Balance and Blasphemy, Why the Devil Must Jump Babies · May 28, 06:23 PM by James Martin
We live in odd times. Unbalanced times. It’s a yang world. The church won’t allow yin any more.
Gulfnews reports that:
A procession of devils, ghosts and zombies through the historic Spanish city of Toledo has been branded blasphemous by the Catholic Church.
Some of the most interesting festivals you can see in Europe have to do with the ways people have been dealing with morality and death since humans occupied space on the earth. The ancient fight between good and evil is played out in the narrow, winding streets of medieval Europe in festivals and on feast days. The festival referenced above was inspired by the medieval “Dance of Death” performed around the time of Corpus Christi, a Christian feast in honor of the Eucharist.
Back in the day, we’d say something like, “there’s no good without evil.” As the church tries to do away with the evil symbols in traditional festivals, what’s left? Who’d want to go? How can you tell what’s good without something evil to compare it to?
There’s another European festival based around Corpus Christi. It’s an odd one. It’s called El Salto del Colacho. Yes, on festival day the devil jumps a bunch of babies lying on a mattress. Perhaps you need a picture. Here is one.
What this festival is all about is the power of the Eucharist. The devil, the twin of God, flees from the sight of it, sucking the “dis-ease” out of the babies as he jumps to escape the raw power of the Eucharist, which has the power to erase original sin.
A powerful story is being told. It’s too bad the people in power think bad thoughts of these sorts of things:
“We ask forgiveness for those who yesterday insulted the body of Christ,” said Archbishop Antonio Canizares, quoted in El Pais.
Methinks the blasphemy comes from folks who would dare speak for Christ.
Yeah, like the comic in preacher’s voice says, “Verily I spoke to God the other night. And God told me he wants a Mercedes Benz.”
“And then God turned to me and told me that he wanted me to drive it.”
Blasphemy. Let us have our symbols, good or bad, and our festivals. Life isn’t only about good. The economy isn’t only about supply. Politics shouldn’t be only about the rich.
Liberation Day in Italy · Apr 26, 04:50 AM by James Martin
So we were on our way to our market town of Aulla this morning and apparently there’s been an invasion. American soldiers in jeeps have pulled off the road and are conversing with Italians. Motorcycles pull up, decked out in camouflage colors.
No, the uber-busy D.C. war room isn’t sending actual troops to invade Italy in WWII garb because they’re too financially strapped to finance modern uniforms, it’s the weekend of liberazione. Liberation day was yesterday, the 25th of April. People were out at festas then. Today they’re dressing up.
Aulla was totally leveled by the Allied forces during the war, except for a portion of the apse of the church. When they excavated there, they found wandering Saint Caprasio’s tomb, as well as an unexploded American bomb. Nearby, the town of Serricciola was leveled entirely by the Nazis.
The resistance here in the Lunigiana was legendary. The attack on Serricciola was made in retaliation for the resistance’s fine work in making German tanks unfit to be started up, I’ve heard. War sure changes the langscape…
Coincidentally, April 25th is another day of war remembrance half way across the globe:
On 25 April 1915, the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps (ANZACs) landed at Gallipoli in Turkey where thousands lost their lives.
The soldiers’ bravery in that campaign has become legendary in both countries. I am not one for patriotic fanfare, but, if you’re a Kiwi or an Aussie, you can’t help but feel the emotion of this story.
Oddly, the Austrian/New Zealand commemoration is associated with food and the Italian one isn’t, as far as I know.
ANZAC biscuits are described by Syrie Wongkaew, About.com’s new guide to Australian / New Zealand Food who gives you a good ANZAC biscuit recipe in her personal blog Taste Buddies
Peace be with you.
