With the Palio behind us our attention immediately turns to the second huge event circled on our calendar for July…our trip to Berlin.
My relationship with Germany is admittedly a fragile one. My only experiences (and thus only things I had to garner any kind of expectations) of the place are as follows:
A) A 9-hour layover in the Munich Airport when I was 15 years old…and I had the Flu.
B) The second great war
a. The Holocaust Museum
b. Schindler’s List
c. Nazi artifacts discovered in my grandfather’s basement when I was 10 years old.
C) Lederhosen
D) An odd homoerotic affinity for David Hasselhoff
E) The asshole German team in Cool Runnings (really, those guys were dicks).
There were some pros on this list however and monumentous ones at that, most notably Beer and Pretzels…as I said it is a fragile relationship, not a lost cause. But all of those cons listed above had done something to me over the years. Though the idea of traveling the world and peeking into its every nook and cranny was one of my greatest desires, somehow Germany has washed off the list of places to go, it was probably somewhere on the list around Branson, Missouri or Oslo in the dead of winter. And that’s when Thom Yorke (in a perfect falsetto) beckoned me, “ Mr. Zimmerman, BRING. THIS. WALL. DOWN”
Radiohead is my favorite rock and roll band. They tour maybe once every three years. They are on tour this year in support of their latest album, In Rainbows, and would be playing their final show in Europe this year in Berlin on July 8. The instant I bought the tickets, the wall that I had built up in my head, the wall that was to keep me from Germany for the rest of my days began to crack. And then begin to crumble piece by piece. Berlin, here I come.
We arrived excited, with open minds but no expectations. My trepidation was not overt, but I was no doubt cautious. As we left the airplane, Joann and I started blurting out every German word we could see in an attempt to learn enough of the language to get by and also test the German’s level of patience with people who cannot even come close to pronouncing their words correctly. “AUSGANG” we shouted, “EXIT!” As it turns out most Germans speak English, so we would not truly be tested in the days to come. We approached an all too pleasant lady at an information desk in the airport to ask the best way to make our way into Central Berlin where our hotel was. She quickly explained to us our route on the S Bahn (the subway) and we were on our way. The S Bahn is phenomenally efficient, super clean and easy to understand. This would happily be our means of transportation for the entire 3 days we were there.
The train took us from the airport steps to the front door of our hotel (a four star little number we found for super cheap on the internet…score). We checked in quickly, dropped our bags on the bed, and headed back to the underground in search of a good meal and a good time.
A short train ride brings us to Heckersher Market. As we emerge from the train station something become painfully obvious to Joann and myself. And it was a most unexpected realization. Berlin is strikingly beautiful, clean, safe and fun. There were hip restaurants in every direction, great bars on every corner, and an energy that was impossible to deny. The first restaurant you can see when you exit the train is a tiny little Japanese number. Joann’s jaw hit the floor. This woman had not had Sushi in 7 months and was not to be denied tonight. I expressed my (very real) desire to have German food, but acquiesced and we agreed to sit down for just two rolls of sushi before we would continue. I don’t a new pair of Manolo Blahniks could have made Joann as happy as this Tuna Avocado roll did. She savored every grain of rice and every inch of seaweed. I guess in New York City we take for granted how great sushi really is…it is a lesson not soon forgotten. From there we headed down Oranienburg Strasse, a major thoroughfare through the revived and perfectly artsy East Berlin. We were planning on sitting down to a meat and potato heavy German meal as soon as we find a restaurant…but I would remain famished for a while. The neighborhood we came upon was fantastic, exactly where we would hang out if we lived in this fair city. The street had artists doing pieces on the side of the road, graffiti being painted in front of us down back alleys, and tons and tons of exotic food. We passed Kebab stands, Indian restaurants, Mexican restaurants, Thai restaurants, Indian-Thai fusion restaurants…but could not for the life of us find a German one, There was nary a schnitzel in sight. This seemed a bit weird to me, but we soldiered on. Finally after about an hour long search we came upon a Deutsche Kuche (German Kitchen) and grabbed a table outside. The waitress, in her adorable broken English, helped us through the ordering process and kind-of explained what we would be getting with the meals she suggested. She did so by using one remarkably effective phrase I never thought to employ in all my days in the service industry…”Are you BIG hungry?” Why yes, fraulein, I am BIG hungry. “Then you should have this”…and it was settled. We ended up having a lot of potatoes and a lot of sausage (some in a beer sauce) and a lot of beer. I could not have been happier. I love German food, it is official.
