a Palio letter
 

I admit it. I’m a skeptic. Last January as I handed over to .., our would-be tour guide and ticket broker, an amount equal to that I once paid a scalper for prime Rolling Stones concert tickets, I wondered what I was doing. That much for a ticket to a horserace? And more than once between then and our departure date, my travel companion and I debated the wisdom of this trip. Yes, we’d have prime grandstand seats for what is probably the longest running racing event in the history of the world. And, yes, we’d be spending five days in a lovely Tuscan hill town with our very own ever-so-charming and knowledgeable native guide. But, nevertheless, the nagging question remained: would the Palio be all that ... had promised? cont

After all, even if the race were the raison d’etre of every living Sienese, it was, to us, just another sporting event. Accustomed to the hyperbole of so many U.S. spectacles, I feared it would be little more than a few minutes of pagentry followed by a so-so contest. I was wrong. <BR>The Palio, run in honor of, and dedicated to, the Virgin Mary, is a race that is unique in all the world. It is rich with tradition, intrigue, and even its own vocabulary. Although today the word "Palio" has become synonymous with the race, the term actually refers to the painting that is awarded to the victor. <BR>There are no parimutual windows in Siena. No one would dare wager on the outcome.<BR>

What’s at stake here is far more precious than the richest purse. To win the Palio is to hold one’s head above the crowd. To come in second (the worst of all finishes) is sheer humiliation. <BR>Nor is there an official racetrack. The race is held in the huge shell-shaped town square called the campo. At the base of the shell sits the massive town hall, the Palazzo Publico, with its 335 ft. campanile, or bell tower. During the Palio, the inner courtyard (entrone) of the Palazzo Publico is transformed into a paddock. A dirt track is constructed using the tons of golden clay that are stored inside the town hall, and grandstands (palchi) line the track’s outside border. The center of the square is left open -- like the infield at the Kentucky Derby -- for those without a grandstand ticket.<BR>The tradition of the Palio dates back at least as far as the thirteenth century, and little, if anything, about the running of the race has changed since then. Every July 2 and August 16 the clock stops in Siena and life returns to the Middle Ages. To witness this event is to be transported back several centuries. To fully appreciate its significance, one must live it as we did. <BR>

Thursday, June 28. My friend and I arrived in Siena early in the evening. After checking into our pensione, we headed for the campo to look for signs of what the next few days might bring. As we walked in the twilight, we heard a chorus of female voices singing loudly. Someone’s starting to celebrate early we thought as we approached a cluster of girls seated at one of the many outdoor cafes. We noticed that the campo’s familiar concrete and cobblestone surface had given way to hard packed dirt. The track was already in place. <BR>Despite the transformation from town square to racetrack, it was business as usual for the merchants and restauranteurs who lined the perimeter of the campo. They skillfully maneuvered their wares and caf&eacute; tables out from under the temporary grandstands and set up shop right on the terra. As we strolled through the campo and its adjacent streets, we were dazzled by the brightly colored flags splayed across the facades of the ancient red brick buildings. The city did look festive, and we could sense the excitement building. Maybe, just maybe, we thought, the trip might be worth it, after all cont<BR>

Friday, June 29. ... met us early in the morning and we set off on a walking tour of Siena’s seventeen districts (contrade). At each Palio, ten of the seventeen contrade are represented. This year’s participants were: Snail, Eagle, Turtle, Owl, Tower, Shell, Unicorn, Giraffe, Forest and Dragon. <BR>Each contrada has its own mascot, colors, flag, and costume. During Palio season, and on special occasions, these are displayed throughout the town. As we walked, we saw myriad flags and freshly painted lamps proudly heralding the various contrade. Some bore pink or blue ribbons announcing the birth of the newest contradaiolo(a). Another wore the somber black indicative of a recent death. <BR>Having toured Chianti with .... on a previous trip, we knew him to be a most knowledgeable and entertaining guide. We also knew of his passion for Siena and the Palio. But we were not prepared for the barrage that awaited us. Our minds were soon filled with Palio lore. We learned the history of every contrada: its allies, enemies, the date of its last victory, and even the names of its winning jockey and horse. Like a fan who had memorized every statistic of every baseball player since Babe Ruth, ... bombarded us with information<BR>

We reached the Caterpillar, ,,,,’s home contrada, just as its ally, the Snail, was about to pay a visit. As it was the feast of St. Mark, the Snail’s patron saint, Snail alfieri (flag bearers) and tamburini (drummers) were in full costume as they marched up the hill to Caterpillar headquarters. An honor guard of non-uniformed Caterpillars greeted them. After a display of elaborate twirling and tossing, the two groups exchanged flags, and then filed into the Caterpillar chapel for a prayer that was followed by a friendly drink. Observing the seriousness with which this ritual was accomplished, we began to understand and appreciate the importance of tradition to the Sienese. <BR>At midday we interrupted our walk to witness yet another tradition – the tratta, or selection of horses. As thousands of contradaioli and a few bewildered tourists (clueless as to what was going on) filled the campo, the captains of the various contrade met in secret to decide which ten horses from the many that had been brought to the trials would race. <BR>

