Back In Rome

I was surprised to notice a little internal ambivalence as the plane was beginning its final descent. There are plusses and minuses to the whole “stranger in a strange land” bit and the scales never entirely settle. At least I think that was what I was feeling/thinking. Couldn’t be too sure, I was mostly exhausted. There no point in going on about the increasingly cramped conditions on airplanes, we’ll just say I got about 10 minutes of sleep and let it go at that. (Oh, and that Iron Man sequel? Not so good. The Fantastic Mr. Fox, on the other hand, is a winner.) I also wasn’t looking forward to wrestling my oversize luggage on to a train and a subway and then rolling it across the cobblestones on the way home. (Clearly I had overpacked but the night before leaving someone told me that Rome’s winters can actually get pretty cold, prompting me to jam in a jacket and some sweaters that I had previously decided to leave behind. Additional ballast was in the form of items that I can’t find in Italy: wash clothes, ziplock bags, the right shampoo (wait, did I just write that.))
Mostly though, this was more than just the physical discomfort. I’d had a great trip back to the states, took a grand tour of the upper Midwest, seen friends I hadn’t seen in months, years, and close to decades in a couple of cases. I’d even met family members I hardly knew I had (My younger sister recently moved to Iowa, a well-spring of McGreeveys). There’s a comfort in sitting down with old friends and feeling like you’re picking up a conversation from years ago as if it were from right after that second cup of coffee. I’ve made some good friends in Italy, some that I’m very fond of, but none of those relationships have that element of time. How could they? So I think I was mostly missing, well, my homies.
Ambivalence aside, I got on the treadmill through passport control, baggage claim, and customs (non-existent). I took a cab back to my apartment (screw it) where I noticed an unfamiliar twinge in my hip I was lugging my bag up the steps. (I live two flights up. The elevator is one flight up and its first stop is three flights up. What kind of deal is that?) I heaved everything into the apt and crashed for a while. That felt great.
When I got up it was late afternoon and I headed out for a walk. As I went through what passes for the lobby, the super greeted me warmly. Even that owl-faced guy who is perpetually walking his aged and cranky dog called “Salve” as if had missed me or at least noticed I had been away. (His dog could have cared less but even that’s an improvement.) I headed down towards the Domus Aurea park. This was the sight of Nero’s opulent Golden House built on property confiscated from the city after the great fire of 64. (He actually took about 40,000 acres. The park sits on a very small part of it. The Colosseum was built by his more-or-less successor on the sight of the man-made lake that was installed in the property’s lowlands, effectively giving the property back to the Romans.)
When I got there last Friday, what do you think I saw? Romans! Hundreds of them! Doing all that Roman stuff. Cooing over their babies and talking with their hands. Kicking soccer balls and walking their little dogs (I’m pretty sure that Rome leads the league in dogs under three pounds.) It was a little shocking. Over the summer the Roman population steadily declines as people head for shores and mountains, culminating in the mass exodus that is ferragusta.
Anyway, I settled onto a bench, taking in the Roman afternoon. The weather was cooler than it had been when I left but was still warm. The sky was the typical Roman blue with large billowing clouds. A splendid afternoon and a thought occurred-Giolitti’s.
Giolotti’s is one of Rome’s oldest and most venerated Gelato parlors. I’m not going to say that they have Rome’s best gelato (that would bear more research and I’m working on it) but they definitely have the best pistachio gelato in the world. It is, to put it mildly, miraculous, tasting exactly like a fistful of freshly roasted pistachios, only cold and smooth. (I was taking a guy on a tour once and he commented that it tasted so much like the real thing, it had to be artificial.) I usually avoid the place during the afternoon because the crush of patrons tends to run out the door but in the evening it’s not so bad and, well, it was getting close to evening.
I decided to take the high road, over the Quirinal hill and down by the Trevi fountain. I made my way to Merulana and around Santa Maria Maggiore. There was a faint rumor of fall in the air and the clouds were thickening, turning a little grey as well. I took a right at the 4 fountains, stopping to admire the façade of San Carlino. I had walked by the church a couple dozen times before I first noticed Borromini’s graceful mix of the concave and convex. Squeezed into a tight corner of a narrow street, the church steps take up the better part of the sidewalk, leaving only a narrow marble strip worn smooth and slippery over time. Most concentrate on their footing when walking directly in front of it. You have to cross the street to get any kind of view. I was doing just that when the first few light drops of rain splattered on my face. I continued on, thinking of my umbrella, nestled safely in my backpack, hanging on a chair in my apartment.
By the time I got to the Quirinale Palace, a steady rain was falling. I huddled under a window sill for a few minutes, hoping the storm would pass but when I looked down the street, I could see that it was getting serious and headed my way. Across the street and beneath some scaffolding was a passage protected by plywood. I splashed over, moments before the real cloudburst struck. Immediately the tunnel was full. I heard French, German, Italian, English, and something Slavic sounding. All God’s children stuck in the rain. A British couple lumbered in drenched, the man found a spot against the wall, leaned his head against the plywood and within minutes was softly snoring. Four Italian kids in soccer togs sprinted in, stayed for a few minutes and then, apparently realizing that they couldn’t possibly get any wetter, tore off into the storm. The rest of us waited it out, rolling our eyes at each other’s common lot, and uttering the occasional “Mamma Mia.”
The rain eventually stopped and I headed down the hill. I ignored the turn-off to the Trevi and headed straight for gelato (Trevi’s over-rated anyway, particularly during daylight). Surprisingly there was a decent crowd at Giolitti’s. I figured the rain would have thinned things out a bit. I got my ticket and joined the fringes of the amoeba like mass of patrons. Immediately, one of the counter men took my ticket and my order. (This might or might not have been just luck. There’s usually a tip tray, roundly ignored, on the counter at a gelateria. I’ve learned that if you toss in a dime, making sure that they see or hear it clink, you’ll be remembered.)
A minute later I was standing on the San Pietro stones outside, working my way through a pistachio/riso cone. Riso is, as you might imagine, rice flavored gelato, kind of like frozen rice pudding. It’s subtle, doesn’t really taste that much different than vanilla and the frozen rice kernels make my fillings ache but it goes well with pistachio. The pistachio was…well, I don’t presume to critique miracles. Let’s just say it was worth the trip. I believe I can do this for a little while longer.

