Lost in Italy: The Trials and the Bruco Dinner

So I stumbled back to my hotel last night at about, oh, 3am only to find the hotel key taped to the door with a note that it was for my room. We got home just a touch too late and the hotel owner/manager had already gone to bed and locked everything up. I'm just glad we didn't get locked out!

But the night! Wow, first the trials. Dario gave great advice on where to watch the festivities before everything kicked off, so we got to see all of the contrada who would be racing the next day parade through the city in full medieval regalia. Beating drums and waving flags with the rest of the neighborhood following along decked out in scarves and shirts, young and old, everyone was chanting and singing as they marched through the streets around the campo. The star of each contrada was of course the Horse, decked out in contrada silks, who stopped at each bend in the street and was turned around and shown to the crowd a loudly cheering mix of locals and tourists.

Slowly the parade moved around the outer ring of the campo before each contrada passed into the square. As soon as the Bruco horse had passed, Nick and I found our way through the crowds into the Campo itself. Thousands of people were already standing within the center of square, most if not all of them bearing the colors of their chosen contrada. We stood on the hard dirt track looking around at the stands pressed up against the buildings. Masses of cheering locals stood waving their scarves and flags, wave after wave of song moved through the stands bouncing from once side of the track to the other as the men belted out the of anthem of each contrada.

It was raw. It was real. It was honest.

I could feel all of the passions that are tied up in this horse race, into this city. Hundreds of years of tradition, alliances and rivalries. Absolutely incredible.

We stood in the center of the track to watch the trial. After the color guard entered and road around the ring the contradas that would be racing the very next day entered the track and cantered slowly around once and then once more. Showboating for the crowds, feeling out the speed of the track. As soon as it was over, we were pulled into the masses and started looking for a stream of Bruco supporters to follow to dinner.

Oh and what a dinner it was. . . an exercise in Italian hospitality with 1200 of our newest and closest of friends at the Bruco headquarters. After we made our way back through the winding streets to a steep, narrow road lined with Bruco flags, Dario met us with our tickets and we entered the Bruco Gardens. There were rows upon rows upon rows of tables lined up, with place setting after place setting and what looked like endless cases of wine distributed along the tables. After sitting down we found on one side an Italian couple who didn't speak a word of English and on the other an Italian couple that spoke English but stopped as soon as Nick said he was Austrian (apparently there were some bad feelings there that I just didn't quite understand).

The ceremony for the dinner was such a random mix between small town America (think super local Fourth of July celebrations) and this sense of being part of an ages old tradition. The President of the contrada stood up and gave a long speech about winning, imploring the contrada members to make a donation and help refill the Bruco coffers so they could pay their jockey if by some strange chance Bruco won the contrada yet again.

Then a series of performances began to take place as we were served dinner by the younger members of the contrada. I was amazed at all of these teenagers taking time out to server food and clean up after the dinner. Dario explained to us later that to be born into a contrada means you never leave it. But you are born into a contrada based on where you live, not what contrada your parents belong to, so parents will drop their kids off with the kids' contrada and then head off to dine with their own contrada. The contrada basically acts like a second family for all of these kids as the grow up. The most important life experiences like christening, first communion, confirmation, marriage, all take place with the contrada. And all of these kids just volunteer their time because it's just what you do when you're part of the contrada.

Dinner went on for hours. After all of the main meal had been served and cleared away, and many, many bottles of red wine had been consumed, the kids started working their way around the tables distributing bottles of prosecco, 2 bottles for every four people. The corks started flying into the air, shooting up towards the stars like bottle rockets. Laughter filled up the night sky while people tried to catch the corks on their gravitationally mandated journey down (I saw more than one person get smacked in the head by earthbound corks).

As we finished up our last bottle of wine (and yes we did finish more than a few bottles between the two of us), Dario made his way over to our table for one last drink. Or rather two or three more. He started to explain the intricate politics and alliances that take place during the race itself. How this year, the long time Bruco jockey who had been under contract for €2 million had defected to ride one of his last races for his own contrada. That although Bruco had hired the up and coming young new jockey (the protege of the former Bruco jockey) who had won the July Palio, the chances of winning were very slim because there had probably been a deal made with the old jockey and his protege. Although! There was still a chance. The enemy of the old jockey's contrada was willing to pay for the Bruco win since they were not racing in this Palio. And on and on and on. . . I was both fascinated and completely lost by the time we stumbled out of the Bruco headquarters at oh, close to 3am. But we left full of Dario's advice for the next day and slowly made our way back to locked up hotel through the maze of Siena.

I so love Italy.