After stuffing ourselves silly at the restaurant we joined a group of tour guides who offered a pub crawl for a small price in the same neighborhood. It is kind of a cheesy idea and not something Joann and I would typically do, but the timing was right so we joined in. The tour took us to 5 bars and a nightclub and really did help us get an idea of what the nightlife in Berlin had to offer…we were nothing short of impressed. Especially with the first bar we went to called Zapata, which makes its home on the ground floor of the oldest squatted building in Berlin. It has about 4 bars, a dirt floor, metal welding artists working in the corner, a homeless guy sleeping on a couch, 1 euro shots of Jagermeister, a ping pong table, and a Spanish Ska band playing on stage…it is something close to what I imagine heaven to be like. After the last club, we call it a night and head home, eager for the next morning’s activities.
Funny thing about bar crawls. They usually turn morning activities into afternoon activities, and that is exactly what it did this time around. We are far too old to stay out that late and get up bright and early in the morning anymore…goodness gracious, college seemed a million years ago. We head into the center in the early afternoon for lunch and in time to go on our free bike tour of Berlin. The lunch we had at a stand on the side of the road (she had a kebab, I enjoyed some chicken lo-mein) was so delicious, we would be talking about it for hours. Things just cannot go wrong here. That was until we arrived for our guided free bike tour. Historically we do not do well with guided tours, but this one was free and afforded us the opportunity to ride bikes together so it seemed a win/win. As it turns out this afternoon the coordinators did not coordinate so well and they took on two too many customers. After a short stalemate, Joann and I did the noble thing and decided to let everyone else enjoy the tour that day and we would come back to do it in the morning. We headed out on our own and found some of Berlin that I had not expected to ever see. Since the wall fell in 1989 the place has flourished, not necessarily economically (it is in an America sized debt hole with the EU), but aesthetically. The old buildings feats and the new buildings (especially the new parliament buildings) are so architecturally stunning that they made us stop and explore. A government building did this…I, of course, did not know it was a government building until the next day because this place was so beautiful it had to be an new opera house or museum or something. But even with the knowledge of what goes on inside…I was simply awestruck with its beauty. This place is a government building like the Guggenheim in Bilbao is an art gallery.
We opt to take the day in a different direction and head to the Berlin Zoo. Anyone who knows me knows how I love a zoo. The weather is absolutely perfect and the zoo is in turn. A great outdoor park with little fencing between you and the animals, which makes for a really intimate experience. Highlights for me were: the hippopotami fighting (or mating, not quite sure), the rhinoceros (it looks like a dinosaur) and the great apes (who always entertain). After a few hours with our friends from the Animal Kingdom we head back to the hotel, wash up and hit up one of the Mexican restaurants we passed earlier in the day for a little comida. The food is nothing to write home about, but is the first Mexican Joann and I have had in quite some time so we are more than happy with our nachos and tacos. After a long day of walking around and trying to bait the Polar Bears into doing something noteworthy we agree its time to head home and get some rest.
Up early on Tuesday to catch our morning bike tour. This time we secure our vehicles and head out on the town with our enthusiastic and actually quite funny Irish tour guide. He is a student here and knows his way around very well. He takes us through a history of the city from its inception up through the fall of the Berlin Wall in a knowledgeable and insightful tour. We see many of the buildings we passed the day earlier and were shown many new ones, and got in depth descriptions of both. It starts to absolutely pour on us as we sail through Potsdamer Platz (the economic center of modern day Berlin), the rain, however, is short-lived and only serves to makes us soaking wet, not curb our tour at all. We move on to where the bunker that Adolph Hitler committed suicide in once stood and not far away visited the thought-provoking Holocaust memorial. The memorial is a beautiful one that essentially consists of a city block completely covered in stone blocks of various sizes. As you descend into the middle of the area the blocks become taller and the floor ramps down. Our guide describes the monument to us and tells us that the architect never really said what its meaning was and there had only been speculation and critical theories on the symbolism of it. One of the theories he told us, the one that I bought the most into, is that the memorial represents a time line in German history. The edges of the monument where the blocks are all very low and you can see all around you and hear people you are talking to very clearly would represent the democracy of pre and post-WW II Germany. As you descend into the 1930’s and 1940’s fascist regimes in the country your vision and senses become obscured by towering blocks in every direction all around you, until you arrive at the lowest point of the memorial where you are surrounded by the imposing stone figures and an eerie sense of helplessness crawls onto you. Needless to say the memorial gets the job done and we were all moved by it.