Where'd everybody go?

SquiSanto, the café/bar on the corner, where I get my morning cappuccino and cornetto is closed. So is the bakery around the corner, the one that only opened last July. Even La Cuccuna, the ever reliable pizzeria and tavola caldo (hot buffet) across the street, is dark. What gives? It’s Ferragosta. All (well, most) of the Romans have blown town, leaving the city in the hands of the tourists and stranieri.

Ferragosta coincides with the Feast of the Assumption but it goes back to pagan times. It’s a harvest festival and its origins lay in a festival to Diana (nevermind that she is the goddess of the hunt and not agriculture). It has been celebrated consistently throughout Roman history. The “agosta” in its name refers not to the month but to Caesar Augustus, during whose reign the celebrations were particularly robust.

Historically, Romans would celebrate the harvest by taking a full month off. These days, it’s more like two weeks but it makes for a pretty quiet city as shops started closing down a week or so ago. The exodus hit full swing over the weekend and most residential streets looked like dorm parking lots after the last day of classes, cars every which way with trunks and hatches standing open while people jammed their last few bags before heading to the shore or the mountains. I took a long walk around town the other night and had to keep reminding myself it was Saturday. Ghost town might have been too strong of an expression, but not by much.
Usually August in Rome is reason enough to head for the hills but after a brutal July (I know it was hot back home but please understand, air conditioning is still a rarity over here.), things have been pretty pleasant over here. Warm, but not too bad. Today’s a beaut, nice breeze, low humidity. Still, when in Rome one does as the Romans do, even if that means getting out of Rome so I’m hitting the road myself. I’m heading back to the states for a few weeks and while I’m really enjoying myself over here, there are a few things I’m really looking forward to: (And don’t think of this as complaining. Think of this as a gratitude list in advance.):

Lemonade. I don’t get this, Italy is crazy about lemons. It’s a natural, yet it is next to impossible to find. I did stumble upon a stand a few weeks back and was halfway through a long pull on the straw when I became painfully aware that they serve it entirely unsweetened and expect the customer to sweeten it to their own liking. My cheeks still haven’t relaxed.

Dryers, as in clothes dryers. Most Roman apts. have a washer but few have dryers. My initial apt had a spiffy little all in one unit. It took about 4 hours to do a load and it kinda baked the clothes dry (to a crackly crunch). Oh, and it blew every circuit breaker in the place if you plugged anything else in. The current washer is an improvement (about an hour and a half to wash a small load), but to dry items, we rely on a drying rack that sits in perpetual use by the dining room table. I’ve got a fan blowing across the current batch. I’m hoping they’ll be dry enough for packing by bedtime.

Rita’s Italian Ice. Makes no sense, right? I think Italian ice is a US take on granita, the Italian slushie. A lemon granita on a hot day is pretty close to heaven (lemonade would be closer) but there are usually only three available flavors. I miss the breadth of selections at Rita’s. I miss the raspberry. I miss the wild black cherry. I miss the cotton candy. (So great to be an adult and to have an adult palate.)

Movies. I haven’t been to the movies since I got here. Most US films are dubbed over here and I can’t follow the language yet. I haven’t really missed them and I have no idea what’s showing these days. (I did see that Sylvester Stallone and Julia Roberts squared off this weekend.) Still, I’ve always been a fan and hope to find myself in theater before too long. (I understand they’re air conditioned.)

Green space. Rome is tough on the feet. There’s not a lot of grass and the pavement can be extremely uneven, especially those little San Pietro stones. I spent my first few weeks rolling my ankle on a daily basis. Looking forward to heading out to the Gunpowder or, better yet, Michigan.

Michigan. There is no Michigan in Rome.

Family and Friends. OK this should have been first. Looking forward to spending time with a bunch of people in a bunch of states and there’s probably no need to elaborate but there are a lot of folks that I’ve missed seeing or working with or just knowing that I could pick up a phone and call. Whenever. So long as it was reasonable. (By the way, did anybody ever find my Blackberry?)

Gotta pack. I’ll pick this up again mid-September. Ciao.

...(Not Constantinople)

Now this place is different, but at first glance, not as different as I expected. After wading through the humidity and boarding the shuttle for the long (50 km) ride in from the airport, the first thing I saw was a “power strip” shopping center, complete with Sbarros, BK, and Popeyes. Granted it was next to a goat field but still, a little more western than anticipated.
The city is huge, a mammoth sprawl lapping onto two continents. The current population is somewhere around 16 million and the trip from the airport was an extended slog through urban sprawl dotted generously with mosques and minarets, backlit by an fierce sun that appeared to be none too happy about calling it a day. I arrived at my hotel and unloaded my bags. (I was staying at the Orient Youth Hostel, a recommendation from one of my flatmates. I had pointed out that I haven’t qualified as a “youth” in quite some time but was reassured that while it was “historically” a youth hostel, it was now just another hotel. Uh, guess again.)
I was staying in Sultanahmet, the historic district and home to the Blue Mosque, Hagia Sophie, and Topkapi Palace. I didn’t get that far as I was just looking for dinner. I was quickly waved into a restaurant (actually I waved into a bunch of restaurants, in fact, let’s just get this over with…If there’s a negative to Istanbul, it’s that you are bombarded by people calling you their “good friend” trying to get you to buy something. Usually it’s a carpet but it can be any kind of knick-knack or meal. The opening approach is to ask where the person is from (Baltimore? My good friend, I have a cousin there? Beautiful city. Come see my shop.) , but there are variations. Numerous times a local would start to speak Turkish to me and then when I responded with my patented dumb look, the response would be “Oh, I thought you were Turkish. You look Turkish”, thereby appealing to the universal desire to not look like a tourist.
Once you get used to it (and it took me a full day), you recognize a certain good-naturedness to most of the hawking (that’s most, not all. Occasionally it got a little creepy). I had to laugh at the “You look Turkish” dodge (I’m the least Turkish looking person I know) and got to the point where I would reply “Now, we both know that’s not true.” The usual response would be “Nobody is perfect” followed by a request to come see some carpets. (and I’ve got to wonder if anybody ever says “Well, I was just going out for a kebab, but sure, I’ll come buy a carpet”)
OK, one more example of the sidewalk sell and then I’ll move on. I had been warned about this one before arrival but was amazed at how many times I saw it. Istanbul has a lot of shoe shine guys and many practice the following dodge. You’re walking down the street on a hot and humid afternoon when a shoe shine guy rounds the corner and starts walking down the street in front of you. Out of nowhere, his brush falls from his box. You point this out to him and he expresses his extreme gratitude and insists that he give you a free shine to demonstrate his thanks and out of “friendship”, adding that he would feel bad if denied. You accept and he sets to work, telling you about his multitudinous children and his hard life and how helpful a generous tip would be. A friend of mine got stuck in the midst of this scenario a few years ago and said it got downright ugly. I was amazed when on my first walk about town; the first shiner I ran into dropped his brush not once but twice. A few hours later I was across a bridge, one got in front of me and his brush clattered to the pavement within ten seconds. (I suspect neither of them thought I looked Turkish.)

