Pilgrims, Pastries, and People-Watching

Two weeks after touching back down in Florence, I found myself heading for the rolling green hills of Umbria. The day began in the usual way: laundry, packing, and the ceremonious walk to the communal bins. I rewarded my civic-mindedness with a cappuccino and a cornetto filled with pastry crème, because if one must walk rubbish through the streets, one may as well do it with purpose (and sugar).

And yes, I may or may not have liberated a budino di riso for the walk home. I can’t help it. I am its saviour. It needs me. These pastries don’t ask for much, just a little heroism and a paper napkin.

From there, a brisk seven-minute ride on the local line landed me at Florence’s main station, Santa Maria Novella. If you’ve ever walked into a train station mid-morning in Italy, you’ll know the feeling: part stampede, part opera. I was two hours early, thanks to the limited departures from the smaller, regional, station behind my apartment.

Naturally, my first stop was McDonald's. Unconventional? Maybe. But hear me out, it’s hands-down the best McDonald’s I’ve ever tasted. Always fresh. Always consistent. This time, I noticed with a small thrill that they now serve beer. It’s not exactly the soulmate to a bacon and egg McMuffin, but I respect the option.

With breakfast done and time to spare, I did what I always do: people-watch. There’s something endlessly fascinating about travellers navigating unfamiliar terrain, some bewildered, others blissfully unaware of their bewilderment. It’s here, in this melting pot of confusion and purpose, that I always seem to find a fellow Aussie willing to chat. Maybe it's a survival instinct, seeking the familiar in the foreign. Their stories, impressions, and travel tips are like postcards shared mid-journey.

Eventually, three espressos deep and vibrating with anticipation, I boarded my train bound for Umbria. As we left behind the orderly elegance of Tuscany, the landscape softened and thickened, cypress trees gave way to dense forests, the land folding in on itself in waves of green.

And with the scenery shifting, so too did my thoughts - to Assisi, my destination. A beautiful final stop, hopefully not in the Final Destination sense (we all remember the log truck scene), but a place I’d long been curious to explore.

The train pulled in, and in no time, I was climbing into a taxi headed toward the historic centre. Assisi doesn’t so much appear as announce itself, rising from the hilltop in all its pale, expansive glory. I was hit with a memory: Cortona, two years ago. A Sunday arrival, no taxis, no buses, just me and an uphill trudge that tested both my patience and my lung capacity. Thankfully, this time, the transport gods were kinder.

As we weaved through the narrow streets, my taxi seemed to defy physics - dodging tourists and squeezing through alleyways clearly meant for hooves, not horsepower. He dropped me in the main piazza with a gesture toward a towering staircase. That’s when I realised: I had done absolutely no research on the topography of my accommodation.

But up I climbed - suitcase in tow, lungs protesting - until I reached Quo Vadis B&B, a former Benedictine monastery with the kind of charm you don’t question. The view alone was a spiritual experience. Hills, rooftops, golden light - it was all there. My host greeted me warmly, as did the joke still echoing from my taxi driver: if he took a different route, he could have dropped me 30 metres from the front door, zero stairs involved. Angela – 0. Taxi driver – 1.

No matter. I tossed the suitcase aside and ventured out, lured by the promise of food and exploration. It was that tricky time - too late for lunch, but just right for aperitivo. So I claimed a table, ordered two spritzes (for balance), and leaned into a couple of hours of prime people-watching. As lovely as Assisi is, its centre isn’t immune to the usual suspects: tourist restaurants, garish souvenir shops, and truffle stores multiplying like fungi. Authenticity often feels outsourced in places like this, replaced with factory gelato and “Made in Italy” trinkets suspiciously stamped in China.

It makes me wonder: can travel ever return to something more genuine? Something less... performative? I’m no travel guru, but I notice the same patterns everywhere - snap the photo, skip the moment. Rush ahead. Buy the thing. Complain about the locals, who inconveniently still live here. And yes, Italians themselves aren’t innocent either. If anything, they are the experts in blissfully ignoring all rules of decorum. I say that with love. They truly do not give a cazzo.

Still, despite the noise, Assisi holds something sacred. There’s a stillness that lives in its stone. The buildings feel as though God himself perched them gently on the hilltop. Beige bricks stack like Monopoly houses, huddled together beneath the Umbrian sky. This is a town of saints - St Francis, St Clare, and modern-day St Carlo Acutis, who brought sainthood into the digital age.

Catholicism here isn’t subtle. It pulses through every piazza, clings to every shrine and cathedral, hums behind every stained-glass window. Raised Catholic, I feel it all stir back to life inside me here, dormant, but familiar. As I made my slow descent down the cobblestone streets toward the Basilica of St Francis, it felt a little like a personal pilgrimage. The basilica came into view suddenly, startling in its presence - white, vast, immovable. I stood before it, suddenly quiet. There’s something humbling about sharing a space with centuries of seekers. How many had stood here before me, aching or awed, whispering prayers or just wondering what it all means?

By chance, or fate, an English Mass was beginning. As usual, I only find my Catholic roots when on Italian soil, so I stayed. The delivery of the Mass by the American priest didn’t quite hold my attention, but the experience did. Sitting in a wooden pew worn smooth by the faithful, I felt something I hadn’t in a long time: calm. Presence. Alignment. I let myself sit in that stillness. No photos. No distractions. Just quiet thought.

Afterward, I FaceTimed my parents, showing them the basilica's façade and the hills beyond. They’ll likely never see Assisi in person, but I can offer them this small window - let them see it through my lens.

Two days slipped by in a rhythm of meandering: wandering steep, blonde cobblestone streets; sipping spritz under fading light; and indulging in the kind of slow moments that are harder to find in daily life. Assisi offered a gentle introduction to the quieter side of travel - where days aren’t crammed with must-sees, and lunch can last two hours without apology. As I packed my bag and took one last glance out over the olive-dotted hills, I wasn’t thinking about what I’d ticked off, but about how good it felt to pause. Sometimes that’s all you really need - a hilltop view, a well-timed spritz, and a reminder that slowing down is its own kind of luxury.

Sunset in Assisi

Assis, stairway to heaven

Aperol spritz

Hugo spritz

Amaro and cafe

Assisi Sunset