me in the piazza

I'm a writer, publishing both as SJ Rozan and, with Carlos Dews, as Sam Cabot. (I'm Sam, he's Cabot.) Here you can find links to my almost-daily blog posts, including the Saturday haiku I've been doing for years. BUT the blog itself has moved to my website. If you go on over there you can subscribe and you'll never miss a post. (Miss a post! A scary thought!) Also, I'll be teaching a writing workshop in Italy this summer -- come join us!
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orchids

My man San Rufino

San Rufino is the patron saint of Assisi. Both St. Francis and St. Claire were baptized in his cathedral, up at the top of the town above the piazza. In his honor they shot off fireworks two nights ago from the ruined castle on the hill, and the night before that was the annual procession.

The procession was led by the Bishop and two other red-robed gents carrying big candles. Next, four guys hefted a gilded bust of San Rufino. Then came the band. Then two lines of locals, both men and women, in white robes of silk or heavy cotton with various colored little silk capes. The robes were embroidered with badges of membership in various guilds, going back centuries. After them came monks and nuns, and last a guy with a multi-directional loudspeaker to broadcast the bishop's singing and chanting. Then the townspeople, not in lines, just slowly following, singing and chanting, too. They went through the town, taking the bust of San Rufino into the church of Santa Chiara -- St. Claire -- and then on up to his own place.

Unable to resist a good procession with singing and chanting, I joined in, strolling through the town. At the end everyone sat down in San Rufino, the monks and nuns filling the front pews and singing away. Instead of sitting in the back, I inched up to the front to stand beside a column and watch them sing. Eventually they were done and the bishop began his speech. I peered around my column to see him, and was just thinking that since I speak no Italian it was time to go home, when the gentleman standing behind me tapped me on the shoulder. He pointed to the pew next to me, where a tiny barefoot nun had moved over so I could sit. So I had to sit, right? Which meant I had to stay through the whole speech. I don't know if it was what you call a homily, since there wasn't a service; but whatever it was, turns out the bishop is a riot. Apparently. At first everyone was nodding solemnly as he spoke in slow, measured bishop-type tones. But as he went on he started using his hands, his inflections changed, and all of a sudden he was cracking 'em up. So without moving from my seat next to the barefoot nun, I went from an unfamiliar religious event to a stand-up act in a foreign language.

After which, sweets and wine were had by all, the band played, and people in white robes wandered through town with their families in search of a late-night gelato.


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