You get the idea, right. It’s annoying, but not annoying enough to seriously detract from the city’s highpoints. I felt positively harassed the first day (I suspect that traveling alone I was a particularly attractive target.), but by the second day was pretty sure that unless I did something really stupid, I was perfectly safe. Once I got to that point, I could enjoy the city for what it is. I’ve been back for about three days and I’m already musing on my next trip over.

So what stands out? I don’t know; everything. That first evening, I was sitting outside the restaurant, carpets spread on the cobblestones. I was working my way through a kebap platter. Most of the other diners had finished their meals and were settling in with a cup of apple tea (good stuff) and /or an enormous hookah pipe, blissful expressions behind the plumes of smoke. A loudspeaker coughed from a few blocks away and the night was filled with the evening call to prayer. The thought occurred that I was a long way from home and that was OK.
I had that thought a number of times. Istanbul is an easy city to get lost in. I don’t mean “forget your troubles and yourself and just be” lost; I mean “Where the fuck am I” lost. Most of the street maps I saw only list about half of the streets and most of the actual streets aren’t marked and aren’t straight either for that matter so, well, you get the idea. That isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I got good and lost (twice) trying to find a particular mosque and ended up sitting in the shade of the courtyard of a small neighborhood mosque, hanging with the guys and eating salted cucumbers from the cucumber and apple vendor, and thinking, again, that I was a long way from home. I couldn’t speak the language but that didn’t matter, nobody was talking anyway but the fact that I had bought a cucumber seemed to indicate that I was ok. (For the record, I did finally find that mosque but it was closed for renovations.)

The apple and cucumber vendor is just one (or is that two?) example of Istanbul’s interesting and expansive array of street food. Far and away the most popular items are grilled ears of corn and large rings of sesame encrusted bread but there are plenty of others: Rice pilaf (sold out of one of a bright red popcorn cart, nuts and dried chickpeas, watermelon, ice cream (a rubbery version that you really have to bite your way through, spooned out by a yard long rod with a tablespoon sized peel on the end), fresh squeezed orange juice (about .75 for a 6 oz glass), meatballs, and doner kebaps (gyros). Down by the Bospherus it gets a little more exotic and distinctly fishy: mussel shells stuffed with chopped mussels and rice, shredded fish meat and grilled fish sandwiches.
Speaking of fish dandwiches, the coolest things was heading down to the base of the Galata bridge where three bobbing boats, belching smoke and lit like carousels sell fish sandwiches topped with onions, greens, and a lemon sauce. At a price of about three bucks a piece, it’s no wonder the place is packed. I bought one, the guy behind me bought 8. Afterwards, I walked across the bridge to what I thought was Asia. (Turns out I was misinformed, it was just another part of Europe.) Along the bridge there were lots of anglers, snatching small fish out of the Bospherus which they would immediately cut up and pickle into some form of seviche. The Turkish drivers thought nothing of stopping in the right hand lane to chat for a bit and maybe buy a cup of fish. (Like to see somebody try that on the GW or Woodrow Wilson.)
It’s not just the food that’s exotic. Waking up to the 5 AM call to prayer let’s you know you’re in a different place. I suppose that, viewed objectively, it isn’t that much different than the regular tolling of the church bells in Rome but subjectively it’s so much different. In the old part of the city, mosques are everywhere so you get this overlapping effect as one meuzzin wraps up while another starts. One meuzzin doesn’t seem to take any notice of what or when the next one is singing but every now and then happenstance brings about what sounds like a duet. My first day back in Rome I found myself waiting to hear it, but, well, I was back in Rome. I still miss it.
Then there are the Dervishes. Istanbul isn’t really Dervish central but there are a few performances (if that’s the right word). Interestingly, the Mevlevi order has officially been outlawed for years but the Turkish government recognizes the tourist appeal so the ban is hardly enforced. Quite the opposite, they’re actually pretty well promoted. I attended a Sema performance at a converted bath house. I was expecting a watered-down version (no pun intended) and that may be what I got, but it was still beautiful. One by one the five semazens(the proper name for a dervish, I think) entered dressed in black cloaks and tall felt hats, symbolizing their graves and tombstones respectively. After a series of prayers and bows, they removed their cloaks to reveal white gowns (funeral shrouds) and took up positions with one in the center (sun) and the other four (moons) surrounding him.
With each hand hugging the opposite shoulder, they slowly began to spin on their right foot, their left propelling them. Their arms slowly came down and then opened like flowers. With one palm up and one palm down, heads tilted to the left, they spun like that for 7 or 8 minutes, beatific looks on their faces. Then another series of bows, then more spinning. The entire performance lasted about an hour and there appeared to be general confusion on the audiences part as to how to respond. Do you clap for religious ritual? We reached a compromise of sorts and we greeted the semazens’ departure with silence but applauded the musicians.

