Tag Archives: Culture

Photo Essay: Palio di Siena

July 2, 2020 Andrew Zapf Leave a comment

The great Palio di Siena would have run on 2 July 2020. With months of anticipation and preparation, a week of ceremony and tradition, the Palio is one of the oldest traditions in Italy. Unfortunately, due to COVID-19 the races in July and August have been cancelled this year. One of our greatest fears at Pushing Horizons is that the rebalance of what is deemed essential and inessential in life will land heavily against traditions like the Palio. We would argue that traditions that stretch back centuries and tie communities together are the very definition of “essential activity” and the intangible, unquantifiable benefits sharpen what gives meaning to life.

WIthout a Palio this year to attend, the team at Pushing Horizons put together a short photo essay to remind us of the passion and intensity of Siena, Italy in July that accompanies our website-launching article on the Palio di Siena . Enjoy!

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. As an REI Associate, Pushing Horizons earns from qualifying purchases.

Soul, Travel Vignettes

When the Italians Invaded England

September 27, 2019 Andrew Zapf Leave a comment

It wasn’t quite a cricket. The beast astride the rotating disk had the legs of a grasshopper, but its face was far more sinister. The rhythmic metal flesh of its body, rocking back and forth, wasn’t giving it a cuddly impression either. My son was fascinated by it and even when he turned away, only a few moments would pass before he’d snap his head around and watch it hobbled along on its perpetual journey once more. For my wife and I it was serving its purpose and keeping him occupied.

It had been weeks since we left Italy and traded Mediterranean sun for English rain and this particular evening was late-summer crisp and clear. We were standing at the corner of Trumpington and Bene’t Streets in Cambridge. The Corpus Clock wasn’t very useful as a timepiece, but it’s hypnotizing and eerie motion helped pass the time. In the intervening weeks we had maintained contact with Maurizio and Fiorella in Italy as they planned their late-summer visit to England. They had planned their visit well before they met us, but over the previous months our friendship grew and we made plans to meet for dinner after their arrival to the United Kingdom.

The Corpus Clock is a few steps away from The Eagle Pub. It’s not a hidden gem of Cambridge, quite the opposite really, but my wife had always won the battle-of-picking-the-restaurant and we had never gone. This particular pub is famous for its bar, the Royal Air Force Bar or RAF Bar. During the Second World War the area of Cambridgeshire was thick with Royal Air Force bases. American and British squadrons were housed all throughout the area and villages and pubs still carry memorial stones, markers, and reminders of the areas’ wartime population. The RAF Bar at The Eagle is famous in Cambridge because it retains much of the graffiti of World War II-era pilots and bomber crews that drank their before and after missions. Even lipstick messages from their dates is still faintly visible. I wanted to go there, sit in the room, and have a pint with the memories and ghosts of those men. The question was how to do it?

They arrived wearing coats and sweatshirts, and all five of them were shivering in the warmth of the English summer. Removed from the scorching Mediterranean sun, despite the Cambridge students summer attire, they felt that they had instantly transported to late-autumn. As we exchanged greetings on the sidewalk I asked if they had picked a place to eat. Giulia, their eldest daughter informed me that all they were really after was classic British food.

I made a calculated maneuver to get us into The Eagle for dinner that night. I knew my wife would be increasingly more agreeable to the nearest restaurant at hand that could feed our son. Although my wife had been investigating the menu of another restaurant, I suggested that the best place for classic British foods would be a classic British pub. Loe and behold, the proximity of The Eagle pub and the lateness of the hour enticed us into the The Eagle’s doorway.

Miraculously we found a table for eight people inside the RAF Bar near the bar and its phalanx of beer taps. The menu tantalized the Italians with English pub favorites such as bangers & mash, fish & chips, and steak & ale pie. I offered to place the order for group at the bar and one by one the orders came:

“Fish & Chips.”

“Fish & Chips!”

“Fish & Chips!!”

A resounding endorsement for England’s greatest culinary achievement!

The order was placed. Maurizio joined me at the bar. With the help of a friendly bartender, he sampled some English beers – settling on the Camden Hells Lager to accompany the meal. While we stood there, I took the opportunity to mention a bit about the history of the place, which excitedly relayed to his family.

