Tailfeathers Times Two
Shaking off summer and sharing traditions, plus (new!) an Italian word of the day
Cari amici,
Now that my AC units have been installed (hooray!), fall has arrived. Not with a gradual cooling off—you know the kind of fall I mean, when hot-but-not-hideous days merge into cool evenings—but with a sudden onslaught of temps that demand sweaters in the house and jackets outside, a light quilt on the bed at night. But I’m not complaining! And anyway, I’m off to Malta soon, where the forecast looks promising. Who knows, there might be a beach in my future!
Autumn in Italy means festivals of all kinds. It’s vendemmia time, when towns like tiny Montefalco celebrate the grape harvest with local festivals and wine tastings. Here in Perugia, the Festival del Vino shared last weekend with a 5K run and Alchemika, a funky street theatre event. But for my neighborhood, the weekend’s most important event was the annual celebration marking the events of September 14, 1860, when a troop of bugling bersaglieri (sharpshooters) from the north breached Perugia’s walls and liberated the city from papal rule. (I’ve written about this before, here.) The bersaglieri wear the rather splendid hats you see in the photo above. Seen from behind, the phalanx of marching musicians looks like a flock of strutting, oversize birds with glossy black tailfeathers.
In another city, the previous weekend, another kind of tailfeathers were on display at the Mostra Nazionale del Cavallo (National Horse Show) in Città di Castello, about 45 minutes north of Perugia. I have periodic hankerings to commune with horses, so friends and I decided to check it out.
In little CdC (as we call it), every lot was full, so we chanced a ticket and parked in a forbidden zone like the aging outlaws we are. So imagine our surprise when we entered the park where the horse show is held and found the atmosphere subdued and the attendees few. I’d envisioned a sprawl of horses, thousands of them, and shoulder-to-shoulder crowds to wander through. Instead, the horses we saw were stabled in an off-limits area and only a few were in the arena at any one time. I’d looked in vain for a program online, and the only specifics I could find were an evening gala and an afternoon procession of sorts.
No matter, though. We were there to see horses, and though I would have preferred to see them in greater numbers, we didn’t need a flashy show with stunt riding to feed our need. During the hours we were there, local ranches and riding schools (as far as I could tell) took turns in the show ring, riding in formation, displaying horsemanship skills, and, in a few cases, showing off tricks to the largely empty stands. Along with straight-up riding, we saw some strutting, some rearing, some pawing and bowing and cross-stepping, all heroically performed by horses slick with sweat.
Then, searching for shade (and more horses) we wandered off to a pen that was a temporary home for about a dozen draught horses, big and brawny types, most of them chestnut, a few of them bays, including two youngsters still in their nursing months. Unfortunately a barrier prevented us from touching them (major disappointment!), but the horses were friendly and open to chatting. One fellow who needed his bangs trimmed kept gazing in our direction, perhaps hoping for a sugar cube or carrot. Or, who knows, maybe he was just trying to see.
After lunch at a stand selling arrosticini (skewers of grilled pork) where vegetarians and vegans were warned off with a handwritten sign (“Vegani andate via!”), we went back to the ring. The sun was doing its best to broil those of us foolhardy enough to brave the midday heat, and it seemed to take a toll on one poor horse whose hooves barely skimmed the ring’s sandy floor, kicking up so much dust we feared he’d stumble. Head low, he went through his paces dutifully, but without the pride and energy we’d seen in the other horses. Three or four times, we murmured among ourselves than the horse had clearly had enough. When the rider finished her very long exhibition, we left, relieved that her steed had made it through and hoping he’d perk up with some rest and water.
I won’t go to the horse show next year unless I decide to pony up (see what I did there?) for the evening gala; even so, it was worth going to see some equine beauties, no matter how humble. And there were tailfeathers galore, of particular note the ground-skimming pale end notes on a gorgeous gray.
The thing about living in Italy is that there’s always something going on, no matter the season, whether it’s in your hometown or a jaunt away. The sheer number of festivals, whether celebrating local foods, cultural or religious traditions, books or music, arts or handicrafts, is staggering, exhausting to even contemplate at times. In the U.S., I remember holiday parades, fall festivals, city-related celebrations—but here they come in far greater numbers, and often. No matter how hard life can be, Italians find something to celebrate, and they do it in a spirit of communal sharing that has nothing to do with tourism. Unless an event is designed only to draw in visitors—and sometimes even if it is—people are ready to brighten their lives by honoring the past, re-creating age-old traditions, and reaffirming who they are.