Elsewhere the Turkish women and visitors from other parts of the Muslim world represent the entire spectrum of head scarves, from the complete black shroud to fluorescent colored form fitting attire. Turkey has long prided itself on having a secular government but the increasing use of the scarves has sparked controversy, leading to some politicos having to explain why their wives choose to wrap themselves and in some cases being asked not to attend public ceremonies. There appears to be some concern that the current head of the government is too solicitous of Islam and I heard some fears that the idea of a secular government is being challenged. Many are looking forward to the December elections with curiosity and concern.
I suspect I could go on and on. The total lack of street musicians (except one kid noodling on a melodic from dawn to dusk), the apparent lack of child labor laws, the almost Venetian quality of an evening boat trip up the Bospherus with ghost-like mosques nuzzling the shore, the Spice Bazaar (every stall selling some version of “Turkish Viagra” and everyone looked different, but they did have apple tea. Have I mentioned apple tea? Apple tea is great.) and, of course, the Grand Bazaar. (I bought a shirt. Not because I wanted a souvenir but because it was my last day and Istanbul is really hot and humid and I feared that if I didn’t get a fresh shirt, they weren’t going to let me on the plane. Anyway, the guy quoted a price of 75 Turkish Lira (TL=$.70) and I got him down to 40 but I still think I got ripped.

I also haven’t mentioned the Blue Mosque (stunning), the Hagia Sophie (even more so), Topkapi Palace (really crowded, I mean really crowded), or the Underground Cistern, and the simple fact of the matter is that I barely got out of the historic district. When I first came to Rome, somebody told me that I should just approach the city with the intention of coming back because you just can’t see it all. The same is true of this one. Besides I have all those good friends.

A is for Accordion

There are over 500 churches in Rome and probably twice as many accordion players. I have no complaint with that; it’s a lovely instrument. Lyrical, versatile, and complete. I’d go so far as to suggest that the accordion is a more effective treatment for depression than any of the SSRIs, SSNRIs, or atypical anti-psychotics that are spending all those advertising dollars. But only when used as directed.
I’ll give you an example. I came to Rome in 2006 with my then-wife, my brother and his wife. We had a great time tromping all over the city but each night, our feet sore from negotiating the San Pietro cobblestone, we were invariably confronted with the task of humping our way up the incline of Via Cavour in order to make our way back to our hotel. Every day we swore we’d find a way around it and every night we were foiled.
Our last night in the city, brother John and I were sure we had found a direct path home, but as we strode on, everything started to look uneasily familiar. We were all getting pretty cranky and accusations about our ability to read a map started to seep into the air. Suddenly, as if on cue, a compact but dapper man in a linen suit sauntered through the alley wheedling some Neapolitan tune out of the huge accordion strapped to his chest (A baritone accordion?).
Immediately, the air was sweetened and our mood brightened. Smiles flickered; hands were held. My brother’s wife slipped into his arms and they deftly waltzed across the cobblestones. OK, maybe I’m getting carried away. We were still pretty cranky but just for a moment, things got… Well, maybe I’m still overstating things but it was a cool suit and a really big accordion and I distinctly remember it to this day.
I grew up with the accordion. Not like I grew up with the aforementioned brother, in the same house and everything, but it was always around. This was northeast Ohio where the accordion and polka went hand in hand. We learned to polka in school; in religion class to be precise (true story). Sunday morning TV included Polka Varieties (with Wally and the Polka Chips) and if you’re from the area you know what happened whenever someone from Parma wrote in to Ghoulardi (If you’re not, never mind). My sullen contemporaries and I tended to regard the music and the instrument with scorn but our toes still tapped. Years later at my nephew's wedding reception, I knew I was home when the dance floor, which had been a veritable no man’s land, was immediately swamped when the Deejay threw on a polka. Hell, it wasn’t even the Chicken Dance.
Somewhere along the lines the instrument picked up street cred and some versatility. For me I think it started with Flaco Jimenez’ appearances with Ry Cooder and Doug Sahm but then again, the Band had a great way of sneaking it in amongst all those layers of keyboards. When it started to show up on Springsteen albums it was safely out of Eastern European ghetto and when R. Crumb’s Cheap Suit Serenaders recorded Persian Rug, reclamation was complete.
Here in Italy, I suspect its appeal has remained constant. The average street player has as good a chance of being a grizzled septuagenarian as some sleekly tailored young dude, and is likely to be a man as a woman. One of my favorites is a woman who works a corner near the Pantheon, expertly wringing Sabre Dance out of her box. I had hoped to get a picture of her but she won’t stop moving long enough for me to focus. The kid in the collage recently started to show on the strip in front of the Forum but works his way through a nice traditional canon.
Repertoires vary. Walk through a restaurant district most evenings and you’re bound to hear Strangers in the Night, My Way, and Besame Mucho. The Love Theme from the Godfather is another standard. There are those who try to stretch the instrument with limited success. A few months ago, some guy outside my window was pumping his way through Europe’s The Final Countdown. I moved shortly thereafter. I put a coin in the cup of the woman in the derby and she immediately broke into I will Survive, which, come to think of it, may have been her reaction to the fact that it was a really small coin. At the time I just figured she recognized me as an American and, as we all know, Americans love Gloria Gaynor. I walked away.
A more disturbing trend is the nascent effort to update the instrument itself. The young man smiling for the camera also works the Pantheon but accompanies himself with a little karaoke machine (I think his mom is his mixmaster). The young lady in black tries to bring a touch of elegance to the proceedings and filters hers through a synthesizer so you end up with Keith Emerson playing La Vie en Rose. The worst is the kinetic little guy with a boom box working the blue Metro line. The subway is hot and crowded enough without having this guy bouncing around.
Actually I think the instrument is best from about a block away. Preferably a block parallel to the one I’m on. That’s not a knock. I’m really fond of the instrument. (I’ve even thought about getting a small one and annoying the neighbors.) I just think it sounds best when it’s wafting, just working the edges of perception. There’s something very, well, Italian, about walking home at night and catching the faint scent of an accordion in the air. Even if it never fully materializes, there’s something very sweet about the promise.

