The Long Trip Home: Zuppi Santi (Soggy Saints)

Rain Crazed on Malioboro
by Barrie Lie-Birchall

A Letter to Chris from Quito
by Paul Goyette

Storefronts: a photojournal
by David McLaughlin

Zuppi Santi (Soggy Saints)
by Corrie Cook

April was a rather damp month in Italy. It seemed no matter where my roommate Erin and I went, we brought the rain with us. Milan, Lago di Como, Bologna, Tolentino, Fabriano -- if we went there, it rained. Our Italian amici started a theory about us: "Quando le americane sono fuori, piove." (When the Americans are out, it rains.) So far, all our travels had proven their theory to be correct. Partly to defend our nationality and partly because we were genuinely worried it might be true, we had to find some counter evidence. Our next trip was to Assisi, the home of San Francesco, a saint known for his simple life and close connection to nature. If any place should be blessed with a pleasant climate, surely this city would be.

Our next trip was to Assisi, the home of San Francesco, a saint known for his simple life and close connection to nature. If any place should be blessed with a pleasant climate, surely this city would be.

We should have known better. From the moment we made the decision to visit Assisi, the clouds conspired against us. For three consecutive mornings we woke before the sunrise to catch the 6 A.M. bus, and every morning, it poured. Too stubborn to give up, but with optimism as rumpled as our bed head, we stumbled from between warm covers the fourth morning. The two of us thrust our hands through the open windows to make sure we could believe our eyes. It was dry! Today was the day. We scrambled to gather a sack lunch, pull on a good pair of walking shoes, and get to the bus station on time. After a three-hour ride, we stepped off the bus in Assisi, our fingers still prune-free. This could be the trip to show our amici we weren't so wet behind the ears...at least in one sense.

We had read one guidebook that told of a tiny dirt path behind the Rocca Maggiore (Big Fortress) of Assisi. After checking out Giotto's frescoes in the Basilica di San Francesco, Erin and I decided on lunch with a view. We climbed and climbed the winding streets, determined to make it to the highest point of the city where the Rocca and our myseterious path were firmly planted. Meter after meter of dry paving-stones passed beneath our feet, and we smiled at the thought of having pusposefully left the umbrellas at home. Our legs ached even before we'd hiked half way up, but upon reaching the top, our sore muscles and shallow breaths were rewarded by the incredible view. We had climbed even higher than the Basilica, higher than the highest point of the highest tower.

Behind the Rocca was the dirt path, just as the guidebook had promised. With its thick, stone wall to our right and a steep drop to our left, we didn't dare take our eyes off the narrow path for long. Two low rocks looked like an ideal spot to eat. We unpacked sandwiches and bottled water and let our eyes sweep over the expanse of the countryside below. This side of the Rocca faced only countryside, a patchwork with every shade of green, flowing to meet the horizon. While we peeled carrots from a friend's garden for our lunch, we laughed at sheep grazing in the valley below, like tiny marbles rolling on a brilliant green carpet.

After lunch, Erin and I walked the path back to the Rocca's leveled ground and talked about which part of town to visit next. As we rounded the sharp stone corner of the fortress, we saw her. She sat next to an English travel guide and was wearing Nikes—obviously American. Hungry to speak English with someone new, we approached her and introduced ourselves. She was a med student from Boston, and she was traveling through Italy for the month. She had just eaten cookies for lunch. It was only her second week. When she asked of our situation we proudly told her we'd spent four enchanting months in Italy and had fallen in love with the country. It was the relaxed, welcoming attitude of everyone (except the post office workers) that had sucked us in like the last saucy strand of pasta, too good to leave on the plate.

Then it happened. The first heavy drop splattered between Erin and me. We smiled knowingly at one another and looked up into the sky. Monstrous black clouds had appeared in an instant. Just as quickly, the heavy clouds dropped buckets, rain so thick you could swim through it. The American med student, inexperienced in our amici's theory, put her hands over her head, curled her back, and let out a little scream. If we had learned anything from our earlier soggy adventures, it was to let wetness just happen. Somehow the feeling of cold water dripping down the back of your neck, between warm clothes and once dry skin, seems a bit more bearable if you don't try to fight it.