We pass the largest standing portion of the Berlin Wall and then the tour comes to an end with our guide dramatically telling us the series of events that led to its eventual fall in 1989…as it turns out it was an accident and it all happened in 8 minutes. I am happy to recount the story to anyone interested. But in the interest of brevity, lets save that for another day. As we are biking back Joann and I are discussing and recounting everything we have learned for the day and both agree on one of the reasons this tour and all of this information has peaked our interest so vividly. All of this happened less than 20 years ago. Our generation lived this stuff. We were alive for one of the defining moments in the 20th century. We were not there during WW II, but we were there when the Berlin Wall fell, I remember watching it on TV. Every kid under the age of 20 cannot say that now. Since this stuff is so recent and happened to people we can identify with, it hit kind of close to home (even though we are obviously far from it). We both felt pretty lucky to have learned more about the history of Berlin and of the fall of it’s famed wall, and to actually experience the places we saw on TV on November 9, 1989.
After the tour we have to hustle. Today is the day of the concert and we are running a bit late. We get showers and hit the S Bahn (which takes us right to the venue, of course). The venue Radiohead has chosen for this show is a great one. It is an amphitheater in the middle of the woods on the outskirts of Berlin. We arrive in time to see the first band (Mode Selektor…who absolutely rock, by the way), nosh on some Pad Thai, and grab some beers as we await the main event to begin. Jo and I secure some standing room very close to the stage, but a bit off to the left. We are not dead center, but we have some room to dance and sing, so I am happy. Radiohead make their way onto the stage in front of a rumbling crowd of 40,000, whom were pregnant with anticipation. They proceed to play an amazing set, as they always do, and every one of the smiling international faces in the crowd is happy…even through the sporadic downpours that did nothing but add to the atmosphere. There is something about a Radiohead show, for me, that is magical. I don’t know exactly what it is or why this particular rock band makes me so happy, but being able to see them live during this amazing summer was a treat. To discover a city that we fell so in love with so quickly and to see them there was doubly exciting. I wasn’t emotional, but I wasn’t far off. This is really happening, this is really happening…
After the show we get a little lost in the woods, but manage to locate the S Bahn eventually and head home. Our plane leaves around noon, so we are up kind of early to have a small breakfast of gummy bears (another gift the Germans have bestowed on the world) and head out to the airport on the train. As we are leaving Berlin, I am happy and anxious to return. It is impossibly sad to think this city suffered for so long and was divided for such close-minded reasons, but my solace is held onto tightly, knowing that Berlin has been re-born; and with it my relationship with this amazing city and country. The Berlin Wall fell after 28 years of keeping millions of people from accepting and truly understanding the whole package and potential of one of Europe’s hidden treasures of a city…my own private Berlin Wall fell in just under 25.
HERE COME SOME PICTURES OF THE ANIMALS (and other stuff...)
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Friday, July 11, 2008
A Day at The Races (or One Shot, Two Shot; Red Shot, Blue Shot)
By now you well know that Siena is a vibrant, traditional, and energetic little town. And throughout the year you catch glimpses of what truly being Sienese is like. However, all of the planets that make up this little Tuscan universe align and explode in the one big culmination of energy called The Palio. It is a bi-annual horse race (one on July 2 and one on August 16) that evokes all of the tradition and gang-colors that make up this fair city. Here is the gist of it:
There are 17 neighborhoods in Siena, they are called cantrade in Italian. Each contrade has its own symbol, usually an intimidating animal, as well as a coat of arms, a flag and numerous songs that they cant. Ironically, every contrade shares the exact same snare drum beat (more on that later). The Palio (translation: banner) is the, er, banner that is given to the winning contrade of this horse race. Drastic understatement: it is a monstrous, gargantuan, epically big deal to native Sienese people. These people march with their flags, beat one another senseless (seriously…if every here they were issued ak-47’s the Bloods and Crips would fit right in, of course they would have to exchange the baggy jeans for salmon colored capris and the afro-puff for a gelled up monstrosity), drink and sing until the wee hours of the morning and then start doing it again in the wee hours of the morning…and this starts just over a month before the actual race. Of the 17 contrade, only 10 are actually chosen to race in The Palio.