Got a request for some pictures...

Ponte St Angelo

Capri

Colosseo

Neptune Fountain (Piazza Navonna)

Paestum

El Campo (The night BEFORE the Palio)

Pantheon Dome

Mangia Tower (Siena)

Cinque Terra

Sorrento

                                                               Vernazza

They Call It The Palio (This is a long one. Feel free to bail at any time.)

Siena is one of the many well-preserved medieval hill towns that dot Tuscany. It’s known for its sloping Piazza de Campo spreading like a fan beneath the Mangia Tower, the tallest secular tower in Italy. Surrounding the Campo, the ancient streets wind and narrow up and down the hills that make up the town. The skies seemed perpetually filled with swifts and swallows. The air is scented with oregano, fennel and roasting meat. Eavesdrop on the local’s conversations and you’ll hear Italian spoken in its most pure and lyrical form. At just about any time of year, it’s worth a trip for its charm and grace. Then, there’s the Palio.
The Palio is a frantic bare-backed horse race that runs three times around the Campo. It’s held twice each summer (July 2 and August 16). It takes a little over a minute but carries centuries of tradition, neighborhood pride, rivalry and pageantry. Ask a native and they’ll tell you that the Palio is the heart and soul of Siena. Like the cloth that gives it is name, it is woven intricately into the lives and history of the town’s residents. It affects all sorts of major life decisions, like marriages, vocations, and housing.
A little history or, at least, the way I got the story… Siena was once a major world power and a rival to Florence in both politics and finance. In the late 13th century , its 60,000 residents made it a larger city than Paris. It was hit hard by the Plague and never regained its status but has always savored the hurt it put on Florence at Montaperte in 1260. It was deemed fitting to offer thanks and honor to the Virgin Mary for that victory by holding a contest in her honor. The contestants were to represent the contradas, or districts, in and around the city. (There are currently 17 but there were close to 60 at one time.) The prize was a decorated cloth, a Palio.
The contest has taken many forms over the years. Originally it was a riderless running of horses from one of the town gates to the Duomo, the main cathedral in the center of town. It has been also been a race run on bull or ox back (…and some think the current race is dangerous) as well as a multi-sided fistfight (Interesting concept there-“In praise of the Blessed Mother I will bust you in the nose.” That particular version was abandoned when people started throwing rocks and in subsequent years smuggled in clubs and knives.) Even today, the saying goes “The Palio is war.”
The race is dangerous and for safety’s sake the number of participating contradas in each race has been dropped to 10. Still, accidents happen. The turns are tight and the track slopes. A large granite arch juts out a few meters after a sharp downhill turn. Riding bareback, the jockeys regularly go down. (They also are allowed and, in fact, expected to smack each other with the narrow canes they use as whips.) On one hand, they are paid king’s ransom wages and riding in the Palio is prestigious. On the other hand, post race concern usually centers on the condition of the horses. The general response to questions of a jockey’s health is “Who cares? He was paid enough.” Mishaps on the track are typically attributed to the jockey’s “stupidity.”
The horse is the real athlete here. The jockey is a helpful but unnecessary accessory. If he tumbles off during the course of the race, the horse can still win. On race day each horse and jockey are taken to the contrada’s chapel. Prayers are said and holy water is sprinkled over both but the priest turns to the horse alone and says “Vai e torna vincitore” (Go, and return victorious). While the horses are assigned by lottery, there is intense devotion and affection for them. The jockeys, on the other hand are seen as hired guns, mercenaries with no allegiance other than to cash. In Siena the expression is “as faithless as a jockey.”
OK, one last bit of background. To say that the Sienese are proud of their contradas is an understatement. It goes way beyond that. You are literally baptized into your contrada is a yearly profane baptism that cannot be undone. You can move across town or across the country, marry outside your contrada, whatever; you remain a member of that contrada.
There are intense rivalries and allegiances between contradas, some of which have been in place for centuries. Every contrada but one has at least one arch-rival. (The Drago (Dragon) contrada had a rivalry going with the Bruco (Caterpillar) contrada but Bruco, the smallest contrada with the least resources, went so long without winning that they called a truce. Drago has other problems though. The creator of this year’s Palio banner chose a St George and the dragon motif. Imagine Drago’s chagrin in seeing their symbol lying slain on the race’s prize.). Each contrada’s goal is, of course, to win the race but equally important is seeing your rival come in second, the most heartbreaking position. Deals are struck in the weeks and minutes before the race (just like Survivor), and part of the jockey’s huge wages are expected to be put to use greasing the appropriate palms. However, few if any Sienese would say that the race is fixed. Palio politics is just part of the game.
OK, enough history. I arrived in Siena on Tuesday night with the race scheduled for Friday. I was staying at an agroturismo (working farm/B & B) a few miles outside of town. (Frances Lodge, a nice place. They grow olives for oil, a number of fruits for jellies, and crocuses from which they harvest saffron). I walked into Due Ponti a small town at the bottom of the hill around 7:30 for dinner and got a seat at the first restaurant I came to. 7:30 is ungodly early for an Italian to eat dinner so I had the place to myself. I ordered (pasta and chiangalle, boar, a Tuscan specialty) and looked around. The TV was playing something that looked suspiciously like the Palio.
Turns out there are six test races prior to the real thing, which makes sense considering the track is the town square and otherwise engaged most of the time. None of the tests run the full three laps and few are at full speed. The first I saw was barely more than the start but those in attendance seemed satisfied, leaping over the infield rail to escort the horse and rider out of the square. As the camera panned the crowd, everyone was wearing his game face. The Palio is a male dominated event although women regularly serve as contrada captains, the chief strategist.
Breakfast service the next morning was interrupted at 9 for television coverage of the next test. The Lodge is run by Franco and Franca. He is Sienese while she comes from Florence. He lives for the Palio and she seems happy to indulge that. All of the guests were returnees who: 1) had come for the Palio, and 2) knew about Franco’s passion for it. We were happier to watch and hear him analyze the test than to enjoy a perfectly good breakfast (Franca does make a great fig preserves). Regarding the test, Franco was not impressed. All of the horses looked slow. (By the by, Franco is of the Torre (Tower) contrada. Torre has won the Palio twice in his lifetime. For the second win, Torre spent one million Euros. Both wins came under female captains, mother and daughter, in fact.)
After breakfast, I headed into town. There’s a fair amount to see in Siena. (By the way, most of the old buildings are of a brown brick color that was duplicated in those Burnt Siena Crayola crayons.) The Duomo is a mammoth structure with bas reliefs on the floor, a library of illuminated manuscripts, a Bernini chapel (closed for remodeling), and a small Michelangelo (St Paul, about the size of Jerry Mahoney.) The town has two basilicas, San Francisco (cavernous, but oddly everything is in the transept, the nave is, well, empty) and San Dominico (Where you can see the head and thumb of Catherine of Siena. Apparently she tiny had little hands). My favorite sight though was that bench under the shade tree where there was a bit of a breeze blowing. The Tuscan sun can be brutal.
