Perugia
The hilltop city of Perugia sits in central Italy overlooking the Tiber Valley. It’s actually the capital of the Umbria region, though in all honesty, I didn’t even know it existed until my dad suggested I check it out. We’ll take a short break from Neorealism here, but don’t worry—I’ll jump right back in once I get to Florence. I hadn’t planned any cinema content for this leg of the trip simply because I didn’t know I’d be spending time here until I arrived in Rome. Originally, I was scheduled to stay in Attigliano through the end of June, but I ended up with a few open days at the end of the month and needed somewhere to go. I considered Siena, another beautiful Tuscan city, but ultimately landed on Perugia, and I’m glad I did.
It’s right on the way to Florence, with a train ride north of just a couple of hours from Attigliano. I booked an Airbnb with a young woman named Zahra, and I stayed with her and her partner, Milat, in their flat for five nights. That’s one thing about short-term rentals abroad: you often stay with the owners in their homes, rather than having the place all to yourself. At first, sharing common spaces takes some adjustment, but after a night or two I found myself appreciating the immersion.
Their apartment was at the bottom of Perugia, so getting into the city meant about a 30-minute walk uphill through the surrounding neighborhoods. There was a mini-metro that could save the climb, but the area was so quiet and pretty that I rarely bothered. The streets were lined with colorful buildings, and there seemed to be more growth here than in other cities I’d visited—flowers spilling from balconies, fruit trees tucked into courtyards, ivy crawling across old stone walls.
Each evening I was in Perugia, I made a point of walking up into the city center. Twice it was for dinner, but the other nights it was simply to admire the Tuscan sunset or to sit and read while the light faded. After a month of busy traveling and monument-hopping in Rome, the few days I spent here alone felt incredibly peaceful. I knew I’d be heading into hostel living after this, so I tried to soak up the serenity of solitude as best I could. It was, after all, the first time I truly felt alone in Europe, having bid farewell to my host family in Attigliano. At first the quiet was a little scary, but the beauty of the place helped me overcome all the strangeness.
One thing that helped me immensely in adjusting to this new mode of travel was finding a good book. In Perugia, I took a short break from Donna Tartt’s The Secret History (which was awfully difficult) and bought The House on the Hill by Italian novelist Cesare Pavese. Pavese is one of the most important Italian writers and intellectuals of the twentieth century, and he’s best known for exploring the human condition in the context of war and its violent aftermath. The story immerses readers in the political upheaval of 1943, set in the countryside outside Turin. It follows the Corrado, a schoolteacher who falls in with a crows of anti-fascists but can never quite commit to their cause. After reading Pavese’s biography, it’s clear why scholars assume Corrado’s arc draws heavily from the author’s own wartime experiences. His narration is resigned, poetically self-aware, and captures what I perceive as Pavese’s shame in being unable to take up arms and devote himself fully to the fight against fascism—even if the effort seemed destined to be futile.
Though it’s a different medium, the novel tells the same visceral story of ordinary Italians forced to endure extraordinary devastation. The book is short—closer to a novella—but incredibly weighty in tone. What struck me most was Corrado’s detached reactions to the most terrifying events: the daily ritual of sheltering at the sound of air raid sirens, or having no choice but to assume the worst when his comrades are taken by the Nazis. Much like in Neorealist films, Pavese’s solemn, almost numb atmosphere reminds us how desensitized many Italians had become to pain and loss. Sitting there, feeling so privileged to be overlooking beautiful Tuscany, it was difficult to reconcile its people once living through such a dreadful reality. And it is even more haunting to read knowing that Pavese himself would take his own life in 1950, only a few years later.
“I walked in the sunshine, on the wooded slopes. Behind le Fontaine there were vineyards and fields with crops, and I were there often, to gather herbs and mosses in sheltered little glades, an old hobby from when I’d studied natural sciences. I always preferred ploughed fields to houses and gardens, and the edges of the fields where the wild takes over.”
This is Pavese on the quiet charm of Turin’s countryside, the very city where my travels through Italy would conclude.
—
After communion was when the waterworks really came on. For those who don’t know, my family has lost quite a few beloved members in the past year. My grandmother on my dad’s side was perhaps the most devout Catholic in my life, and she died suddenly in the summer of 2024. My great aunt passed just this past summer, and she was the one who insisted I make the trip to Assisi after hearing I’d be in Tuscany. It brings me peace knowing my dad assured her I would make it happen.