As we waited for the food, we conversed like we had so many times before. Our son ran between the chairs, giving hugs and playing simple games – excited to see them again. Fiorella and my wife chatted as they always did, while Maurizio and I sat at the far end of the table mixing broken English, broken Italian, and Google translate into our conversation. Like old times.

Before long, the plates emerged from the kitchen, the ends of the cod filets gently curled in an inviting grin. The battered and fried fish lay in the shadow of a small mountain of large-cut fried potatoes – the “chips” half of the equation. While my Maurizio and his family have heard of England’s legendary fish & chips they had never been instructed on the ritual surrounding the consumption of brown-coated fish and brown vegetables. A generous squeeze of lemon wedges over the fish came naturally to them. My recommendation of the malt vinegar for the chips inspired less enthusiasm. While the mushy peas met unconcealed suspicion.

To say the food was a hit would be an understatement; not a single bite of fish remained. Maurizio cleared his plate, scooped out all of the mushy peas and even raided his children’s unfinished plates. The kids even asked for and received a second order of chips.

By 9 p.m. the bar was about half as empty. They coveted booths were still occupied, but the area surrounding our large table grew a little more spacious and the line at the bar had dwindled to single customers at a time. Our sleepy children prevented us from closing the bar down. When we left there was life in each of the pub’s rooms. Some with tourists, some with Cambridge University students, smokers in the garden. As we walked to our cars we lingered in the glow of another joyous meal together. We may not see each other until the next summer, but the friendship won’t fade – and all of us knew that.

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author.

Soul, Travel Vignettes

Learning to Live in Italy

August 23, 2019 Andrew Zapf 4 Comments

Before I knew Italy, I could only picture myself wearing a light-blue cotton shirt, sensuously unbuttoned to capture the lemon-scented breeze as my burnt-orange convertible traced the winding road that winds along the Amalfi coast. In this dream I’d barely have to look at the road, as no other cars, or even the idea of traffic, could even exist in this fantasy world. Instead, I’d only have to tilt my Persol adorned face to bask in the moment as I carried a balanced expression of unrestrained joy and effortless eleganza. Somewhere I’d have a cream-colored jacket on-hand to wear as the setting sun melted into an evening sea breeze.

Landing at Rome’s Fiumicino International Airport, earlier this year, I contended with horizontal rain and crisp late-winter temperatures. Little did I know that my Italian dreams would be held at bay by a persistent winter and unseasonably cold spring, keeping the jackets and sweaters in constant circulation. Neptune, the Ancient Roman god of the sea, must reside towards Italy’s western horizon under the Tyrrhenian Sea. His anger at land-based rivals evident in the late-winter rains that flooded roads while seething waves attacked the shore. Astride this shoreline lie a string of hibernating towns, with few year-long residents, waiting out the winter’s wind until relieved by the sun’s liberating warmth.

In Fregene, one of these Roman beach towns, a single restaurant was open. Our waitress leaned against the counter chatting with the cook, warmed by the pizza oven. In summer the windows would be opened to allow the evening breeze to pass through, but on this particular night the place was buttoned up against the cold of mid-February. Despite the season, the restaurant’s full offerings were available and Maurizio’s, my most recent acquaintance, order included stops along the antipasti, primi piatti, and secondi piatti, and dolce sections of the menu. We started with prosciutto and mozzarella plates, fried calamari served underneath a squeezed lemon, and in-season artichokes cooked in olive oil. The progression of plates allowed stories to weave through reaching arms and forks lancing morsels of food.

I’m uncertain whether the conversation paused to allow for eating, or if the eating stopped to continue talking. Maurizio couldn’t express himself the way he wanted to in English, so he giggled as he spoke to his phone’s Google Translate app – an imperfect tool. Jokes told in Italian were imperfectly rendered even funnier, and oddly poetic, in English. Ripping the pizza bianca, unadorned pizza dough, in between volleys of conversation, his eyes gleamed with satisfaction. Everyone at the table had an entree, mostly thin-crust pizzas topped with buffalo mozzarella, and arugula, or simple margarita pizzas of tomato sauce gently resting on crispy crusts. It wasn’t the best pizza I’d ever have in Italy, but each piece folded well and didn’t overwhelm with salt or acidity.