After what seemed like an eternity standing under that now famous Tuscan sun, the select ten were brought to the front of the town hall where a lottery was held to determine which horse would go to which contrada. As each number was called, throngs of contrada loyalists cheered, and rushed up en masse to fetch "their" horse and walk it back to a specially decorated, and guarded, stall within the contrada. Each horse was escorted out of the campo by a phalanx of contradaioli shouting songs intended to taunt and intimidate their enemies. <BR>We soon discovered that all the songs had the same tune -- the one that we had heard in the campo the night before. Only the words were different. ...aptly noted that the level of each contrada’s vocal enthusiasm was directly proportionate to the reputation of the horse – and its chances of winning. <BR>When our walking tour ended, we returned to the hotel exhausted. Siena is built on not one, but three, hills, and ... had a knack for finding the most vertical route between any two given points. Despite our fatigue and aching muscles, my friend and I agreed that, at least, so far, the trip had met our expectations. <BR>

<BR>Saturday, July 30. After spending a free morning exploring a couple of nearby hill towns, ...picked us up and took us for a late afternoon drive through the breathtaking Tuscan countryside. Our guide then escorted us to his home in a tiny village on the outskirts of Siena where we watched videos of prior Palios while his girlfriend, ,,,,, prepared a delicious dinner of pasta squares soaked in a thick pesto sauce, and sardines simmered with tomatoes, peppers and capers. We ate heartily as we watched evening descend on the Tuscan hills. The trip just kept getting better and better<BR>

Sunday, July 1. We attended a prova (trial race) in the square. Not having grandstand seats for this event, we mingled with the masses in the infield. Given my short stature, I didn't see much. The prove were held six times between Friday and Monday. Each time, the tables and wares of those daring to do business on the track were cleared and then repositioned. The efficiency with which this was accomplished was mind-boggling. Centuries of practice, did indeed, make perfect. <BR>Before the prova, ... had deposited us at a corner near the campo. From this spot we had a front row view as the horses and jockeys (fantini) paraded down the street and onto the track. Swarms of contradioli, chanting and singing the songs that by now had become so familiar, rounded out the parade. Dario gave us a rough translation, but I suspect this was a watered down version that he felt was appropriate for female ears.<BR>After the prova, we headed to the church of Santa Maria di Provenzano, the patron of the July race, for the blessing of the Palio (the painting). Alfieri and tamburini from each racing contrada, in medieval costume, led the procession that transported the Palio from the Duomo (cathedral) to the church. <BR>Dario was proving to be worth his weight in gold. Despite never wearing a watch, he had an uncanny ability to station us at the right place at just the right time. We arrived at the church several minutes before the drummers announced the parade’s arrival, and were in perfect position as the brilliantly colored flags floated into the church. We could have touched the Palio as it passed<BR>

Inside, we witnessed yet another tradition. After the blessing, young contradaioli approached the Palio and tossed fazzoletti (scarves bearing the colors and emblem of the contrada, typically worn tied around the neck and hanging down the back) at the painting. Tradition has it that if one’s scarf touches the Palio, it will bring luck to the contrada. <BR>After the blessing, contradaioli and their guests returned to their respective contrade for the traditonal pre-race dinner. Depending upon the size of the contrada, each outdoor feast hosted any where from several hundred to several thousand people. The streets of Siena were lined with tables whose linens reflected the colors of the contrada in which they were placed: red and white for the Giraffe, blue and yellow for the Turtle, burgundy and blue for the Tower, and so on. <BR>

... had arranged for us to have dinner with the Owl, a small contrada located near the center of town. Wearing the Owl’s traditional black and red fazzoletto in respect for our hosts, my friend and I joined Dario and nearly 900 other Owl supporters in the Piazza Tolomei. Spirits were high as the Owl was thought to have a good chance of winning, i.e., good horse, good jockey. They hadn't won since 1979 and were long overdue. (Only the Tower, which hadn’t won in 41 one years, kept the Owl from the ignominious title of nonna (grandmother) of all the contrade.) Young and old took part in the celebration. The oldest member of the contrada, a 92year old man, gave a speech. The jockey promised victory, as did the contrada captain. <BR>Most captivating of all were the young people – in particular a group of teenage girls sitting near us. All were too young to have ever seen an Owl victory, but how they wanted one. I don’t think I will ever forget the sight of their fresh young faces singing so loudly and so gleefully that night<BR>

The meal went on for over 4 hours with six courses and more wine than I can remember. Even though most of the locals could speak no more English than I could Italian (that is to say, not much) a bond was forged between us. It was impossible not to catch their enthusiasm. We, too, went home praying for an Owl victory. <BR>At lunch that afternoon, our waiter had told us that this would be the most beautiful night of the week. "Everyone will be happy," he said, "because everyone has hope." He was so right. The spirit we witnessed in the Owl manifested itself all over town that night. Siena was a city filled with joyful anticipation. All that would change with the dawn<BR>