As I said before the names, or rather, symbolic representations, of the contrade vary, but are usually of a domineering nature. They consist of a Tower (masked on the flag, by the tower actually being on the back of an Elephant), a Panther, a Dragon, a Caterpillar (not so tough), a Wave (anyone from Thailand would not argue this one), a Porcupine, a Giraffe, a Turtle, a Ram, a Wolf, a Unicorn (fabulous!), an Owl, a Duck, a Forest (again masked by having a prominent Rhinocerous on the flag), a Snail, a Falcon …and then there is the contrade within whose boundaries Joann and I make our home. It is perhaps the fiercest of all the contrade, and easily the most intimidating…Il Contrade del nicchio (the neighborhood of the Sea Shell); I am not at all sure how the names of these neighborhoods came to be, but if they were drawing straws hundreds of years ago, it is clear the guy who lived in this neighborhood was one of the laughing stocks of the selection process. I, suppose, if one ( a panther, for instance) were to somehow step on a fragile sea shell, it could theoretically shatter driving small, but sharp pieces of shell shrapnel deep into the arteries of the unsuspecting predator causing a nasty infection, but short of that I just don’t see the angle in naming your mascot after the expunges protection of a crustacean (this coming from a kid whose High School mascot was a Cardinal, followed closely in college by the Fightin’ Blue Hen…ugh, I sure can pick ‘em). Regardless, these names have been in place for hundreds of years so all of those associated with the neighborhood live and die for them.
On the Sunday after we return from the Cinque Terre, Joann and I are headed through to the Piazza Del Campo alongside a few thousand of our closest friends (all of whom are bearing the different scarves of their respective contrade)…it appears today is the day they horses whom are to race in next weeks Palio are to be divvyed out to the 10 neighborhoods…its Selection Sunday. We head to the center of the Campo gleaming red and schluffing off dead skin from our shoulders with every wind gust, excited to watch this spectacle. One by one the neighborhoods are called and allocated a horse. As each is announced the respective followers of that neighborhood cheer gleefully and follow the horse back to the stable they have in their hood singing as loudly (or obnoxiously, your choice) as they can. The horses seem less than trained and as they are walked through these massive crowds begin to buck and skittishly shuffle around in their obvious unease. Jo and I are right next to where they walk the horse by. My mother always told me I was born with a “horse shoe up my ass”…I was not about to prove her right, so we managed to steer clear of any introductions to the kicking limbs of there equines. The Sea Shell’s horse is a beautiful Arabian (maybe) who is the color of the middle of a Milk Way Bar and who just happens to make his home directly beneath our bedroom window. What an honor! For the first 30 minutes Joann and I get a huge kick out of watching this horse warm up by walking in circles, and getting a bath, and eating apples, but quickly tire of the sounds of metal horse shoe tap dancing on cobblestone. From now until the race was over we would know exactly when this horse was in the stable and when he was leaving or warming up. I tried to se the silver lining and pretended it was nice to be so close to the action and the tradition…Jo preferred a quiet nights sleep, and I cant say I blame her. Between the horse marching around, and the people singing their songs, and the damn snare drums beating their incessant beat…you could not escape the truly original sounds of The Palio, no matter which corner of this walled city you were in. They all march and sing the same two or three songs, but each neighborhood has different words (so they basically sound the same), however they could not muster the same kind of half-originality when it came to beating on their drums. Every neighborhood beats this antiquated snare drums (think Williamsburg, Va during a renaissance festival) to the same droning beat. It’s a simple one and an annoying by the fifth time you hear it. It is so unoriginal in fact that one morning as one contrade or another were marching past our window beating the skins and sinning (my spell-check wants me to type “singing” but at 7 A.M, I would beg to differ) at the break of day, one of the 15 or so drummers started rolling his third beat and mixing a nice little fill in between the 4 bars of actual music…this was such a nice change that my ever sleeping-beauty actually rolled over and said, “hmm, that kid was actually kind of good” before trying to ignore the cantankerous noise again, letting the drones march on and heading back to sleep.
One of the great traditions of The Palio (if you are sienese) is the elaborate contrade parties. These neighborhoods literally fence off all traffic, foot and motor, and set up tables after tables along the city streets. They have enormous meals and serve vats of wine to everyone associated with the contrade. We, not being part of the contrade, were not invited and had to watch 600 locals enjoy what sounded like an amazing time until 3 in the morning the night before the race. I was bitter at not being included, but understood and was simply happy for having an amazing view of the party.