Fiorella, Maurizio’s wife, described to me the charms of this little town during the summer while their youngest daughter playfully braided her hair. The winter’s sun had set even before we began eating, and now the night outside settled into a thick calm. The light from the restaurant’s windows barely reached the edge of the sidewalk tracing the building’s walls. After an hour and a half of eating, and my own belt taut against the digesting meal, paper plates stacked with fried dough balls drizzled with chocolate syrup came out from the kitchen. Still hot, we used toothpicks to puncture their sides and let the heat out.

Maurizio stood up from his chair and at the end of his outstretched arm he grasped a glass of amaro. With his digestif in hand, he gently sang along to “Volare” playing over the restaurant’s speaker system. Gianluca, his son, sat slumped in his chair at the end of the table, staring at his phone. Too tired to be embarrassed, Gianluca didn’t even look up when his father began singing. There was no reason to. Around our table were the only customers in the restaurant.

The aperitif was a prop. Maurizio was singing out of happiness. He had grown up in this town and had seen thousands of people come and go. Many of them left as his friend. He exuded warmth and friendliness, and each encounter with him was book-ended by an informal clasp of hands and one-armed hugs. My place at the table came courtesy of my American co-worker, who sat to Maurizio’s left. They were friends and I was that night I was being introduced. Like a baton passed during a foot race, Maurizio was being asked to look after me in my new environment. My job had plopped me down into Italy, a new country, a small town, and at that moment . . . a whole Italian family. A few days after that dinner, Maurizio helped me find a place to stay, comfortable and clean, with every convenience and spacious enough to accommodate visiting friends and relatives during my stay – which they would do.

Over the next several months I would make this town my home. As I commuted to my work, I’d pass the same people waiting at the same bus stops, greet the same cashiers at the grocery stores, and develop a common language with a barber – the most daunting of foreign language challenges. In my new environment the guidebooks were useless to me. Their authors usually wrote for audiences with briefer attention spans and a need to see highlights. If there was even a mention of my adoptive town, it was to advertise a trendy beach or the novelty of surfing within an hour of the Roman Forum. I was in for a longer duration and it forced me to change my approach to the country – I would learn by doing.

The basics were the most humbling to learn. At the grocery store, unlike in America, the customer weighs and tags their fruit and vegetables at the point of selection. On my first foray into the market, I was sent sheepishly from the checkout line to weigh my onions and apples, holding up patient mothers and their wiggly children. Train tickets provided another opportunity to grow. Purchasing the ticket from a kiosk was simple enough, provided I knew the name of the station I was headed to, but validating the ticket was not as obvious. A good-natured, finger-waving conductor made me aware of this all-important step when he nearly slapped me with the obligatory €100 fine for failing to do so. Most importantly, I learned to drive like an Italian after experiencing the NASCAR like-aggressiveness of the average Italian driver. In a series of different rental cars I’d learn the potholes, speed bumps, and shortcuts of the area. I painstakingly built a map of the roads disfigured by ancient tree roots pushing the asphalt into steep ridges, while developing a Formula-1 driver’s touch for passing Fiat 500s and Renault Twingos. I have even developed a sixth sense, a natural radar for scooters and motorcycles that perpetually lingered in my car’s blindspot.

Through it all I inevitably learned. I learned to tag my own vegetables, how to prepay for my gasoline, how to ninja my way through train stations and metros, how to order an espresso in Italian and give the appropriate greeting and farewell with appropriate expatriate charm. I learned to swim in Italian society and culture without the telltale signs of the drowning foreigner. However, it wasn’t until I learned to dress like an Italian that I really became part of the scenery.

I had read that in Italy the appearance of a thing is believed to reveal a deeper meaning. Beautiful lines of a sports car indicate its swiftness and power, but also the nature of the driver who would dare own it. In the same way, the cut of a pair of pants, the elegance of a shoe, and the considered coiff of a fresh hairstyle hint at the truth of a persona. An Italian can decode many things, sometimes bordering on the absurd, but it does influence every day interactions. In time, I would eschew the baggier clothing designed for comfort and elect to wear more tailored clothing, matching the colors of my clothing with a bit more care, and adopting a better posture to present more elegant lines in my profile. There is no hiding my Americanism, but the additional consideration given to fashion and style probably improved how my character was assessed and allowed me to blend-in – when in Rome, eh?

