After a late breakfast of eggs, bread and butter and fruit, we left our hosts, whom we would see again at the wedding, for Siena, where we had a pleasant two-day stay at the hotel with its expansive pool, and an open-air terrace restaurant serving superb food, during which time we explored the old city’s narrow streets, visiting an upscale pasticceria and the Sanctuary of St. Catharine of Siena, where a nun admonished Louise for her bare arms. We admired Il Campo, a bowl-shaped central gathering place bounded on one side by the very tall Torre del Mangia (mangiare= to eat), built in 1340 and named for its former gluttonous and presumably overweight bell-ringer, and then joined a long queue waiting to see the Duomo, begun in 1296, but left unfinished, with the existing church planned as a transept to a far grander edifice. At the pool on our second day, an unprepossessing ten-year-old in a white dress was being cajoled unsuccessfully by eagerly indulgent relatives and an impatient photographer into posing for photographs celebrating her First Communion. We left for supper before we could see if her petulant pout ever cleared. I suspect it did not.
On our way to Assisi, we drove on the autostrada along the north shore of Lake Trasimeno, where I remembered reading that Hannibal’s invading army in 217 B.C. ambushed and annihilated a much larger Roman army sent against him. Assisi, another hill-top town, this time in Umbria, is itself a revelation: from a distance its rows of ascending terraced streets demanded a photo stop. An excited Swiss lady in the car in front did likewise. Assisi is the birthplace of St. Francis (1181-1226) and a place of pilgrimage for many visitors to the impressive Basilica named for this humble friar and patron saint of Italy, founder of the Franciscan Order, famous for his work among lepers and for his love of nature. The town’s streets, full of discreet souvenir shops for the faithful, provide many vantage points from which to admire breathtaking views of the surrounding countryside on the western flank of Mt. Subiaco. It is from Assisi that my nephew recruited the services of the priest visiting from New Zealand who was to conduct the wedding that we had come to witness on the other side of Mount Subiaco.
The Romantik Hotel can only be reached by way of an unpaved and pitted winding mountain road, on which some tight curves are not wide enough for two oncoming cars to pass without extreme caution and speed reduced from the posted 30 kph speed limit. I drove in low gear nearly all the way. The hotel, apparently originally a staging post on a pilgrim route, is isolated and remote, open for only 10 months of the year, as snowfalls are often heavy. Many guests had already arrived: the groom and his bride, his sister and brother, my brother and my nephew’s parents. We had a spacious room with an antechamber across from a smaller room for Audrey’s family. Food was served al fresco in a tent outside the ristorante, from which we had a spectacular view of the surrounding mountains, facing the sun declining in glory.