Race day came quickly. And the city was eerily calm in the hours leading up to the massive event. The campo was all prepared. Bleachers has been set up all; along the circumference of the race track and dirt had been laid and smoothed as the racing surface. Joann and I descended on the scene around 4:30 pm. The doors that allow entry close at
5. We walked around the campo a bit handing out fliers for the party we were throwing in two days and then met up with some friends and decided on a nice place to watch the race. We had a good view of the course (notably the most dangerous turn), good company, some good drink, and were absolutely pleased. After about an hour of hanging out and shooting the proverbial shit, a cannon sounded and the pre-race parade was to begin. The first act were a dozen horse mounted soldiers (looking more like confederate soldiers than the modern day model). They politely trotted around the course once, then sort of cantered around twice, then out of nowhere the leader of the pack apparently yelled “CHARGE” and all 12 of them drew their swords and began galloping full speed around the track as if they had just encountered the enemy. I don’t know why I was so excited by this, but I was…and as they bolted off the course and into the center of the city (in my head to meet the oncoming opposition), my heart was racing….I was ready for the race. This would however prove to be the most exciting part of the parade. For the next 2 and a half hours a slow (and when I say slow, I mean even the turtle contrade had to reign it in) and deliberately paced procession of every contrade made their way around the track. It was unbelievable how long this took and how boring it was. Finally after and ungodly amount of time the (unremarkable) PALIO made its grand entrance. It inched around the track once before being placed high above the dirt oval in a flag pole. At this point the Canon rang out again and the horses emerged. This time they were finally being ridden by their hilariously dressed jockeys. Foolishly, I thought this meant the race was about to start…but once again, I was wrong. Quite impressively though, as the horses approached the start line the thousands of people in attendance simultaneously fell silent…you could literally hear the horses hoofs beat the dirt as they readied for the race. We would listen to this silence for the next 30 minutes, as the untrained horses had a bit of trouble lining up correctly. When they finally were in place…BOOM! The canon blasted and we were off!!!
As the horse blasted out of the gate The Sea Shells were far in the lead…this made us very happy, until we realized it was a false start…the damn Giraffe had jumped early. We would line up again. After yet another half and hour of getting the horses in line…BOOM. This time it was for real…the race had begun.
All of the horses seemed to be pretty even in the opening stretch and even around turn one…turn two is a different story. It is the only turn in the whole race that is padded, this being because it is so sharp that inevitably men hit the walls and fall off of their horses (this, it turns out, does not disqualify the contrade for it matters where the horse finishes….not the rider). As they round turn two, my week long nightmare comes to fruition, our beloved Sea Shell rider (in last place mind you) hits the wall violently and is quickly dismounted. Our horse is a bit dazed by the hit as well, and does not seem to have all of his wits about him…this would not be our year. Another rider hits the wall in the same turn and is thrust to the ground with angry force. They have tons of medical staff in this corner, so not 5 seconds after this happens, both jockeys are on stretchers and being carried off the track. Going into turn three there are 8 mounted horses and two horses running without direction, but still following the pack with all their might (I was very proud of our horse for nor simply calling it a day after the disaster moments before). The race lasts 3 laps, and to my surprise every rider manages to stay on his horse through most of it. As they come down the back stretch Istriche (the Porcupine) and Torre (the tower) and neck and neck. They come to the final turn and Torre makes a run for the inside…he does so, however, a bit too short and runs straight into the barricade knocking the horse down and throwing himself about 20 feet into the air. The Porcupine takes The Palio! Before the race is even over the members of the contrade have made their way onto the track to celebrate their victory. They are beside themselves, they are weeping tears of joy, they are jumping and clicking their heels with pure glee, they are…being trampled by the other race horses who did not finish first and do not know how to stiop on a dime!!! I could not believe the level of idiocy shown here. There must have been 20-25 people who were run into and consequently run over by the other 9 gigantic race horses…they clearly had not thought the whole celebration through.
It is a brief race but an unbelievably exciting one and I am happy to have been able to bear witness to it. You realize you are seeing something that only happens once a year, in only this place on earth, and its pretty impressive thing to try and wrap your head around. For all of the boring pageantry, it was something to behold and something not to soon be forgotten.