Most recently, my grandmother on my mom’s side passed away. She wasn’t a Catholic, but she had the voice of an angel and spent many years singing in various church choirs. Her death was a little more anticipated, but that didn’t make it any easier. I had spoken to my mom that week about her condition, and even though she put on a brave face, times were tough, which made being away from home all the more difficult. I was thinking about all of these important women during the mass, and something about being in that church moved me to tears. I don’t think I had properly processed much of the loss I’d experienced in the past year, and it felt almost cathartic. This was without a doubt the most spiritual I’ve ever felt in my life, which isn’t something I thought I’d be saying before starting this trip. I’m so glad I decided to visit Assisi, and even more grateful that I found the courage to attend the mass itself. Truly unforgettable.
And as for Marilyn, Claire, and Patty—I hope I carried a piece of each of them with me throughout my travels, and that in some way, I made them proud.
—
The Tomb of St. Francis of Assisi
I bid farewell to the not-so-friendly cat that awaited me at the top of my climb before making my way inside St. Francis’s tomb. I didn’t take any photographs, but I assure you, it was beautiful. His remains rest in a simple sarcophagus (stone box) in the lower basilica, which you reach by descending a staircase. The church was dimly lit and hushed, despite the number of people gathered there to pay their respects. I imagine the modest adornment was intentional, a reflection of Francis’s austere way of life.
The upper church, by contrast, fully embraces Gothic splendor: elegant stained glass, gold embellishments, and colorful frescoes narrating the life of St. Francis. At noon, I made my way up to attend mass. Of course, it was in Italian, so I couldn’t follow the homily or anything really, but it didn’t matter. I could have spent hours simply admiring the art around me. And besides, Catholic mass follows the same rhythm everywhere—I knew when to sit, when to stand, when to respond, etc, etc. I would say the most moving moment came right after the Our Father.
La pace sia con voi. That means “peace be with you” in Italian. Since I was a kid, it’s always been one of my favorite parts of the service. For those who don’t know, this is the time when you embrace your loved ones and shake hands with the strangers around you. When I was younger, that usually meant jumping on my parents to hug them, or imitating a very serious adult handshake with my cousins. In this moment, you’re bound by the shared understanding that inside this sacred space, you are all God’s children. This overwhelmed me with emotion. It suddenly all came rushing to me, that even though I was halfway across the world, there was still a community of smiling people ready to embrace me. They didn’t care what language I spoke or where I was from; they simply welcomed my being there.
First Communion, 2012 Austin, TX
Assisi
Assisi was another city not on my original itinerary. It’s very close to Perugia—only about a 25-minute train ride—and is renowned as the birthplace of Saint Francis (hence the “of Assisi”). Francis is known for giving up his wealth to live among the poor, believing this imitation of Christ brought him closer to the Gospel. The city carries a deeply religious atmosphere, largely because it remains a pilgrimage site for Catholics from all over the world. From miles around, people travel to Assisi in search of connection with their faith.
For most of my youth, I was raised in the Catholic tradition. My dad’s parents were quite devout, and they sent him and his sisters to Catholic school for 12 years. Growing up in Texas, religion was just sort of a fact of life, and I embraced it. I liked going to Sunday school with my fellow Catholic first graders, and I liked the ritual of brunch with their families after mass. I also think Catholicism gave me a stronger bond with my dad’s side of the family, even though most of them were still living in California at the time.
Since coming, though, I’ve admittedly drifted from Catholicism as a whole. With all the media’s noise and criticism of the deeply religious, I think I’ve forgotten the joy it once brought me. There are a lot of nasty things out there that have made it harder for me to identify with the community.
It was only after visiting the town that I discovered Rosselini had made a film there, called The Flowers of St. Francis, but I’m glad I made this experience about my faith.
Like most hilltop cities in Tuscany, the train station in Assisi sits at the very bottom of the slope. There were plenty of buses and trams that could have taken me to the top, but to get the full pilgrimage experience, I chose to make the trek on foot. It took about an hour, but the path was shady and breezy, so I didn’t mind. I think the further north you go, the kinder the weather gets; something about Rome had been especially brutal, but I digress.
The brick path leading up into the city is lined with thousands of the names of pilgrims who had walked it before me. The inscriptions seemed endless, and there was something moving about seeing how many people had walked in my shoes, honoring Francis in the same way I was. Maybe it was because there was more intention behind my journey, but being in the birthplace of one of Catholicism’s most celebrated figures gave me a sense of pride. Religion bred conflict, but it also united towns, cities, and empires. There is most definetly an enduring power in belief itself.
Upper Basillica of St. Francis