From the same restaurants I watched the frigid air of winter evolve into the storms of spring, into the naked days of summer. A similar evolution of cuisine unfolded on my dinner plate. The hearty sauces meant to warm the soul and the body were retired as the fresh vegetables, sauteed with garlic and capers, combined with expertly grilled gamberi to create a refreshing dish on a scorching summer day. My American diet gradually became infiltrated with espresso and cappuccino, olives, tomatoes, attractive burrata and stracciatella cheeses. Ironically, the lighter my diet became the longer I would sit at the table. A two-hour meal accomplished without overeating by can only be done through the art of conversing. Only taking bites of food, and savoring them, as punctuation between well-told stories and jokes.

An Italian storyteller doesn’t go straight for the punchline. They build their stories into a crescendo reflective of the progression of courses in a family meal. An Italian story can’t function with a beginning, middle, and end. No, it has to tease you, growing richer in detail as the narrative builds. The shortest story should contain some semblance of the aforementioned Italian meal, progressing through antipasti, primi piatti, secondi piatti, insalata, and ending in the sweet dolce – the moral of the story. Dario Castagna’s short novel, An Osteria in Chianti is excellent examples of this. Castagna carved out a career from his love of his native Chianti, starting a bespoke tour guide service and becoming an author of nonfiction and fiction works – all centered on his passion, knowledge, and lifetime spent in the hills of Chianti, in Tuscany.

“I filled my lungs with these fragrant scents of the October countryside; at the same time my eyes drank in the suggestive beauties of the territory. And at the very moment that my brain was archiving them, its prince of products, the wine (which I had abundantly abused over the past few days due to the annual feast in honor of the vendemmia) mixed with the blood now pumping so forcefully through my veins. And all at once I felt I was indeed an essential part of this splendid corner of the universe.” – An Osteria in Chianti

Passages like this gave me no urge to shortcut the story, but compelled me to follow the narrative where it wanted to lead me. It also taught me how life in Italy is anything but monochromatic. The depth and breadth of colors that pervade the dinner table, the conversation, and communities of Italy – as I would witness in Arezzo and Siena – is breathtaking.

That first night, Maurizio was anything but static during the dinner. In a lonely beach town restaurant on a cold February evening, he expanded his range of interaction and camaraderie beyond our simple table. After indulging those around him, Maurizio circulated within restaurant. On a summer night, if he had friends amongst the other patrons, he would spend a third of his evening devoted to joking with them, patting their children on the head, and visiting the chef in the kitchen. However, on that night, in an empty restaurant, Maurizio sang as the evening drew to a close. It was a night that swelled with feeling as ever-increasing quantities of delicious food amplified by laughter and abundant gesticulations engaged all the senses. Again, Dario Castagna provides the right words:

“I asked why he banged the glass with so much ardor. He eyed me curiously for a moment, as if assessing me, then scratched at the bristly white hairs on his chin and gave me a smile that might have been mischievous or challenging, or both, and declared: “When one drinks wine all the senses ought to enjoy some benefit. The mouth gets to savor the taste, the nose captures the bouquet, and the eye is enriched by the color. Why then should the ear be excluded?” – An Osteria in Chianti

My time in Italy would dazzle and enchant my senses in unexpected ways. My memory contains the smell of a rain-drenched winter Rome intermingled with the feeling of my shoe cautiously slipping along wet stone sidewalks, the sight of festival champions being hoisted onto the shoulders of loyal contradaioli; the sound of my three-year old son shouting “Maximus! Maximus!” inside the Colosseum; and the comforting taste of my second mid-morning espresso as I stretched my back away from my desk. This was the Italy I knew; the Italy I will remember as a second home.

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author.

Soul, Travel Vignettes

Palio di Siena

July 2, 2019 roland.minez 1 Comment

Where Tradition Lives in the Spirit of the Community

Jockeys race the *Palio* in Siena, Italy July 2, 2019. Photo by Andrew Zapf

Culture, Tradition, Passion, Adventure; these are the watchwords which brought Andy and I (and our families) together and was the genesis for Pushing Horizons. Thus, we could not refuse an opportunity to experience the Palio in the Medieval city of Siena, Italy. Nor could we think of a better way to officially launch pushinghorizons.com for our family, friends, and like minded individuals.