Joann and I had to head to work immediately after the race so we quickly slash our way through the crowd to head home. We have to walk through the contrade of the tower to get to where we need to be. Spielberg could not direct such a dramatic scene. People of every age, size and gender are draped over signs and tables and cars drenched in their own tears. Women are clutching their unknowing infants to their breasts as they drain their tear ducts onto their bonneted heads. We see a mass of people heading toward us so we step aside to see what the fuss is about…the lonesome jockey, tiny and dirty as a little rascal, limps through the crowd, two identical clean streaks split his cheeks where his tears have made a riverbed. I am not sure which part of coming in second hurt the most, the emotional defeat, the being hurled from a speeding race horse, or what the contrade members undoubtedly did to him upon his return to the stable…any way you look at it, it is not a position you want to be in.
2 days and 2 million snare drum slaps later it is the 4th of July and I am throwing a party at the Pub where Joann works. Yes, I understand the irony of throwing a party celebrating American independence from Britain, at an Irish pub, in Italy…but it is the best we could do and it actually turned out great. Never underestimate the power of “free shots”; poor college students showed up in hordes to enjoy their gratis libations. We offered two fruity concoctions, one red and one blue, that I am positive produced some purple regurgitation the next morning as well as a pretty generous special on Buweieser beer. The solid American turnout packed the place and danced all night long. By the time we were closing we had sold every bottle of bud in the house and gone through every ounce of free shots. Not a second of this party evoked feelings of liberty, justice or freedom for all…but goddammit it was American…for better or for worse.
By the end of the week Joann and I had spent most of our time engulfed in traditions. One a time honored race that defines a small city and one 232 years of a nations liberty packed into one debaucherous night…we were tired but proud, not only to keep the one we know so well alive, but to be a even a small part a new one as well.
CHECK OUT THE PICTURES!
There are 17 neighborhoods in Siena, they are called cantrade in Italian. Each contrade has its own symbol, usually an intimidating animal, as well as a coat of arms, a flag and numerous songs that they cant. Ironically, every contrade shares the exact same snare drum beat (more on that later). The Palio (translation: banner) is the, er, banner that is given to the winning contrade of this horse race. Drastic understatement: it is a monstrous, gargantuan, epically big deal to native Sienese people. These people march with their flags, beat one another senseless (seriously…if every here they were issued ak-47’s the Bloods and Crips would fit right in, of course they would have to exchange the baggy jeans for salmon colored capris and the afro-puff for a gelled up monstrosity), drink and sing until the wee hours of the morning and then start doing it again in the wee hours of the morning…and this starts just over a month before the actual race. Of the 17 contrade, only 10 are actually chosen to race in The Palio.
As I said before the names, or rather, symbolic representations, of the contrade vary, but are usually of a domineering nature. They consist of a Tower (masked on the flag, by the tower actually being on the back of an Elephant), a Panther, a Dragon, a Caterpillar (not so tough), a Wave (anyone from Thailand would not argue this one), a Porcupine, a Giraffe, a Turtle, a Ram, a Wolf, a Unicorn (fabulous!), an Owl, a Duck, a Forest (again masked by having a prominent Rhinocerous on the flag), a Snail, a Falcon …and then there is the contrade within whose boundaries Joann and I make our home. It is perhaps the fiercest of all the contrade, and easily the most intimidating…Il Contrade del nicchio (the neighborhood of the Sea Shell); I am not at all sure how the names of these neighborhoods came to be, but if they were drawing straws hundreds of years ago, it is clear the guy who lived in this neighborhood was one of the laughing stocks of the selection process. I, suppose, if one ( a panther, for instance) were to somehow step on a fragile sea shell, it could theoretically shatter driving small, but sharp pieces of shell shrapnel deep into the arteries of the unsuspecting predator causing a nasty infection, but short of that I just don’t see the angle in naming your mascot after the expunges protection of a crustacean (this coming from a kid whose High School mascot was a Cardinal, followed closely in college by the Fightin’ Blue Hen…ugh, I sure can pick ‘em). Regardless, these names have been in place for hundreds of years so all of those associated with the neighborhood live and die for them.