The test was scheduled for 7:45 so I sauntered over to the Campo around 5, planning to stake out a good spot. The crowd was still pretty sparse and, thankfully, shadows had begun to creep across the bricks. I was able to grab some space that was in the shade and along the rail about 20 meters from the starting point. The method of start is one of many oddities about this race and can take a while. Here’s how it works. You take a rope about the thickness of your arm and stretch it across the track. Nine horses line up along that rope. About 15 meters behind that, you get another similar rope and, with the help of a little saw horse type thing, you stretch it about 9/10ths of the way across the track. The 10th rider hangs out behind that rope and acts as both contestant and starter. When he feels that the other horses are lined up properly (and these are thoroughbreds, they are not big on just standing there) and that he can get by, he takes off. When he crosses the back rope, stewards drop the front rope and the Palio is on… theoretically. In reality, the 10th rider tends to milk the start, frustrating and lulling the other riders and looking for a moment when a rival horse is in an awkward position or napping. While he’s doing that, the other jockeys are trying to keep their horses in line and not nipping or kicking each other. Last year the start took 1 ½ hours and the race got off at just about the last possible minute. Any more of a delay, the race would have been called due to darkness and postponed a day.
Where was I, oh yeah, I got a spot at the rail. Things started to fill up. The first thing that happened was that school children from the various competing contradas come in loudly singing their contrada song. Anyone who’s been to the Palio knows the song I’m talking about. The melody is the same for every contrada and there aren’t many moments when you can’t hear some group singing it. The lyrics change from district to district and year to year (if not day to day) but the jest is “We’re great. You suck. And that’s why we’re going to win.” It sounded cute coming from the kids as they were seated on the bleachers in front of the town hall. When the adults came in, escorting their horse, there was nothing cute about it. It was a competition and the testosterone level ramped up considerably.
Around this time about a dozen high school girls showed up near me. (OK, maybe it wasn’t just the testosterone level that was ramped up.) One walked up to me and asked me to move. I told her there wasn’t any room but she responded that she wanted my place. A little surprised, I laughingly said no. Then she let me in on a secret about the Palio. “You are tourist,” she said, “I am Siena.” The Palio is for the locals. Actually I already had an idea of this. I had met Franco on a previous trip to Siena and he told me then that they didn’t like locals coming into town telling them that the Palio is crazy. “We already know we are crazy.” For that matter, just a little while before, when I asked someone near me in the crowd if the school kids get those great seats on race day, he responded that all seats were for the citizens of Siena. This isn’t for tourists. Tourists will be tolerated. Just don’t get in the way.
Well, I had been standing there for a couple hours by then and I wasn’t about to give up my spot. There were a couple of women from Turin who felt similarly so the three of us ignored them, or tried to. Teens in a pack can be bold and the area quickly degenerated into a mosh pit but we didn’t move. The horses came out. It was hard to pay too much attention with all the pushing but I managed to wedge my knee between the rails and anchor myself. The Turin ladies were sheltered beside me but the occasional punch on the back or shoulder still came our way. Anyway, the horses broke and the mortar fired (Did I mention there was a mortar?), followed by two successive blasts. False start. Damn, I was ready for this to be over. They brought the horses back and gavea it another go. A second start and mortar blast and this one was good. They went around about twice and called it. The Istrice (Porcupine) contrada won, which unfortunately was the girl’s contrada. They went scampering over the railing and were never seen again but I now had someone to cheer against. ( I did think about grabbing one of their sneakers as they went but decided that might cause an incident). One of the ladies form Turin shook my hand and thanked me, adding that all Italians aren’t like that. I told her I knew that. Still I may have had enough Palio.
I grabbed a quick dinner (Pasta and rabbit. Tuscany is big in meat and game.) and decided to walk back to the Lodge. It’s a long walk but mostly downhill. On my way through town I walked through a couple of contrada dinners. Huge seatings, 500 to 1000, set up in a piazza or right out in the street. Everyone was laughing and singing (that song again) under the deepening Tuscan sky. Charming as hell. Okay, maybe I hadn’t had enough Palio.
The next day was much the same. Breakfast with a break for the test. Bus ride into town. Wandering about looking for shady spots. I gave the Palio another go but set up across the Campo by the dreaded downhill turn. The crowd was pleasant and I struck up a lengthy conversation with a British women who was there with her Italian husband. They had been to more than a few of these and gave me the inside skinny. The smart money was on Nicchio, the Seashell contrada. They had the horse and the jockey and were spreading money around. She also said she always leaves the actual race to the Sienese and suggested I do the same. Everybody was nothing but nice.
There were a few more preliminaries this time around. A couple hours before the race, drummers and flag bearers wearing medieval garb (which must have been real hot) enter contrada by contrada and take a lap around the crowded track (people are still milling about). Then came the singing school kids, followed by the men escorting the horses. The song is sung over and over. Then police, military, and trash men take a slow lap sweeping people and trash from the track. A contingent of mounted military in full dress entered from another alley. This was new. Riding white stallions they trotted a lap, then, drawing their swords, they broke into a gallop, their speed increasing as they leveled their weapons. They flew around the track and shot out through the alley from which they had come, the last rider careening slightly off the wooden support.
As the crowd started to settle, the horses came out and lined up. The start took a while and when the mortar fired no one seemed to be going too fast. My British friend said that something was wrong and wondered if it was a false start. Bad start or no, it held although I forget who won that one. Regardless, the crowd stormed the track, people sang the song and I cleared out.
Our hosts had gotten us passes to the Bruco contrada dinner. Halfway down a steep street heading out of town, we were ushered through a door, through the small contrada “museum” and out into a walled garden that must have covered a couple of acres. (This is the poor contrada? Everyone else was eating out in the street . I think Bruco is holding out on the rest of town. By the way, in spite of their poor cousin status, Bruco did win the whole thing a couple years ago.) A sea of fifty foot tables were set out in a phalanx. A dozen or so mammoth grills were blazing, each with a kerchiefed steward at the ready. High school aged children swarmed around, acting as servers. We were led to a table that had been reserved for the English speakers. (Comparing notes, we all had heard the rumor that Nicchio had bought the race.)
