- Mon Sep 21, 2020 8:51 pm
Poor old Perugia. A deliciously proud and fine, yet unremarkable city which does a mean line in chocolate. Baci are from there and their only recent claim to notability was the signing of Gaddafi's son to the local fitba team when they looked to be making waves in Seria B. It didn't work out.
Other than that, nix, nada, nuffink. Nearby Trasimeno with its volcanic cones is said to be the setting for the Mona Lisa, Assisi - nuff said apart from the veneration of Santa Chiara who was simultaneously Francis' squeeze and a proto-feminist. Todi to the south is the birthplace of the Slow Food movement.
The whole deal with Umbria was that it was hidden in plain sight - Bevagna for the Romanesque churches, Foloigno for the music (and the castrati), Spoleto for oil and the lentil soup, Norcia for the cured meats, San Terenziano for the apartment we should have bought, Montefalco for the brutally weighty Sagrantino vino, even Marsciano for the Majolica - but those calico-suited wannabe colonialists never gave it a second look on their way to Tuscany.
I loved Umbria. We used to go there two or three times a year to unwind, and for me to learn Italian and to become a better cook. My daughter was co-opted as the Baby Jesus at a village festival one Christmas. We discovered a worth beyond our Little British horizons. Self-imposed, of course. I have much to thank Umbria for.
Tories and Russians; they will destroy everything they don't understand. Notably, the area is prone to earthquakes.
Jack believed in the inherent goodness of humanity, and felt a deep social responsibility to protect that. Through us all, Jack marches on.