The (still) Medieval City of Siena, photo by Andrew Zapf

To think of the Palio as only, or even primarily, a horse race is to miss the deeper undercurrents that surround the event. This is, above all, about community. Each neighborhood, or contrada, in geographic boundaries established in 1729, passionately support their respective horses and jockeys (if victorious). The seventeen contrade, with colors and symbols that hearken back to antiquity and with elements of mythology (wolves, giraffes, dragons, panthers, and even snails), form the identity and loyalties of the youngest children to the oldest grandparents.

Members of *Contrada della Torre*, or Tower, display their colors in parade before the *Palio* Race, July 2, 2019. Photo by Andrew Zapf.

Andy arrived three days before I did and immersed himself in the nuances of the race, its tactics and traditions. By the time I had entered the walls of the old city on July 1, he also had arranged for us to experience one of the most evocative events of the multi-day pageantry that is the Palio – a dinner the night before the race with one of the contrade in the streets of their neighborhood.

Among the faithful of *Onda,* or Wave, the night before the
*Palio*. Photo by Andrew Zapf.

We sat down with the members of Capitana dell’Onda, or Wave, at tables lit from above by decorative fish-designed lamps symbolic of the contrada and laid out through the twisting streets of the neighborhood. The community served a multi-course meal to over a thousand assembled along Via Giovanni Duprè. Young teenagers, on the cusp of adulthood, ladled out plates of prosciutto and melon, chicken and potatoes, and creme caramel. Others replenished dwindling stocks of wine and scurried back to the kitchen for more bread rolls. Children ran through the tables pelting each other with corks from the growing number of empty wine bottles. Throughout the night, members would break out in to song, singing the ancient dirges of Onda; castigating their rival – Torre – or extolling the virtue of their tribe.

Make no mistake, this was tribal. The grandmother across from us explained how her husband had registered her children in the Onda community even before they were born. Once registered, your membership in a contrada could not be changed and lasted until death. Senior representatives of the contrada are a part of wedding ceremonies and the grandmother’s daughters, now mothers themselves, proudly explained how at death members of the community would be escorted at the funeral by those bearing the Onda colors.

The love these people had for their contrada manifests itself in the horse race and this maybe one of the most interesting and hidden elements of the event. Leaders are selected by the community to serve as “captains” of their respective contrade. Captains marshal the resources of their community to achieve victory at the Palio. Jockeys are bribed, favors are paid for, alliances between contrade factor into the scheming, and large war chests are collected to influence the outcome of the race. A horse trainer, and contrada captain-to-be, told us that up to two million euros were spent on a single Palio by some contrade to ensure victory. The reward? Adding the Drappellone, the official Palio banner, to their neighborhood museum, and the glory associated with being a member of the winning contrada.

Horses are “randomly” assigned to the ten *contrade* competing in the *Palio*, eliciting cheers from the “lucky” and groans from the “unlucky.” Photo by Andrew Zapf.

To the uninitiated, these machinations behind the scenes seem to corrupt the heart of the race. However, such views fail to grasp that intrigue is as much a part of the Palio as the sweat soaked horses and men in the arena careening fearlessly around the Piazzo del Campo. This is life, or war, and no effort is spared to achieve victory. The jockeys are mercenaries, and never fully trusted by the contrade that hire them. Members of the contrada guard the jockeys in the frenzied days before the race to ensure that rival neighborhoods do not find ways to compromise them.

In one of the numerous practice runs before the actual *Palio*, a jockey looks back at his opponents. Photo by Andrew Zapf.

Gamesmanship even extends to the six trial runs held in the days before the race. The trials familiarize both horses and jockeys to the Palio racetrack, dirt covering the ancient stones of the Campo. During the trials some horses are raced at full speed, while other jockeys disguise their horses’ ability with casual cantors around the dirt track. These trials also, inevitably, feed the growing excitement of the city. We witnessed one such practice run. In bleachers around the Campo groups of various contrade, divided by men, women, and children, their colored scarfs fluttering, cheered. The honorary Carabineri horse guard trotted around the track and stopped to salute the contrade children given privileged seats along the track. Like their parents, and those who sat in the seats before them, they carry the mantle of their community into the future. The elderly lady standing next to us exclaimed “bellissima” in ecstasy at the pathos of the scene.

*Carabineri* Honor Guard salute the children of the Contrade. Photo by Andrew Zapf.