On the Sunday after we return from the Cinque Terre, Joann and I are headed through to the Piazza Del Campo alongside a few thousand of our closest friends (all of whom are bearing the different scarves of their respective contrade)…it appears today is the day they horses whom are to race in next weeks Palio are to be divvyed out to the 10 neighborhoods…its Selection Sunday. We head to the center of the Campo gleaming red and schluffing off dead skin from our shoulders with every wind gust, excited to watch this spectacle. One by one the neighborhoods are called and allocated a horse. As each is announced the respective followers of that neighborhood cheer gleefully and follow the horse back to the stable they have in their hood singing as loudly (or obnoxiously, your choice) as they can. The horses seem less than trained and as they are walked through these massive crowds begin to buck and skittishly shuffle around in their obvious unease. Jo and I are right next to where they walk the horse by. My mother always told me I was born with a “horse shoe up my ass”…I was not about to prove her right, so we managed to steer clear of any introductions to the kicking limbs of there equines. The Sea Shell’s horse is a beautiful Arabian (maybe) who is the color of the middle of a Milk Way Bar and who just happens to make his home directly beneath our bedroom window. What an honor! For the first 30 minutes Joann and I get a huge kick out of watching this horse warm up by walking in circles, and getting a bath, and eating apples, but quickly tire of the sounds of metal horse shoe tap dancing on cobblestone. From now until the race was over we would know exactly when this horse was in the stable and when he was leaving or warming up. I tried to se the silver lining and pretended it was nice to be so close to the action and the tradition…Jo preferred a quiet nights sleep, and I cant say I blame her. Between the horse marching around, and the people singing their songs, and the damn snare drums beating their incessant beat…you could not escape the truly original sounds of The Palio, no matter which corner of this walled city you were in. They all march and sing the same two or three songs, but each neighborhood has different words (so they basically sound the same), however they could not muster the same kind of half-originality when it came to beating on their drums. Every neighborhood beats this antiquated snare drums (think Williamsburg, Va during a renaissance festival) to the same droning beat. It’s a simple one and an annoying by the fifth time you hear it. It is so unoriginal in fact that one morning as one contrade or another were marching past our window beating the skins and sinning (my spell-check wants me to type “singing” but at 7 A.M, I would beg to differ) at the break of day, one of the 15 or so drummers started rolling his third beat and mixing a nice little fill in between the 4 bars of actual music…this was such a nice change that my ever sleeping-beauty actually rolled over and said, “hmm, that kid was actually kind of good” before trying to ignore the cantankerous noise again, letting the drones march on and heading back to sleep.
One of the great traditions of The Palio (if you are sienese) is the elaborate contrade parties. These neighborhoods literally fence off all traffic, foot and motor, and set up tables after tables along the city streets. They have enormous meals and serve vats of wine to everyone associated with the contrade. We, not being part of the contrade, were not invited and had to watch 600 locals enjoy what sounded like an amazing time until 3 in the morning the night before the race. I was bitter at not being included, but understood and was simply happy for having an amazing view of the party.
Race day came quickly. And the city was eerily calm in the hours leading up to the massive event. The campo was all prepared. Bleachers has been set up all; along the circumference of the race track and dirt had been laid and smoothed as the racing surface. Joann and I descended on the scene around 4:30 pm. The doors that allow entry close at
5. We walked around the campo a bit handing out fliers for the party we were throwing in two days and then met up with some friends and decided on a nice place to watch the race. We had a good view of the course (notably the most dangerous turn), good company, some good drink, and were absolutely pleased. After about an hour of hanging out and shooting the proverbial shit, a cannon sounded and the pre-race parade was to begin. The first act were a dozen horse mounted soldiers (looking more like confederate soldiers than the modern day model). They politely trotted around the course once, then sort of cantered around twice, then out of nowhere the leader of the pack apparently yelled “CHARGE” and all 12 of them drew their swords and began galloping full speed around the track as if they had just encountered the enemy. I don’t know why I was so excited by this, but I was…and as they bolted off the course and into the center of the city (in my head to meet the oncoming opposition), my heart was racing….I was ready for the race. This would however prove to be the most exciting part of the parade. For the next 2 and a half hours a slow (and when I say slow, I mean even the turtle contrade had to reign it in) and deliberately paced procession of every contrade made their way around the track. It was unbelievable how long this took and how boring it was. Finally after and ungodly amount of time the (unremarkable) PALIO made its grand entrance. It inched around the track once before being placed high above the dirt oval in a flag pole. At this point the Canon rang out again and the horses emerged. This time they were finally being ridden by their hilariously dressed jockeys. Foolishly, I thought this meant the race was about to start…but once again, I was wrong. Quite impressively though, as the horses approached the start line the thousands of people in attendance simultaneously fell silent…you could literally hear the horses hoofs beat the dirt as they readied for the race. We would listen to this silence for the next 30 minutes, as the untrained horses had a bit of trouble lining up correctly. When they finally were in place…BOOM! The canon blasted and we were off!!!