The air was festive and convivial. The only low point was the contrada mayor’s rather lengthy speech late in the evening. The jockey, seated at his right and clearly drunk, had a difficult time staying awake. When asked if he had any words for his supporters, he muttered “No.” The servers passed around dessert, and we trundled home.
Race day began, as usual, with Franco’s commentary on the final test. There was a lot of talking amongst the jockeys as they brought the horses to the line. More last minute politics. I headed to town, where the horses were each taken to the appropriate chapel to be blessed. I saw the blessing of the horse from the Selva, (Forest, their mascot is a rhino) contrata, a dappled grey mare with a reputation for skittishness but also a past winner. Tones dropped to a whisper as she was led in and as many of us as possible followed into the church. As soon as the holy water was sprinkled she got a little antsy and immediately we were frantically (but quietly) waved out.
Around town each contrata had assembled a medieval color guard, some in full armor, and a parade of sorts through the teeming streets of the town had begun. One of the key stops was the Bank of Sienna, a centuries old institute and the main fiscal power behind the Palio. The march in the Campo was scheduled for 5:30 and all motion headed in that direction. Except me, I went off to scope out a public TV and maybe a little shade.
Eventually the tower bell started to toll, the signal that the march had begun. The various contrada color guards line and slowly revolve around the Campo. The main feature is the handling and throwing of the contrada flags. Each contrada has a pair of flag bearers with an elaborate routine based on the ancient use of flags on the battlefield. The throwing has been added for flourish and they toss them a good 30 meters into the air. (OK, so I didn’t wander that far and was watching what I could see through a break at one of the entrances.) All the while, the bell continues to toll. One lone town member at the top of tower had the task of swinging the clapper back and forth for about two hours. He never broke rhythm.
Now, I had told myself that I wasn’t going to attend the final race and everyone I talked to said that was a smart plan. “Leave it to the Sienese.” was the basic response but, well, I was in Siena, I was a couple hundred yards away from the Palio. What was I going to do? After a couple of minutes of waffling, I plunged into the stream of people flowing into the Campo. There was a moment there when I was lost in the current and my only concern was staying upright but once I got into the center, things were fine. There was plenty of room. If I had a hula-hoop I could have hula-hooped, if I knew how to hula-hoop.
The march went on for a little while longer and the final spectator entryway was closed. From another alley (there are something like nine entrances to the Campo) came the war cart. About 15 town elders displayed the Palio from this wheeled wooden cart being drawn by two pair of white oxen. (I had never actually seen oxen before. Oxen are huge. They look as if they’ve been warped in from another era and that their horns got knocked all out of whack in the process. They are imperturbable.) The town elders unloaded the Palio and took their seats amongst the other costumed participants on the bleachers (no school kids for the real thing). The flagbearers came out for one last flourish and throw and so ended the preliminaries.
The jockeys emerged and the crowd went nuts. During the tests, the jockeys had worn the traditional garb of their contrada which resembled, well, really colorful pajamas. They had also worn flop brimmed hats, some accompanied by a feather. When riding at any speed, the brim tended to fly up, making them all resemble either Hunts Hall from the Bowery Boys or that guitarist from Cheap Trick, depending on your generation. On race day, though, they wore helmets. The reason being the previously mentioned canes they all have. As they brought their horses out, most brandished said cane to their supporters as if to say “I’m going to kick me some Sienese butt with this.”
Bedlam reigned, but only for a minute. As the horses approached the starting area, the crowd grew positively silent, shushing the clueless newcomers who didn’t know that the all-important order of the horses was about to be announced. A venerable voice read the order by contrada and the crowd responded with stifled cheers, sighs and curses. “La Madonna e una puttana” (Our Lady is a whore) my personal favorite seemed appropriately devotional.
The start took about 20 minutes. Nine of the riders brought their horses to the line and vainly tried to settle them while the tenth rider, Torre, appeared to be just chatting with some ladies in the crowd. Three or four times, all of the horses were pulled away from the line and reset. During each of these resets, there was a lot of chatter amongst the jockeys, more “strategery”. The crowd was getting restless (although I’ve since been told that twenty minutes is a quick start) and then, suddenly, Torre took off, the crowd let out a gasp that turned into a roar, and it was a race.
Even having watched five tests, I was stunned by how fast they moved. The excitement was surprising which made the whole thing more exciting. Onda (The Wave) jumped out to a quick start (The Wave? Where the hell did they come from?) and held it for the first lap. I realized I was surrounded by Onda and they were delirious, until the Selva mare started to make a move. A third horse, moving rapidly, was riderless. Selva passed Onda midway through the second lap but Nicchio seemed to be moving forward from back in the pack. The riderless horse glanced against the wall on the third lap and two more horses tumbled, causing NIcchio to go wide. Forest crossed first with NIcchio a couple lengths behind in the heartbreak position. Beyond that it didn’t matter. Immediately the track was flooded with spectators while the Forest color guard ran down to the church of Madonna Di Provenzano to shout the Te Deum in thanks.
Other than watching Phil Bradley leg out an inside the park home run, it was the most exciting sporting moment I’ve ever witnessed. Looking around the Campo, I saw people laughing, crying, hugging, clapping, singing, and positively inconsolable. It took about a half hour for the infield to clear enough for the trash trucks to move in. Already, the pizzerias and trattorias that line the square were setting up tables on the track. I fell in with some of the folks from the lodge that had paid money for bleacher seats and we grabbed the first available table.
We ordered and watched the transformation of the Campo. The sky darkened to a rich cobalt blue and torches were lit atop the Mangia Tower and the bank building. Already the Forest flag was lining the Campo. As we ate, the sound of drumming could be heard as the Selva contrata began their celebratory march around town. They encircled the Campo, waving their flags and drumming. Many had glow-in-the-dark pacifiers in their mouths. (When you win the Palio, you are reborn.) Traditionally the winning contrada parades for a week which means they are still at it as I type. God bless ‘em.
One last note. At breakfast the next morning we asked Franco his take on the race. He was unhappy because of the number of horses that went down, blaming that on the Leocorno (Unicorn) jockey who fell, apparently for no good reason, in the second lap. He brightened when the newsman reported that all of the horses were fine. As expected, there was no word on the jockeys. In spite of his concern for the horses the previous night, he did manage to stop by the Montone (Ram) contrata where they were having a big blowout. This was puzzling news as Montone didn’t even run in the race but he explained “It’s true they didn’t race, but they are Nicchio’s rival.”