On July 2, the day of the race, people thronged the streets of the city, many still groggy from the festivities of the night before. A last practice run was held in the morning. After looking at photos I sent from the practice, my four year daughter called to tell me she predicted that the Red and White clad jockey would win. Across Siena, in ten different contrada chapels, the horses were blessed – “Go! And return victorious!” was the final charge of the priest. We joined the faithful who waited outside the Onda church to catch a glimpse of their champion.

Then we funneled into the standing room only arena in the middle of the Campo and waited for the event to begin. Amidst the blare of bugles and beat of drums, the inhabitants paraded around the track in the medieval uniforms of their ancestors. In an endless procession, jesters, acrobats, archers, guild members, knights, and noblemen marched around the track. At the end of the parade, gigantic oxen pulled a large carriage displaying the prize Drappellone.

Gigantic Oxen pull a wagon in the parade carrying the *Drappellone*, the prize of the Palio. Photo by Andrew Zapf.

The mayor of Siena walked to his position on an ancient wooden bridge that overlooked the race. Captains of the various contrade, looking all the world like mob bosses, shook the hands of their followers, gave back slaps to their peers, or scowled behind designer sunglasses before taking their seats. Finally, the horses and their jockeys entered the Campo. Young men from the contrade screamed encouragements. Above from ornate balconies, the wealthy and connected stared down at the spectacle. In the middle, the rabble – us among them – fed the nervous energy of the horses.

A *Contrada* captain hugs his members before the race. Photo by Andrew Zapf.

A hushed silence overcame the thousands of fans in the square as the horses lined up. The collective excitement was palpable. The race would begin when the last rider-chosen by lottery-entered a roped off area at the start line. This rider, who by the nature of his position at the back of the pack has little chance of winning the race is ripe for deal making. How and when he initiates the race can advantage another jockey. To the growing frustration of the audience, there was numerous false starts. Riders jostled and a horse threw his jockey. Time and again, the horses had to be reformed.

Then, suddenly, the race had begun. Man and beast galloped at incredible speeds around the track. The jockeys beat each other with rods and careened inches from the ancient statues that adorned buildings. The audience cheered. Contrade loyalists howled. The jockey for the Chiocciola (snail) contrada led the pack. He was chased relentlessly by the red and white clad jockey for Imperial Contrada della Giraffa (Giraffe). Three times the the horses galloped past us, flinging dirt in the air. Our jockey from Onda blocked Torre – they would finish ninth and tenth. At the last turn, and final second, Giraffa edged past the leader to take the victory.

The *Giraffa* Jockey closes in on the leader, *Chiocciola*. Photo by Andrew Zapf.

Just like that, in little more than ninety second, the race was over. The Campo erupted into chaos. Fans rushed the track. Defeated contrade members bawled. The victorious Contrada, Giraffa, ecstatically crowded around their heroic jockey Giovanni Atzeni; featured in an earlier documentary film about the Palio. They lifted him onto their shoulders and paraded through the streets chanting the old dirges of their community. The fierce passion of victory covered Atzeni’s face.

Giovanni Atzeni filled with the fierce passion of victory. Photo by Andrew Zapf.

Andy and I were stunned by the excitement of it all. I called my daughter to tell her that her prediction had been correct. We had been witness to a tradition, stretching back into antiquity, kept vibrantly alive by the commitment and spirit of the community. It was time for the Imperial Contrada della Giraffa to enjoy the fruits of their victory and carry the Drappellone back to their neighborhood.

Ecstatic *Giraffa Contrada* members hoist their victorious jockey upon their shoulders and carry the Drappellone back to their neighborhood. Photo by Andrew Zapf.

No city is immune to change and Siena is not the same as it was when the Palio began hundreds of years ago. However, the spirit of the the contrade and the communities they stitch together is the thread that connects the past to the present. Whatever the future brings, the Sienese will look towards the next Palio on the dirt of the Piazza del Campo.

Roland Minez is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author.