As the horse blasted out of the gate The Sea Shells were far in the lead…this made us very happy, until we realized it was a false start…the damn Giraffe had jumped early. We would line up again. After yet another half and hour of getting the horses in line…BOOM. This time it was for real…the race had begun.
All of the horses seemed to be pretty even in the opening stretch and even around turn one…turn two is a different story. It is the only turn in the whole race that is padded, this being because it is so sharp that inevitably men hit the walls and fall off of their horses (this, it turns out, does not disqualify the contrade for it matters where the horse finishes….not the rider). As they round turn two, my week long nightmare comes to fruition, our beloved Sea Shell rider (in last place mind you) hits the wall violently and is quickly dismounted. Our horse is a bit dazed by the hit as well, and does not seem to have all of his wits about him…this would not be our year. Another rider hits the wall in the same turn and is thrust to the ground with angry force. They have tons of medical staff in this corner, so not 5 seconds after this happens, both jockeys are on stretchers and being carried off the track. Going into turn three there are 8 mounted horses and two horses running without direction, but still following the pack with all their might (I was very proud of our horse for nor simply calling it a day after the disaster moments before). The race lasts 3 laps, and to my surprise every rider manages to stay on his horse through most of it. As they come down the back stretch Istriche (the Porcupine) and Torre (the tower) and neck and neck. They come to the final turn and Torre makes a run for the inside…he does so, however, a bit too short and runs straight into the barricade knocking the horse down and throwing himself about 20 feet into the air. The Porcupine takes The Palio! Before the race is even over the members of the contrade have made their way onto the track to celebrate their victory. They are beside themselves, they are weeping tears of joy, they are jumping and clicking their heels with pure glee, they are…being trampled by the other race horses who did not finish first and do not know how to stiop on a dime!!! I could not believe the level of idiocy shown here. There must have been 20-25 people who were run into and consequently run over by the other 9 gigantic race horses…they clearly had not thought the whole celebration through.
It is a brief race but an unbelievably exciting one and I am happy to have been able to bear witness to it. You realize you are seeing something that only happens once a year, in only this place on earth, and its pretty impressive thing to try and wrap your head around. For all of the boring pageantry, it was something to behold and something not to soon be forgotten.
Joann and I had to head to work immediately after the race so we quickly slash our way through the crowd to head home. We have to walk through the contrade of the tower to get to where we need to be. Spielberg could not direct such a dramatic scene. People of every age, size and gender are draped over signs and tables and cars drenched in their own tears. Women are clutching their unknowing infants to their breasts as they drain their tear ducts onto their bonneted heads. We see a mass of people heading toward us so we step aside to see what the fuss is about…the lonesome jockey, tiny and dirty as a little rascal, limps through the crowd, two identical clean streaks split his cheeks where his tears have made a riverbed. I am not sure which part of coming in second hurt the most, the emotional defeat, the being hurled from a speeding race horse, or what the contrade members undoubtedly did to him upon his return to the stable…any way you look at it, it is not a position you want to be in.
2 days and 2 million snare drum slaps later it is the 4th of July and I am throwing a party at the Pub where Joann works. Yes, I understand the irony of throwing a party celebrating American independence from Britain, at an Irish pub, in Italy…but it is the best we could do and it actually turned out great. Never underestimate the power of “free shots”; poor college students showed up in hordes to enjoy their gratis libations. We offered two fruity concoctions, one red and one blue, that I am positive produced some purple regurgitation the next morning as well as a pretty generous special on Buweieser beer. The solid American turnout packed the place and danced all night long. By the time we were closing we had sold every bottle of bud in the house and gone through every ounce of free shots. Not a second of this party evoked feelings of liberty, justice or freedom for all…but goddammit it was American…for better or for worse.
By the end of the week Joann and I had spent most of our time engulfed in traditions. One a time honored race that defines a small city and one 232 years of a nations liberty packed into one debaucherous night…we were tired but proud, not only to keep the one we know so well alive, but to be a even a small part a new one as well.
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