Monday, July 2. The exuberance of the night before had given way to a tension as thick as a San Francisco fog. The day of reckoning had arrived. Soon the chanting and taunting would end and one group would emerge victorious. As I walked through the streets that morning, I noticed some of the contradaioli sporting freshly bandaged and newly casted hands. It seemed that on more than one occasion, the spirited boastings of the night before had resulted in a punch or two. <BR>That afternoon, each horse was taken to the chapel of its contrada to be blessed. The Snail’s chapel was close to our pensione, so I ventured out to see what I could. Approaching the chapel, I passed crews washing mountains of dirty dishes, souvenirs of the previous night’s festivities. Once there, I found the massive courtyard gates closed to outsiders, and could see only a few costumed figures and the horse, wearing a ceremonial cloth called the gualdrappo, as it was led into and out of the chapel. <BR>As horse and jockey left the chapel, the priest’s parting words were: "Go and return victorious!" Led by its barbaresco (groom), the exiting horse was greeted by cheers from contrada supporters and onlookers. Only then did I realize the extent of my Owl fever. I just couldn’t bring myself to cheer for the Snail.<BR>

After the blessing, the horses were taken to the Duomo where the grand procession to the campo would form. At precisely 5:20 pm, the bell of the campanile started to ring, and the two and one half hour historical pageant, the corteo storico, entered the campo. Townspeople marched in costumes representing the religious, political, social and professional groups of the past. Horses and jockeys paraded with their respective contrade – the latter in medieval garb atop similarly decorated mounts. As alfieri and tamburini displayed their talents, I idly wondered how many American youths would so willingly display themselves in tights tossing and twirling ceremonial flags. <BR>Finally, the Palio was brought in on a specially decorated cart (the carroccio) pulled by four white oxen. As it passed the stands, fazzoletti were taken off and waved at the painting -- one last bid for good luck. Then it was time for the race to begin. The crowd of 100,000 cheering fans fell deadly silent. Like numbers in a Bingo game, colored balls representing each contrada were dropped into an ancient drum for the selection of the post positions. <BR>...pointed to the weather vane atop the campanile. Tradition has it that the arrow points to the contrada which will win. It was pointing to the boundary between the Owl and its neighbor, and archenemy, the Unicorn. The knots in our stomachs tightened<BR>

As each position was called, the horses, with fantini riding bareback, entered the mossa, or starting area. With no modern gates to assist them, they lined up side by side at the rope (canape) marking the starting line -- a task much more difficult than might be imagined. After several false starts, the rope dropped and the race began. They made 3 laps around the square amid the cheers and groans of anxious contradaioli. <BR><BR>A Palio victory dependent not only upon the horse, the jockey and luck, it is also the product of secret deals (partiti) designed to ensure one’s success -- or, at the very least, to prevent one’s enemy from winning. Partiti are an accepted, and expected, part of the race. Many a last minute deal is struck between the contrade captains and the jockeys, and even among the jockeys themselves. "Favorites" mean nothing; the outcome is as unpredictable as a thoroughbred’s temperament. <BR>

Our favored Owl had a very bad start, but made a tremendous comeback. The Shell looked like a sure winner, then came up lame and abandoned the race. The fantino of the Unicorn was pushed off his mount by the Giraffe during the first lap. (Is it any wonder that in the argot of the Palio, jockeys are often referred to as assassini, or assassins?) <BR>The horse of the Unicorn continued to run as if programmed, and, amazingly, won the race by a few centimeters. It was the first time a scosso (riderless horse) has won since back in the 50's. It was a bitter disappointment for the Owl who, not only finished second, the WORST place to finish, but lost to its enemy. <BR>Dario again pointed to the campanile. The wind had shifted. The arrow now clearly pointed in the direction of the Unicorn.<BR><BR>We followed the procession back to the church where the Palio and winning horse were again presented, this time in thanksgiving. As we walked through the Owl district, ,,,, instructed us to bow our heads as a sign of respect. The faces that had been so joyous the night before were now grief stricken. Tears flowed instead of wine. We chose not to attend the Unicorn's victory party. The members of the Owl had been so gracious the night before; we would have felt like traitors<BR>

As tradition dictates, all other flags immediately disappeared and the Unicorn was left alone to display and parade its colors through the streets of Siena. While it is expected that the winner will continue to verbally taunt its enemy, it is customary not to enter a losing enemy’s contrada. Dario said it was a matter of respect – a word we had heard again and again as he explained the many Palio customs to us. <BR>This year, however, there was a disturbing break from tradition. We watched as the Unicorn marched up to the boundary of the Owl, and then brazenly continued into the forbidden territory. A tear rolled down .... cheek. My friend and I choked back our own tears. We knew how it felt to be contradaiole. The experience was worth every penny.<BR><BR>

I found this report interesting and have printed it. Is it the same Dario that is responding to the Palio threads?

I think the point is that the Palio is more than just the three minute race. There is a very great and long history that makes it one of the world's greatest spetaculars. BTW, I was there too and rooting for Leocorno (the Unicorn)obviously. It was four days that I and my family will never forget.

Neal?