In the Key of B-flat

The walk home has been different the past couple of weeks. I first noticed it two Mondays ago. Piazza Navonna, usually a beehive of activity, was quiet, well, relatively. A dozen African drummers and dancers were taking a spirited lap around the oval but had only gathered a handful of followers. The usual gang of living manikins and other “performers” were all standing around, a collective expression of “What the F&#@?” on their painted faces.
A few blocks over, the Pantheon square was even quieter. The bad mime had gone home and that woman in the evening gown was playing her synthesized accordion for the sparsely filled late night diner’s tables.
I didn’t give it much thought at the time. Nothing particularly odd about a quiet Monday night . Maybe it was just one of those chaos theory things. I just kept walking but as I was entering the home stretch , an unfamiliar nose started to fill the evening air. Actually, it wasn’t altogether unfamiliar. It sounded like a swarm of bees or, more accurately, the constant droning of the 17 year locusts. But, locusts? In Rome? Then I turned the corner and realized that what I was hearing was the sound of thirty thousand or so vuvuzelas blaring from a couple of flat screen TVs hung outside of Druid’s Rock, a British pub a block or so from the backside of Santa Maria . Gathered around those screens were a couple of hundred British soccer fans (or were they fans of British soccer. Whatever they were, they were certainly getting their World Cup on.
I’ve never followed soccer, well, at least not since my godson graduated to peewee lacrosse, and that was a much different game. (As I recall, everybody but the goalie, and sometime him too, would swarm to the ball, occasionally kicking it towards whatever direction had the most open sky). Todasy, I can’t say that I understand the game but I over the past few weeks I have come to admire the devotion that the game is awarded over here.
I’m not just talking Italians either. Druid’s Rock seems to be a soccer Mecca in town, regardless who’s playing. Monday it might be Brits and Tuesday the Cameroons. Last night Argentineans held sway. The strongest showing has far and away been the South Koreans who showed up with drums and organized chants. Their cheers were constant. A simple successful kick from one player to another was met with barely controlled bedlam. When the ball got within 20 meters of the goal, it got absolutely scary. I wandered off, only to collide with scores of young Koreans running down to the bar. It looked like something out of an old Chef Boy-Ar-Dee commercial (except it was dark and they were Korean).
Everybody is following this, walk down the street and every radio is tuned in. Walk down the street and the televised green pitch glows through the door of a café, the window of a hotel lobby or the curtains of an apartment. (Hey, I’m starting to sound like a Peeping Tom here.) One night I did hear some guy rocking out to Eat A Peach but I think he was quickly deported. Besides the great viewer ratings, the number of kids playing soccer in the parks seemed triple. My Italian is still pretty meager but it seemed that it was all anybody was talking about.
And then…the dream ended. Italy, the defending champs, failed to make it out of the first round, they were defeated by Slovakia. One friend, who had watched the game in a bar with a couple of her Slovakian friends, said that the scene got ugly, Italian men were trying to trip the Slovak girls on their way out the door. Still, there wasn’t the violence that would accompany a similar loss in the states. Mostly people just looked sad, a little wistful (I imagine it didn’t help that the US was still in it, clearly an indication of the end of days. Of course, that curiosity has since been righted.) The next morning while walking to work, I passed through a park to see a couple of kids tossing around a soccer ball, with their hands. Clearly the actions of the broken hearted.
By the next day, however, things were getting back to normal. Crowds were still gathering around the TVs. I don’t know if it’s because the town is filled with tourists , or if, for the Italians, any kind of soccer beats no soccer. Either way, the fever is still high. I hear that they have set up a Jumbotron at Villa Borghese which continues to draw a solid crowd. The Germans were whooping up their win over England yesterday. Even the kids were back in the park this morning, and using their feet.