parts of this trip is the increasing habit my Dad and I have of getting kinda drunk at dinner, leaving Mom at the hotel to fall asleep and then he and I go wandering (wobbily) in whatever city we happen to be in that night. This has been actually cool as hell.

My father is full of random facts. Somebody asked me a couple weeks ago how I knew to identify Cassiopeia in the sky. It was from Dad, and I didnàt remember that until Assisi, when he re-pointed out various constellations and how to find others based on their relationships in the sky. He remembers showing me Saturn with his theodolite. He also knows weird architecture facts from the medieval period, and can identify a lot of trees and plants I had never seen. My Dad is full of weird facts, and you get him buzzed enough, he will tell them to you.

Most of you do not know my father, but he says roughly a (short) paragraph of words per day. Every word he chooses has been thought upon and brevity is a virtue. Or heàs just been married to my mother for 36 years, and he has good adaptive skills.

(I was ready to kill them because they were arguing over stupid shit. They have stopped, and it is all fine and peachy now. Solitude is still in short supply, but my mom seems to take it less personally when I ask her to quit crowding. Dad doesnàt crowd. She is moaning less about having to walk places and he is unwinding some and not so glued to the guidebook.)

Assisi was blissful and olive leaves smell sharp and clean. The entire town is a medieval rabbit warren, with small little grottoes in the stones devoted to San Francesco. Little paintings or glass mosaics, usually with flowers and plants. The Basilica of San Francesco is beautiful, with the upper basilica lined with the frescoes of Giotto showing the saintàs life. The lower basilica is also colorfully frescoed, some by Cimabue, some much much later. The crypt is unchanged with Francis buried under the altar, surrounded by the tombs of his four closest friends. There is no creepy body part business in San Francesco. (Unlike San Domenico up the road, which has the head and the finger of Santa Caterina.) It is peaceful and quiet and, unlike the Vatican, a place of contemplation and prayer. It is not a zoo.

It is really a wonderful place. A holy place.

You heard it from your ex-pagan lazy Buddhist. Who was confirmed at age 16, after St. Francis. So I am not really unbiased. It is beautiful and respectful and very very peaceful.

In Siena, I ate a chunk of pecorio cheese and a little roll in the sun on the Campo, and this was also bliss. Love Siena, too. They had a soccer game: Siena v. Milan and the city was NUTS afterward (it TIED...no wonder soccer does not fly in the United States). Dad and I proceeded to kill 2 bottles of wine and roam the city with the partying soccer fans. This was fantastic.

Florence, on the other hand, sucks ass.

Iàm sorry, I am aware that this is heresy, but I cannot stand this city.

Understand me... I stood before Angeloàs _Dusk_ and _Dawn_ today, the sculptures done for Cosimo and Lorenzo de Medici. These are exquisite and I was moved at their strength and sort-of perfection (Angelo really couldnàt stand women and it shows). Left "unfinished", they show the best of him, they show how he was 500 years before his time in some ways and there will never be such artistic perfection like it in realism again. There cannot be. This is my story and I am sticking to it.

In Firenze, is more art here than possibly any one other city in the western world, or even some parts east like St. Petersburg.

There are six-point-oh-two-times-ten-to-the-twenty-third people here. AND THEY ARE ALL SHOPPING.

I like big cities (though not as much as I love its opposite, the desert). Big raving metropolises are wonderful. (Metropolii?) Love New York. Love Chicago. Love Rome. Hate Florence.

This city is full of half a billion people and they are all looking for that perfect leather purse or jacket or belt that says Made In Italy.

I just canàt stand the people. I started to explain to my father the significance and history of Ghibertiàs bronze doors to the Battistero, (which are gorgeous), and I had a freakin crowd of fat tacky Americans start asking me questions. (My mother told me to ask for money. She is nothing if not practical and looking out for me.)

They are just everywhere, you cannot get away from all the people. Doesnàt bug me in any other major city, but it really makes me nuts here.

Hate Florence.

Fortunately, we are here for the night only. We saw the Duomo already, and the Medici Chapel (to see the Angelo sculptures). Did the Uffizi, to see the great masters of course. I plan to skip the Bargello, much as I love Donatello. I spent twenty minutes deciding what marbled paper books to buy (see? I am nothing if not predictable), and I, too, bought my first purse in 12 years and it took me 6 minutes to do so. I am pretty much good. Tomorrow we head to Bologna, where I have never been.

And they are now hungry (as am I), so it is time to go.

Hope all is peachy in your worlds.
-me