I’m writing this while on regional trains moving through Tuscany, on my way to – and from (hey, writing takes awhile) - a two week teaching appointment for an
that has a campus site in an old palazzo in the city center. This is/was the second of two such stints scheduled for a class held in this small town called
This will be the sixth time I have visited. I first came to see the place at the behest of the college I'm currently teaching for...but then, around 7 years ago, the visit's purpose was for me to see how my own women's college students could consider taking part in this sister school's program. Later, after getting two of my students to actually go and also after moving to Rome, I took the bus/train combo to Sansepolcro to visit them. I've since visited the sister college's program director for a girls' weekend of basically eating, touring and talking. I took my spouse there last fall so that we could use it as a kind of home base from which to tour other small Tuscan towns in the vicinity, and by the time I post this entry, I will have visited and stayed twice in order to teach an art/art history course.
By this point, I should know the place backwards and forwards.
But I can't say that I do.
I can’t really claim to know more than one inhabitant. I have walked the streets, visited most cultural and religious sites, and dined at most of the eateries.
Towns like this one use these message boards for advertising as well as death announcements and memorial posts.
Despite the not-knowing, and the simultaneous knowing, it's hard to not love the place, honestly.
I wonder if this is true of almost any small town, with its natural sense of intimacy and coziness. Is this my middle-age self speaking, praising the quietude, the safety, the homeyness? I am no doubt clocked as a visitor, yet I am treated with a degree of familiarity that rarely emerges in a bigger urban center. And because I never want to not feel welcome, I do my best to be friendly and polite on a level that far exceeds my Roman self’s conduct. Kindness seems to take me farther here.
Like a number of other small towns in Tuscany and beyond, the old walls are more or less intact. Sansepolcro is welcoming gardening enthusiasts to work their own allotments on top of this broad stretch of the wall. It's a lovely walk.
The very quiet city center streets are mostly flat, and highly suitable for wandering. I've done a lot of it, and its pretty easy when you can go from one entry gateway to another in about 20 minutes. But I like to take longer, and to explore the dead-end streets, the archaeology of building history, and find the occasional graffiti.
And unlike in the big Italian cities, the graffiti artists go small and subtle. There is a troubadour that lurks here, with just a Sharpie.
"I miss you like bread" is my new favorite romanticism.
Sansepolcro became a kind of visual resource to study during my time there.
Come here with your camera - you know, with a standard black body and a long lens, looking all professional (whether you are or not) - and a local citizen will stop you, as he did me, to say: if you're looking for interesting things to see here, turn left and then left again, and you will find four arches.
And so I did.
Then walk down another certain street, he said, and you can find a mural.
And so I did that too.
Is it corny to assume some responsibility for treating this small place like a worthy adventure?
I remain unapologetic.
Sansepolcro’s tale of origin (every place here has one, to be sure) anchors it in the trade of Christian artifacts, with a pair of pilgrims stopping there and loving it so much that they elect to stay, installing a piece of Christ’s sepulchre on the site. It is allegedly still underneath the main church.
Sansepolcro’s most famous native son is painter Piero della Francesca, who did what any good Italian son does: maybe strayed from home occasionally for work, but always returned. The town therefore still has a few noteworthy paintings by him.
The Risen Christ fresco was termed ‘the most beautiful’ painting in the world by writer Aldous Huxley. It clearly reflects the town’s story of origin as it pictures Christ arising out of the tomb, stepping out and looking beyond - at us - while guards hired to watch over the place sleep (or fall backwards, in one case…you view this, and be the judge…and try not to count the numbers of legs and bodies with the goal of making everything match up, because it just doesn’t, for some reason).
Piero’s Legend of the True Cross in Arezzo’s San Francesco church is also a tour de force, celebrating the story of the cross of Christ’s crucifixion, thereby anointing the artist as a kind of essayist on the power of relics.
Sansepolcro’s other famous native son is Luca Pacioli, the inventor of modern bookkeeping. Piero first taught him a thing or two about mathematics (the artist wrote his own treatises on the subject) before he progressed to creating a codified practice of money management for business owners.
Like most towns of Tuscany and elsewhere in the country, Sansepolcro hosts an annual balestra, a festival of medieval origins, in which competitions in such sports as archery are staged, citizens dress in period costume, and nice, wholesome fun is had by all. There are two cinemas – with four showings each per week, one of which is in English – several restaurants (including one Chinese, one Japanese, and a small handful of kebab joints), a few active churches (with a number of them deconsecrated and sometimes repurposed), and three small museums dedicated to stained glass, herbal remedies and the town itself.
The stained glass museum has a life-size (!) replica of Leonardo's Last Supper fresco.
In the civic museum is Piero della Francesca’s altarpiece depicting the Madonna of the Misericordia with Saints.
The frame for this polyptych no longer exists, so the neutral gray structure replicates the layout of the altarpiece paintings.
The high-foreheaded mother of God (having a plucked hairline, as was fashionable for women of the early Renaissance) shelters the faithful under her voluminous blue cloak, offering protection and prayerful intervention. Commissioned by the Misericordia confraternity, sometimes depicted wearing hoods, purposefully anonymous in their mission, this organization still functions today, dedicating itself to the care and transport of the sick and dying. This panel is thought to depict a female member or two of the organization, shown in the forms of an older and younger woman kneeling just to the right of the oversized Madonna.
The Misericorida (misery-CHORD-ee-uh) confraternity (historically a brotherhood of laypersons who wanted to voluntarily serve their community) operates ambulance services in many Italian towns. On your travels here, you may have seen the ambulances or hearses with that word on the front (backwards, so you can read it in your rearview mirror).
Misericordia means ‘mercy.’ An amplified definition of mercy is to show compassion, as well as forgiveness, benevolence and kindness.
