Siena, Italy: Baptism By Palio (cont.)

“Isn’t this wonderful?”  they asked me.  “We’re having so much fun!  We’ve always wanted to see the Palio!” As part of their tour package they had been given green and orange Selva scarves, which they waved proudly.  Sure, they were the polyester tourist version.  But I really wanted one of those scarves.
 
We ate.  We talked.  We drank wine. We stood, sang and waved scarves when the Selvaioli stood, sang, and waved scarves.  So what if we didn’t know the words? 

They brought us Tuscan salami and grilled vegetables as an antipasto, followed by velvety artichoke ravioli and glistening roast pork with mushrooms.  And by the time the spumante and dessert came to the table, I had begun to think of this as my contrada.

Clearly we were the best.  We had the only female “mayor” of any contrada in Siena.  And we had an adorable, articulate jockey named Antonio, who was not a Sardinian mercenary, and knew way more than seventeen words.  Plus, we knew how to throw a party.  Now if only I had one of those scarves.

During the final round of standing and singing, one of my new friends leaned over and gave me his.  “Please,” he said.  “Take it.  This way, you’ll always remember us.”  I was elated.   I tied it around my neck right away.  My evening was complete, and I knew he was right – that I would never, ever forget it.

So it was that, later, I walked home with Mayra and Brian, sporting a green and orange scarf with a rhinoceros on it.  (While selva means “forest,” the contrada mascot, rather inexplicably, is an extremely cool rhino.)  I was beyond proud. I wouldn’t take my scarf off for days.  Mayra and I had chosen our allegiance, we told Brian: we were going for Selva.  With good food in my stomach and contrada songs ringing in my ears, I had picked a horse.  And suddenly I couldn’t wait for the race tomorrow.

On the morning of  Palio day, Mayra and I went off to see the blessing of our horse,  the valiant Zodiach.  Each horse is blessed by a priest in the church of its contrada, with a sprinkling of holy water and the words “Vai, e torna vincitore!” (Go, and return victorious!) 

We waited in front of Selva’s church, San Sebastiano, on the windiest day of the summer so far.  Antonio, small and dark with a glorious smile, appeared in his Selva silks, leading Zodiach, a dapple-gray, rather scrawny-looking animal.  As they entered the church, the people of Selva crowded in after them and spilled out into the small piazza.  We waited outside.  He may not have looked like a champion, but Zodiach did have a sanctified air as he was led out and walked towards the Campo in a stately fashion. 

We would later learn that Zodiach had left a “memento” inside the church, a very good omen.  When that happens, the area is immediately cordoned off, and contrada members throw coins in, as you might at a fountain for good luck.  If nothing else, Zodiach had impeccable timing.

We made our way to the Campo, Siena’s shell-shaped piazza, where we would stand for 3 hours in order to hold our place.  Much pageantry preceded the race: medieval costumes, trumpets, a parade of contradas. 

Eventually there would be 50,000 people inside the Campo, while the horses raced three laps around us.  The less hearty of our group chose to watch the race on television, but nothing could have kept me away.  Watching it on TV versus being in the Campo, Wes said, was the difference between watching a documentary on Niagara Falls and going over the falls in a barrel. 

We had a perfect view of the infamous San Martino curve, so dangerous that mattresses are affixed to the inside of the fence there, and a line of EMTs in green scrubs stands ready for disaster.  Enemy jockeys regularly use their whips on each other, and this coupled with the perils of riding bareback on a sweaty horse causes many jockeys to fall off. 

At last, the horses entered the Campo.  I was more nervous than I could have imagined.  Mayra and I waved our Selva scarves as Antonio and Zodiach appeared.  Wes wished us luck.  Brian, who until this moment had refused to announce his allegiance, pulled a Pantera scarf out of his backpack with a flourish.  Pantera (the Panther) was the contrada favored to win, and Brian’s endorsement after all of his research was an ominous sign.  But we wouldn’t be intimidated.  Our money was on the scrawny gray.

The starter called each contrada to the starting line.  But so much taunting was going on between enemy jockeys that this was no easy task.  He yelled at them.  They made rude gestures back.  Two of the jockeys wouldn’t leave each other alone. 

As they finally calmed down and lined up, my heart raced.  I couldn’t even watch as a thick rope was held up in front of the horses and then lowered. The horses took off. Seconds later, a cannon shot rang through the piazza, signaling a false start.  So they did it all over again.  More taunting, more lining up, more frayed nerves.  But the second start was good. 

Ninety seconds.  That’s how long it takes to make three laps around the Campo.  Ninety seconds of breathless speed.  The horses careened into the first San Martino.  Antonio took Zodiach tightly through that curve, and came out in third place.  Mayra and I started to scream. 

“Vai, Antonio!  Vai!”  I shouted. 

Zodiach pulled out in front at the second San Martino curve, just as another horse and jockey slammed into the mattresses.   I jumped up and down, screaming in Italian and waving my scarf.  Suddenly there was no other horse near him.  He was way ahead.  Mayra and I cheered him through the last lap, hardly daring to believe it.  As Zodiach came into the final stretch, I turned to see two other horses there, one without a rider.  What were they doing there?  Had we “lapped” them? Zodiach crossed the finish line, seemingly first, but I had to know.  Breathless, I turned to Wes. 

“What happened?  Did we win??”

He answered by pointing up to the window of the Palazzo Pubblico.  Within seconds, the green and orange flag of Selva appeared.  We had done it! 

Mayra and I hugged each other, jumping up and down like children.  Wes congratulated us.  Brian, pretending to be enraged by our beginners’ luck, stopped scowling long enough to snap a victory photo.  (Pantera had come in second, which in Palio tradition means they lost.) 

The people of Selva surrounded horse and jockey, covering both of them with kisses and singing as they paraded back to their contrada.  In that moment, I think we were as happy as any of them.  And so proud, as Mayra said later, that it was “almost as if we had ridden the horse ourselves.” It was a more intimate, more thrilling experience of the Palio than I ever could have imagined. 

We ran into Ron, who told us that we now had earned the right to “party like rock stars.”   The streets being packed, we knew we’d never get a cab back home, so we walked the whole way, weaving our way through hoards of Sienese and tourists alike.  Restaurant crowds spilled out into the street.  Selva songs echoed in the distance. Brian, recovered from his loss, recapped the highlights again and again.  And Mayra and I reveled in our victory, proudly sporting our Selva scarves, still buzzing with adrenaline. 

Back in our neighborhood pizza place, we claimed the last free table and found the others already enjoying their post-Palio pizza and beer.  As we came in, they toasted us.  It was beer, not holy water, but the sentiment was the same.  Rebirth and baptism, all in one shot, all because of a skinny gray horse.

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