Soul, Travel Vignettes

Giostra del Saracino

June 22, 2019 Andrew Zapf 1 Comment

I apologize for writing this vignette. It’s not my story to tell, and yet, I’m telling it. I feel like I was a guest at another family’s dinner table and now I’m telling you about that family’s quarrels. It’s not a secret, what I’m about to tell, but it felt intimate at the time. The story of Arezzo I wanted to tell began very differently. I was there to see a spectacle. I wanted to experience Tuscany and somehow associate myself with something different. When I arrived at the Arezzo train station I was armed with the confidence of a little bit of knowledge of the city and a bit of experience in Italy. By this point the charms of Italy had blurred together and I was seeking to know the place in high contrast. I was in town for the Giostra del Saracino, the Joust of the Saracen, an event mythologized into the city’s military preparations for the much-feared Saracen armies of the East. The Districts of Arezzo would assemble their men for military training and drills, and what may have started out as soldierly one-upmanship became a point of test of skills between the soldiers of each District. Nowadays, the Joust doesn’t pit men directly against men, but the skills competition persists against a quintain representing Burratto, King of the Indies.

When you enter the city from the train station you don’t realize that you are on a hill. As you head northeast, the rise of the road is almost imperceptible. In only a short time you would pass through the Medieval center and cross il Prato, stopped only by the far edge of the park wall. Looking out over the vista toward the Arretine hills, only then do you realize the city’s defensive position – and you also begin to realize its small size. The Districts of Arezzo don’t appear out of nowhere for the Giostra. Throughout the year the Districts provide social glue to Arretine society, hosting social events, providing youth activities, and keeping the members engaged. Their is identity attained through the Districts and the colors and pride were on full display. Around town the neighborhoods of the Districts proudly displayed their flags and symbols. I passed beneath blue and yellow flags of the Porta San Spirito, the green and white flags of the Porta San Andrea, and the green and red flags of the Porta Crucifera walking between the train station and the Piazza Grande. I had no connection to the city, no friend, no guide, so I was completely unaffiliated. This allowed me to appreciate the pageantry objectively, but it also placed me firmly on the outside. I didn’t dare wear the colors of any respective District, saunter into any headquarters for the traditional pre-joust dinner, or attempt to ingratiate myself. I was an outsider and I had no right to experience the Joust with all the trappings and camaraderie entitled to an Arretine citizen.

But, the ticket I bought gave me the right to watch Joust with my own eyes. In the morning I watched the Proclamation of the Joust by the town herald, and I listened to the beating of drums as the neighborhood’s costumed representatives assembled and paraded in the morning in ritual procession. I watched, but couldn’t interact. The program did not require my participation or even my attendance. I milled about during the day, poking my head into a church or shop along Corso Italia here and there as I waited for the minutes and hours to pass. Every now and then my path would cross with a band of Medieval characters on their way to some assembly area, or banging on their drums. As the hours passed the groups became larger.

At first it was only a trio of soldiers carrying a spears and shields. Then I saw groups of archers bearing heavy crossbows and heavy shields, intimidating in their heft. By 6 pm the occasional knight on horseback, with an entourage moved about the street. Their horses covered in colorful cloth and heraldic symbology. The town was militarizing.

At exactly 6:30 pm and with the first bell of the clock tower, a threatening sky turned into divine fury. Giant drops of rain smacked the ground as if punishing some insult. For the joust, a carefully groomed dirt racing strip had been carefully constructed diagonally across the Piazza Grande. Initially it absorbed the rain, but within only minutes it became completely saturated. Mud began washing away from the tilted piazza in Wonka-esque chocolate-colored rivers. If the divine had any opinion about the jousting, the message was clear. It was no passing storm. The dark clouds lingered and the rain continued to fall after the sounds of drums had long ceased. The piazza emptied of all potential spectators while workers frantically fought the forces of nature. I retreated to a trattoria for sustenance, and a little prayer that the joust would still happen.

I sat solo in the trattoria. A solo traveler is rarely given the best table in a restaurant, and that night was no exception. I sat cramped between an umbrella rack and a wall, with a muted television directly over my head, with few direct sight lines to any staff. It mattered not at all, after each course I checked to see if the rain had abated outside before ordering something else. In this manner a glass of wine, calzone, gelato limone, and cafe espresso crossed my table without fear that I was missing anything. The Grande Parade was cancelled, so I ate on, holding out hope for a truncated joust.

After coffee I returned to my hotel to track the officiant deliberations on a television channel dedicated to the Giostra. The hotel was deathly quiet. The streets surrounding it had been blocked for the Grand Parade, and only a back entrance allowed me to access my room. By 8:30 pm the rain had stopped and men were replacing soupy mud with fresh earth on the racing strip. While Arezzo held its breath the army silently moved closer and closer, as if to prepare a surprise assault on the piazza at a moment’s notice.