After visiting the deconsecrated church as well as the currently active church of the Misericordia Confraternity, walking past the modern office for the organization, seeing traditional hooded garments in an historical display inside an oratory, and stumbling upon the town’s ambulance station, I have been contemplating Sansepolcro’s focus on the concept of mercy.
My personal experiences with citizens have only reinforced this impression of the importance of communal kindness.
The B&B owner has insisted on carrying my art supplies-laden bags up the four flights of stairs to my room upon each of my arrivals. When I sprung my husband’s weekend visit on her, she didn’t blink. Cool water taps – naturale or frizzante – for the adjoining restaurant are perennially available for filling provided bottles to take to the room. The breakfasts are, particularly compared to Italian standards, generous, even if emphatically on the sweet side. If that's your thing, then know that what you are having is made in-house.
I often breakfasted alone here at Fiorentino's (they only have five rooms above this dining room). This was utterly fine by me. A quiet morning with some classical piano music to accompany my hot tea, almost every single day. That's good enough to prompt some revision of my routine at home (well, if I could screen out the constant noise of Roman city life...which is impossible).
The pizza of my dreams, with sausage, red onion and gorgonzola cheese. Spicy pepper oil seems to be very much a Tuscan condiment. It is pretty customary to ask for 'oleo piccante.'
When I wanted a pizza I couldn’t find on a restaurant menu, the owner shrugged his shoulders and agreed to make *that* pizza, and because the night was a super slow one, I was urged to stay as long as I wanted in a prominent position on the restaurant patio so that the few potential customers walking by would see proof of being open. If I was dealt a favor, I felt obliged to repay. Days later, the same business gave me a sweet seat in the middle of the Valentine’s dinner bustle, treating me to not just a fine dinner but also a show, of sorts, with this constant parade of locals out on the town for the holiday, and then discounted the bill. Maybe they thought I was stagging on Valentine’s day and felt sorry for me?
Not an ordinary order for me, but beef slow-cooked in Chianti is special.
Mercy me.
While I was waiting for a to-go order placed at a local dive, the rag-tag bunch of men seated with both the chef and owner offered me a chair and a glass of prosecco, tested my fledgling Italian with conversation, and pronounced me the ‘beautiful teacher of art’ before I headed out with my dinner.
My favorite kebob guy loaned me a flatware fork upon discovering he’d run out of plasticware, and chuckled when I returned it. On my last evening in town, he hopped on his scooter to chase after me when he realized that he’d forgotten to include the customary pita bread with my to-go order.
Staff and faculty of the college for which I taught made the work both pleasant and easy. They removed stumbling blocks when they could, and were quick to see to my needs and inquiries.
This is Maria Luisa…my new buddy.
She is the hardworking housekeeper of the B&B, and possessive of at least one English word that I know of: selfie. She also somehow learned my name between my two visits. A sunny, helpful, eager personality, Maria Luisa struggled when American parents of the students I taught arrived with very little Italian on board. I served as a rough translator, and you would have thought I had body-blocked a moving bus from striking her, she was so sincerely grateful. When I crowed about the appearance of boiled eggs on the breakfast table, they continued to show up. I had been told earlier by the owner's brother that the electric kettle on that same table would serve my needs for tea; I could help myself. No, Maria Luisa insisted, making a little pot of hot water for me instead. I mentioned that my husband was visiting for the weekend and asked for extra towels; she vowed to deliver ALL fresh towels. She complimented us both on how young we looked, exclaiming that we must only be in our thirties. I thought we might dissolve into a few tears when I left on my final morning. She wistfully urged me to return, suggesting a vacation here sometime in the next year.
Not until after I had left did she find the tip I left in the room. But within the hour of leaving, I had been messaged with her thanks...and a request for this selfie.
Perhaps Italy will forgive my ‘why don’t they care about hospitality’ rants. I have been proven wrong.
Mercy me.
They say that to really know the French, you must leave Paris and go elsewhere in the country. Paris is not representative of the kind people who make up the bulk of that nation. This kind of truth extends elsewhere. Big cities have their wonders and their quirks and their long list of stressors.
As a friend recently put it: the people in these small towns, they are nice because they have the time.
I have experienced extraordinary kindness all over Italy. But Sansepolcro has it in a unique degree of abundance - or would I say this about any similar town here? The thought occurs. What I only know is this place, with its rhythm of communal living, celebrations, occasions...
When visiting here in Fall 2016, I explored the town with one of my students. We realized that one church was off limits to us because a funeral service was being held. Just after that service, a small band paraded through the streets, celebrating the life of that now-gone citizen.
....rainy, gray February mornings, the local small deli sells lasagna on Thursdays, everyone really DOES know everyone else, a big festival happens in March, and the bus station is closed on Mondays (even though the bus still runs).
So in case you were wondering, the Italian festival in more rural parts of the country is not unlike the county fairs of America; vendors of anything and everything set up for an expo. Want a stove?
How about a fancy pizza oven?
On a long thoroughfare, a lot of food vendors prepare and feed the crowds.
The preferred festival snack fare involves a huge range of items made with nuts (a dentist's dream, as much of it is sticky-chewy or hard-brittle) and dried fruits.
So sorry...no cotton candy, toffee apples, funnel cakes or popcorn.
But there IS artisanal cheese.
It is no easier to live there than in some big urban center. YOU try getting a wifi signal to pierce an 18 inch thick wall from the 15th century! And elevators? Highly infrequent. You can't sit down for lunch after 2:30pm; the kitchens are closed. At the time of this writing, obtaining certified Covid test results was impossible (but at-home test kits are the norm).
Italy as a whole is resolutely installed in my heart's core, after six years of being here.
