I feared the Pope would disrupt my pilgrimage to Assisi last June, but it wasn't until I arrived in the birthplace of St. Francis, patron saint of animals and hippies, that I realized His Holiness would actually drive me right out of town.
Like millions before me, I arrived with high hopes for my four-day sojourn in the ancient Italian hill town. The spectacular beauty of Assisi, clinging precariously to the side of Monte Subasio, would surely be the highlight of a three-week visit to Italy's central province of Umbria.
My pilgrimage was actually pretty secular. Yes, I was interested in St. Francis, but I was also interested in Umbria's renowned food and wine, its beauty and the spectacular art tucked away in its remote towns and villages.
Still, as a wayward Catholic and rather shame-faced fan of the movie Brother Sun, Sister Moon - Italian director Franco Zeffirelli's 1973 portrayal of St. Francis as the original flower child - I thought Assisi might recharge my spirituality. In any event, I was certain to eat well.
But the Pope's visit to mark the 800th anniversary of St. Francis's conversion threatened my peaceful plans - not Pope Benedict XVI personally, of course. What I really dreaded was the entourage, the heightened security, the media hordes and general mayhem.
I can't say I wasn't warned. I knew of the Pope's visit. Then again, he was to be in Assisi for just one day. How bad could that be?
Any student of history could have answered that question. But I blithely spent my first day in Assisi at a wonderful cooking class in an agriturismo - a kind of rural bed and breakfast - in the mountains a few kilometres outside Assisi.
Letizia Mattiacci, the generous owner of Alla Madonna del Piatto, shared the secret to finding a great olive oil and taught us how to make a basic ravioli. We dined on her terrace with a stunning view, across the valley, of the Basilica di San Francesco.
The next day, I vowed to begin some serious church and art viewing. I decided not to rush, to start small and work my way up to the basilica. I headed first for the Duomo, where St. Francis and his friend St. Clare were baptized 800 years earlier. I carefully checked the opening hours in my excellent Blue Guide, to ensure I could get in. Wrong. The Vatican got there first.
A hand-printed sign on the main entrance announced the Duomo would be closed until the following week, for a pre-Pope cleaning. Cleverly, I tried a side door. It swung open easily, releasing an angry little nun who flung a pail of dirty water, a scrub brush and some threats at me.
Clearly, I had underestimated the scale of the event. I tried to get into the underground Roman ruins. Closed for security reasons. The sidewalk café near my hotel was being dismantled to clear the main square - again, for security reasons.
No more time to waste, I headed for Assisi's main attraction before the Pope could beat me to it.
Basilica di San Francesco is awesome. Magnificent frescoes were painted onto its plaster walls by the greatest artists of the 13th and 14th centuries - Cimabue, Giotto, Simone Martini and Pietro Lorenzetti. A restoration after a devastating 1997 earthquake brought back to life the bright upper frescoes, which show scenes from the life of St. Francis.
But the mood was spoiled by throngs of visitors, drawn by the papal visit, and scores of television crews laying down kilometres of cables and setting up equipment to televise the Pope's Sunday Mass.
On my final day in Assisi, I asked myself what Francis would have done in my sandals. The answer? Head for the hills - specifically, for his beloved forest and mountain retreat.
From the top edge of town, I climbed slowly and steadily upward into the mountains toward St. Francis's sanctuary, Eremo delle Carceri, the Hermitage of the Prisoners. This secluded forest site was a refuge for Francis and his followers from the bustle of medieval Assisi. There, they could take shelter in the hills, "locked away" like prisoners.
The four-kilometre hike was hotter and steeper than I had expected, but more than worth the effort. Beautiful and peaceful, there were few other visitors. Walking paths wound through the cool, quiet woods, including one that led down through the tiny cells, the Grotto of St. Francis, where he and his followers prayed and slept, curled up on beds of rock.
I was so lulled by the calm that I jumped a foot when I rounded a bend in the path to find a grouping of life-sized bronze sculptures depicting St. Francis's monks, some stretched out on their backs as they studied the planets and the stars. When I finally walked back into Assisi, the crowds were thinning out, the Pope had moved on, and I was at peace.
Hungry, thirsty, but finally at peace.
