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After the long flight from Denver and the
drive from Milan, we were reluctant to ring the bell to enter the
monastery. But I suppose we had little choice if we were going to
have a bed for the night. Evening was approaching, and we didn’t
know Sansepolcro well enough to find another accommodation. We knew
we could avoid a bit of expense staying here with the Cappucin monks, but
weren’t exactly sure what we were getting ourselves into. The
guidebooks were clear that a stay in a monastery could be a humbling
experience. Back to basics.
No one came, so we rang it again. What
if it was time for vespers and we were disturbing their peace and
meditation? We knew they were expecting us, but they weren’t
exactly set up with a reception desk that we could recognize. The
sign told us to wait right there, so we did.
Finally, an aging monk appeared.
Stone-faced, but accommodating nonetheless. He sported a fine gray
beard and the hood of his chocolate-colored robe fell gently between his
shoulder blades. He led us down the dimly lit and dusty corridors
past the interior courtyard and into his disheveled office. Here we
were informed of the rules and were given the standard paper-thin towels
we would use for the evening. And then, finally, he smiled.
Our books-on-tape Italian had worked surprisingly well with him.
He took us on a brief tour before showing us
to our room. Down another hallway, through the dining area, and out
on the balcony, there was a terrace with a lovely view of the valley
below. Directly beneath was the garden with cultivated rows of
flowers, and trees large enough to spread their boughs onto the terrace
where we stood.
"Cachi", he explained proudly.
Not a word we knew offhand. Persimmons, we would learn later.
The room was small, with two single beds, a
plain armoire, a small desk, and a crucifix. It was painted a faint
green, as were the hallways and the majority of the monastery
itself. We savored the view from the window, which was as refreshing
as the one from the terrace below. On the way to the shared bath, we
passed another robe-clad monk working furiously on an electrical panel to
restore power to a portion of the building. He did not look our way.
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