Okay, I'm really dating myself with that reference to an old Jell-o advertisement But it fits -- I really loved the town of Spello. Despite the fact that it poured rain the entire day that I was in town, I thought Spello was really beautiful and its art was fantastic. Plus, I had a wonderful lunch there, at La Cantina; I didn't get lost or have any trouble parking the giant BMW;and in no way did I embarass myself (at least, that I'm aware of.)
That hasn't always been the case on this trip, I'm afraid. (How's that for foreshadowing?)
But first, to the art.
This is Pinturicchio's Annunciation, a fresco painted in 1501 in the Cappella Baglioni, Collegiata di Santa Maria Maggiore, in Spello. (These aren't my photos, but I did sneak a couple of shots of my own for my Annunciation collection, and I'll download these later.) The chapel is amazing, I couldn't get over how lovely the frescos are.
This is another fresco from the same chapel, Pinturicchio's Adoration of the Child, also painted in 1501.
These frescos were remarkably beautiful and I was so happy to see them for myself, at long last. The colours were extraordinary, and the frescos were in excellent condition. I try not to be a snob about such things, sometimes fragments of frescos can also be very beautiful -- there is something very real them, the fact that they have clearly survived many centuries.
That was my experience in Sant'Andrea, a Spello church very near Santa Maria Maggiore. Besides some good, if damaged frescos, it also boasts a couple of Pinturicchio pieces.
I really loved Spello and spent more time there than I spent in Montefalco, where I Can Never Return Again. I had to flee Montefalco (fortunately, after I saw the Gozzoli frescos and had a nice lunch at L'Alchimista on the main town square.)
This is why I can never go back: after lunch (with only one glass of wine) l left the restaurant and crossed Montefalco's main square with the hem of my skirt tucked into my underwear. Clearly, I didn't mean to do this and I'm so horrified that I can barely type the words. My only hope is that by talking about this unpleasantness, the mental scars will be eased. At least my mental scars, I can't speak for any onlookers.
Of course, the square was ultra busy on a sunny Thursday and the first day of Montefalco's big wine festival. In my defense, the restaurant bathroom was tiny with barely room to turn around in, and there was a line-up to use the restroom so I rushed. But no one said a thing until I was all the way out of restaurant and across the squre -- at which time an elderly British man who had been eating at the table next to mine rushed up behind me and blurted out: "Madam, your skirt is......." I instantly knew what he meant. With some dignity, I pulled the hem out of the waistband of my unmentionables, I thanked him, walked back to my car and tore out of Montefalco, where I can never more return.