The backdoor of my hotel led to a tiny neighborhood park, and in those minutes it became an armed camp. Horses, lances, shields and crossbows leaned against the thin iron fence, while soldiers bearing various coats of arms milled about, smoking cigarettes and taking discreet pisses in the darkening corners. Someone was distributing sandwiches and water bottles. Only the electronics betrayed the authenticity of the assembled medieval army.

The Giostra del Saracino would go on! The rain had stopped and the earth repaired in the piazza. The grandstands began filling with previously unseen dignitaries and tourists. I found my way to the standing-only section where I would watch the events with the neighborhood youth. More than any time before, I was a stranger in a strange land. The procession of costumed men and women wasn’t only met by cheers of adoration. The rival districts were jeered vehemently, and despite the language barrier, I was aware of colorful barbs being screamed with full-throated passion.

As archers and foot soldiers took their positions along the sides of the racing strip, the proximity and anticipation combined into tension and antagonism. As knights of the joust each took their turn, accompanied by the encouragement of their district and the derision of their rivals. Hundreds of smartphones were held up, not to record the events, but to shine the flashlight toward the rider’s eyes – quite beautiful as a spectator, but no doubt distracting as a competitor. Silk flags clutched in angry fists mixed with middle fingers in an added layer of non-verbal communication. Occasionally, an opinionated spectator pushed their way from the back of the crowd to the front to shake their arm and deliver their insult with sniper-like precision at a specific person or section. All the while I became increasingly more aware of the precariousness of my position in this sea of emotion.

One by one the eight riders had taken their turn. An officiant would precede them holding their lance. At the far end of the dirt racing strip he would hand over the lance and ride off. The knight, all alone, would tuck into the furthest corner of the piazza looking down the lance, looking for the straightest edge like a billiard player. The horse would stand stoically, seemingly oblivious to the noise of the crowd and happily of unaware of the obscene gestures aimed at their rider. Before they spurred their horses into a sprint the knights often turned in their charger in circles, staring down the stip, attempting to isolate their target amidst the lights, colors, and distractions. From my vantage I could barely see the riders’ faces, but there was no mistaking the forceful kick and energy as spurs jabbed against flesh and the powerful animals exploded into motion.

With each run the crowd would erupt. The scorecard would get whisked away by the tenders, only to be seen by the judges’ eyes. While the judges’ deliberated, the scarf-wearing crowd would taunt their rivals, promising an embarrassing score, or assuring the opposite. Within a few minutes the speakers would crack and the spectators would hush – anticipating the news. “Il cavaliere di Porta Santo Spirito. . . punti . . . quattro!” The crowd would accept the score with equal measure derision, dismay, and elation. Taunting, cheering, and debate ensued while the next rider took his slow ride to the starting point.

Just before midnight the final rider had gone down the course. With a relative hush the assembled city awaited for the result. Would a third round of jousting be needed to break a four-way tie? Or would a definitive winner be hailed? With the announcement of the final points the district of Porta del Foro had won for the first time in twelve years! All semblance of order evaporated in an instant. Members of the other district experienced anger, resignation, sadness, and not a few tears. The Porta del Foro, wearing purple and gold broke their orderly ranks to hoist their knights on their shoulders and accompany their president to retrieve the Golden Lance – the prize of the tournament. Among their number were alternating fists of joy and tears a joy. With the Golden Lance held high the Porta del Foro marched through the streets until they reached the Cathedral of Arezzo, where they filled the normally quiet duomo with the sounds of celebration. With prayers of thanksgiving, singing, and impromptu exclamations of happiness, I slipped out and returned to my hotel alone.

I was a witness to a city celebrating its traditions at the pinnacle of their social calendar. The pride only an Arretine could truly appreciate was unaided by my presence or knowledge of the Giostra del Saracino. In the upcoming months the districts’ will prepare for the next giostra; the riders will spend hours in the saddle, the youth will practice their specific roles in the festivities, and dreams of future glory will be dreamt. This is not an event of a dying culture meant to attract tourist dollars. Far from it. While welcome, it was clear our presence, and that of other visitors, was incidental to the drama of the Giostra del Saracino. Which is exactly how it should be.

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author.

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