A Visit to Assisi

The following is another excerpt deleted from my memoir, LANDSCAPE IN LAVENDER, which will be published by Spark Press in June, 2026.

Toward the end of winter in Paris, in 1972, I spied a poster stapled to a kiosk on the boulevard. Written in French, it invited students on a tour of Italy during “la Sainte Semaine,” or Holy Week. This seemed like a perfect opportunity because I longed to see the Renaissance frescoes we were learning about in my art history class, and especially Michelangelo’s “David.” Thus, when spring break rolled around, I found myself at the Gare de Lyon, ready to board a train to Florence. Gathered on the platform, the other participants included twenty or so French Catholic students, mostly girls, with a handful of boys thrown in.

Among the boys, a friendly young Canadian named Kevin smiled at me when we shook hands. He and I quickly fell into effortless conversation, free of the barriers I was used to from boys. When we shared a cappuccino at a little café in the shadow of the grand old “Duomo,” as I learned the cathedral of Florence is called, our easy rapport reminded me of my friends at home. Gazing into his kind eyes, an under-current of attraction buzzed between us, but I discounted it, telling myself that I was misjudging the situation. I wasn’t bold enough to risk rejection by caressing his cheek or trying to kiss him. What if he got angry and took offense?

After a couple of delectable days touring the Florentine masterpieces, it was time to head to Assisi by motorcoach. The engine groaned and whined as we climbed switchbacks to the hilltop town, arriving late on Thursday afternoon, the day before Good Friday. There we were hosted in an actual working convent with the impressive double-leafed iron door of a fortress. Dinner was served at long, rough wooden tables in the refectory, and the rustic Italian fare was fresh and wholesome, albeit a bit bland. I wanted to say, “pass the salt,” but then I remembered that the nuns, in their penitence, had taken a vow to abstain from it.

After dinner, several of us made our way up the narrow, winding medieval streets to Assisi’s central piazza, high on the hill’s bony ridge.

“Do not fail to return before we lock the door at ten o’clock prompt!” the leading nun intoned sternly, before we left. Insolently nodding our heads to assure her we would obey, we headed for the picturesque fountain in the center of the piazza, where a young Italian regaled the crowd on his guitar, taking requests. The night was agreeably warm, the cosmopolitan atmosphere was immensely convivial, and we were all in high spirits. Much as I was enjoying myself, though, I couldn’t help but feel mechanical hands moving inexorably across the faces of invisible clocks, and I was nervous.

“We have to keep track of the time,” I reminded one of my companions, tapping my watch.

 “Oh, Brooks, don’t be such a bore,’ she said. “Come on, let’s stay a while longer.”

 I glanced around at my mostly French companions. Dressed in jeans and casual blouses, often with a silk scarf tied just so, many of the girls oozed the effortless chic that seemed to be their French birthright. Kevin joined easily in their joie-de-vivre, his face turned away from me, as he laughed and sang along with the others. As they all lit their cigarettes, flicking ashes dismissively on the ground, I felt boorish and square. Wanting to stay and enjoy the ambiance as much as they did, I wondered why I was so tightly wound, so unable to cut loose. Like my mother, I had always been careful to play by the rules, but, like Manie, the French girls exuded a haughty and rebellious independence, a contempt for authority that I longed to share. Hoping that maybe they could teach me how to be cool, I decided to play along. One song led to another until I looked at my watch and discovered that it was already 11:30. 

“We’ve got to head back” I said, “It’s way past ten o’clock!” This time the others reluctantly agreed, so we zigzagged downhill through the cobblestone lanes until we arrived at the convent gate. The double iron door was closed, a heavy bolt pulled tight through its two dungeon-like iron rings.  What were we to do?  The natural leader of our group, a stocky Parisian girl with long black hair, whom I later learned was the daughter of an important French diplomat, took charge. Cupping her mouth with her hands, she yelled up, in French, at a shuttered window high on the wall above the door. Nothing happened, so she yelled again. Still the shutters refused to budge. 

On her third attempt, the shutters suddenly burst open with a loud clack and Mother Superior appeared in the window. Arms spread as wide as Christ on the cross, one hand on each shutter, her impressive black wimple crowned her irate head. I felt sure that at any moment she might take off from the window and soar over us like Sally Field in “The Flying Nun.” Instead, her mouth opened and a long volley of furious but melodious Italian spewed forth from her throat at high volume. While I understood not a word of what she said, I felt as if we were privileged to be witnessing an invitation-only performance of Rossini’s “The Barber of Seville.”

 While she struggled with all her might not to take the Lord’s name in vain, I wondered if we were doomed to lie down on the cold pavement all night long. As if to confirm my fears, the volley of Italian stopped as suddenly as it had commenced, the shutters snapped shut, and the night returned to lovely silence. Then, just as I was imagining how hard and pebbly the cobblestones would feel against our poor backs, one of the two doors opened wide enough to reveal a slot of light, and a single, disembodied hand appeared in the gap to beckon us inside. 

The next morning was Good Friday, which was the perfect occasion to reflect on what I thought of as our transgression the night before, when we had disobeyed Mother Superior’s strict orders. I had let the French girls convince me to loosen up enough to enjoy a night out on the piazza, but what had it brought us besides loud disapproval?  Of course, I could have just as easily thrilled to the fact that we had gotten away with it, arguably even with aplomb. Although that thought did occur to me, my superego won the day, reinforcing my conviction that it was wisest to stay in my lane and follow the rules, just as  my goody two-shoes mother would have done. Either way, I was glad when we left the next day for Rome.