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.
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