I haven't written at all about the process of writing a book and, now, the daily self-flagellation that is marketing and publicity. Every time I write the word "self-flagellation" (because in my life I have written that word a lot), I think about monks, and then I think about the duomo in Assisi, Italy, and the little room within it that has (they say) St. Francis's real hair shirt. I saw this duomo, and this shirt, in 2010 after I had hiked, quite tipsy at the beginning, from Spello, the next town to the south, through the Parco del Monte Subasio, thinking it was a half hour jaunt but realizing after I'd encountered quite a few other hikers who eyed my American sandals and American messenger bag and happy, carefree, unintelligent American attitude with disbelief and condescension that it was, in fact, five hours away. Thank god I always carry water. As too many of my stories end: I could have died.