The clouds grew blacker and thunder clapped as we raced down the streets from the Rocca to more protected parts of town. Erin and I roared with laugheter as we imagined the faces of our amici when they learned of our latest rainy adventure. In such a holy city with such a holy regard for nature, we must have seemed like heathens. Perhaps to teach us a lesson, the hail started -- stinging hail that bounced like buoyant marbles under our feet. Alas, any lesson was lost on us. We only laughed harder.

This side of the Rocca faced only countryside, a patchwork with every shade of green, flowing to meet the horizon.

The med student didn't seem to find it funny. She raced down alleys and twisting walkways, searching for some shelter from the downpour. The ancient streets were too narrow for overhangs, and all the businesses and stores were closed for the traditional midday break of a huge meal and a deep nap. With soggy handshakes, we parted with our newfound friend. She grabbed her pant legs like a monk lifting his habit and waded down the alley to her hostel.

Erin and I started in the opposite direction and passed through the city walls toward the bus stop. By the time we reached the meeting place, a nearby shop had opened. Testing our most polite Italian, we asked the curly haried woman behind the counter if we could get out of the storm by standing in the corner of her tiny cafe. As she nodded, we smiled through the droplets slipping off our noses and promised not to take a seat as neither of us could afford a drink on our student budgets.

The two of us huddled into a corner and silently laughed at the miserable site we must have been. Soaked clothes hung shapelessly on our frames, and drenched locks of hair clung to our foreheads and faces. At the bar across the room, a balding man talked to the curly haired woman between sips of espresso. A white apron with pink and red stains covered his pasta-dough belly. Their accents were thick and, though we couldn't get every word, we did manage to distinguish "foreigners," "young," and a colloquial phrase which means "what a pity." After eyeing our puddled corner for several minutes, he took a step toward us and asked what we'd been up to.

Surprising him with our Italian, we told him the whole wet story. He chuckled and scratched his bristle of a beard with thick fingers. Then he asked when we'd eaten last. We told him we had just finished lunch before the rain came, but he wouldn't hear it. Perhaps fooled by our mangy appearance, he insisted that we order something, his treat. Firmly but kindly he ignored our excuses about the bus coming soon. Finally, giving in - but not too much - we asked for two espressi. He nodded approvingly and asked the curly haired woman to make the tiny coffees "to go," since we had to catch our bus.

While waiting for the drinks, we practiced more Italian. Our provider was from Perugia, the home of Baci, our favorite Italian chocolates. He worked as a butcher here in the outskirts of Assisi. Soon a young man in a floor-length apron brought two covered Dixie cups to the table. Overcome by the warm hospitality of the Italian people, if not the Italian weather, we kissed the kind butcher on each cheek. As we reached to shake his hand, he slipped a Baci into each of our palms. "Per mangiare," he said, "Domani." (To eat, for tomorrow.) He smiled shyly and tucked his hands into the apron strings around his belly.

On the ride home, the bus driver had to hang our tickets to dry before he could punch them. We each claimed a seat in the back of the bus and quickly fell asleep despite the cold, wet clothes sticking to our skin. Between strange dreams about friendly butchers made out of chocolate and giant med students playing marbles with sheep, we caught glimpses of a brightening sky through the bus windows. By the time we arrived back in our hometown, the sun was shining, not a puddle in site.

As the only Americans in Macerata, a small university town on the Eastern coast of Italy, we seemed to stick out even when we did our best to fit in. The night we returned from Assisi, we could only imagine the conclusions Maceratese were forming as we slopped down perfectly dry streets in shoes that squished water and coat tales that dripped puddles. Yet we smiled. Sun or rain, wet or dry, Italy is captivating. Only in Italia -- where butchers are fairy godfathers and fortresses have hidden paths -- could we rejoice in our amici's friendly teasing: "Quando le americane sono fuori, piove."