Year after year, on September 14 my neighborhood’s residents, and others, show up for speeches by the mayor and commemorative wreath-placing; crowds follow the bugling bersaglieri through the streets of Perugia. Each year, they take photos and videos of the same event, like I did this weekend, my fourth time. Later, a capacity audience applauded a concert of rousing Risorgimento-era songs, performed by the Coro Lirico dell’Umbria. Because what happened on our street 164 years ago still matters. It’s civic pride, sure, but it’s more than that. It’s identity, shared, and it’s the sharing that matters. Boy, does it matter. And it’s a beautiful thing. I’ll never be Italian—it took moving here to realize just how American I am, even though I can trace my family in Italy to the 1500s, while those relatives who left for the U.S. arrived there only a century ago—but my heart swells knowing that as a second-generation Italian American, these are my people. That alone is worth celebrating.
Tante belle cose, alla prossima—
Cheryl
Italian word of the day: credenza
Maybe you know a credenza is a piece of furniture used for storage and/or display, which typically is found in a kitchen or dining room. But do you know why it’s called that? Thanks to the Instagram account piuscolanellavita (which translates to “more school in life”), I can tell you.
The noun credenza derives from the verb credere (to believe in or have faith in), which seems an odd choice in naming furniture. But during the politically turbulent years of the Renaissance, assassination attempts were common, and the most prevalent strategy was poisoning. So anyone worried about an untimely death delivered by an enemy would hire a food taster, whose dangerous duty was called a servizio di credenza—meaning, essentially, that doing their job was an act of faith that the food wouldn’t kill them. And where did what they tasted come from? Why, from a piece of furniture where food was stored, which became known as a credenza.
Today’s poem:
Here are the lyrics (which can vary slightly) to “Camicia Rossa Garibaldina,” one of the songs sung at the concert last weekend. You can listen to it here. An English translation follows.
“Quando all’appello di Garibaldi / tutti i suoi figli, suoi figli baldi,
daranno uniti fuoco alla mina: / camicia rossa garibaldina!
E tu ti svegliasti col sol d’aprile / e dimostravi che non sei vile,
per questo, appunto, mi sei più cara, / camicia rossa, camicia rara!
E porti l’impronta di mia ferita, / sei tutta lacera, tutta scucita,
per questo, appunto, mi sei più cara, / camicia rossa, camicia rara!
Fin dall’istante che t’indossai / le braccia d’oro ti ricamai,
quando a Milazzo fosti sergente, / camicia rossa, camicia ardente.
Lodi la gloria dell’ardimento, / il tuo colore mette spavento,
vedersi a Roma, poi nella fossa, / cadremo assieme, camicia rossa!”
“When at Garibaldi’s appeal / all his sons, his bold sons,
they will set fire to the bomb together: / Garibaldian red shirt!
And you woke up with the April sun / and proved you are not a coward,
for this, in fact, you are dear to me, / red shirt, rare shirt!
And you carry the imprint of my wound, / you are torn and unstitched,
for this, in fact, you are dear to me, / red shirt, rare shirt!
From the moment I put you on, / the golden arms I embroidered for you
when I went to Milazzo as a sergeant, / red shirt, burning shirt!
Praise the glory of bravery, / your color scares [the enemies],
to see themselves in Rome, then in the pit, / we’ll fall together, red shirt!”
P.S. My book! Which you can buy here or on the usual sites, or, better yet, order it from your local bookstore. Another fab option is to ask your library to stock it. If you read it and like it, please tell your friends and/or leave a few lines of praise on any bookish site. You’d be surprised how much a rating or review helps authors. Baci!
You're so right about the Italian love of festivals-- it's a joy to see the way small towns come out to celebrate together. And they always have great costumes! It's no wonder that Italy is a fashion capital. Those hats of the bersaglieri are incredible. In our town, they work all year creating their historically accurate costumes for the Quintana and they look amazing. The townspeople carry themselves like fashion models on the runway when they're parading in them. Beautiful!
And did you get a parking ticket in CdC? Hope not! Glad temps have cooled!