Daffodils in Tuscany - Narcissus Blooms at La Pescigola · Mar 30, 08:30 AM by James Martin
Yesterday we went to the daffodil blowout at Villa La Pescigola outside of Fivizzano in the Lunigiana. The gardens were great, and the fountains and the system of marble waterways were quite interesting. Spring in the Lunigiana is quite nice, now that the weather has warmed up and the birds are singing again. We had a bit of a cold spell going for a while…
Anyway, I’ve chosen the best 15 pictures from the massive shoot, and have them in a gallery: Daffodil Pictures – Narcissus in Tuscany
Historic Fiat 500s - Cinquecento Heaven in Aulla · Jan 3, 03:22 PM by James Martin
Last summer one of the festivals we came upon in Aulla had streets filled not just with local food specialties but with historic Fiats and Alfas.
With the popularity of the new Fiat Cinquecento, which wasn’t quite out when this picture was taken, it’s important to remind ourselves that there are some pretty nice examples of the historic 500, which started production in 1957. Post war car production meant small “people’s” cars like the 500 and the Volkswagen Beetle.
You’ll notice nothing is moving. Perhaps you can tell by the driver’s face. Yes, the addition of speed traps and cameras has slowed down the works in Italy. You no longer seem to need to worry about the zippy speeds in Italy, although the debate over the skill or recklessness of “Italian drivers” will undoubtedly continue until long after the last drop of benizna has dribbled onto the pavement. Guido Veloce (wouldn’t you know) is keen to make driving in Italy into an American Political Metaphor. Good luck.
The Cinque Terre - Swimming Against the Tide · Dec 2, 11:07 AM by James Martin
Many of my Thursday afternoons are spent in San Francisco’s Museo Italo Americano brushing up on Italian conversation. It goes without saying that travel is a much richer experience if you know at least a little of the local lingo. It certainly lessens your dependency on maps or the kindness of particular strangers who happen to speak English.
A few weeks ago the teacher who sits in on these conversations to set us right couldn’t believe what she had heard on an acquaintence utter:
“We’re going to Florence and the Cinque Terre on our vacation.”
Her face erupted into a sort of crazed professor look. “No,” she practically screamed while counting off the important cities on the fingers of her right hand, “First you see Rome, then Florence, then Venice, AND THEN MAYBE YOU SEE THE CINQUE TERRE.”
Yes, it’s quite odd to us frequent Italian travelers how these five little villages have suddenly captured the imaginations of folks. How did this come to pass? I’m always wondering about things like this, so recently I have been paying particular attention to what people are saying about the Cinque Terre.
There’s no doubt that the tiny villages linked by rail and crumbling trails have gotten lots more play than their importance has really deserved. The desirability of the destination is a hot topic on the net. Sure, those villages are pretty little things and the trails between them are tame enough—despite their current state of decay—to give a romantic veneer to the whole idea of a two day visit. Besides, life has been hard in this corner of Liguria until fairly recently, which must make slinging pasta with pesto to indiscriminating tourists seem like a virtuous and lucrative cakewalk in comparison to past ways of making a living in remote seaside villages.
But then there is the “magic of the Cinque Terre.” When I read what people say about their experiences, I’m struck by passages that mention the little festivals travelers attend, with that “small town friendliness that makes us feel a part of the traditions.”
Aha! Yes, now I think I know what’s going on here. People on vacation don’t get out of the larger cities much. When they do, they discover a new world. It’s really an old world, but it’s new to them, I mean.
What I’m trying to say is that most folks aren’t aware that these little festivals, complete with religious processions and food to die for, go on in practically every little village of Italy in the summer. In fact, we often agonize for hours over which ones to attend within a fifteen minute drive from our house in the Lunigiana. There’s the sagra di anguile in one direction and the medieval festival in the other. Which has the best view of the craggy peaks of the Alpi Apuane? Which has the best food? The most compelling music? Decisions, oh my!
If you’re a traveler planning a vacation in Italy and want to see a more rural side to Italian life, rent or lease a car and get out into the countryside, making sure when you’re stopped at a stop sign or light that you look around for outrageously colored posters or even hand-written signs announcing the month’s festivals. Don’t plan too much—you’ll miss the little, unexpected things that make a vacation special.
Castello di Regnano · Sep 17, 03:55 PM by James Martin
Castello di Regnano is one of those small towns perched on a ridge above a river in the Lunigiana. They have a pretty good medieval festival each year. I was cataloging pictures today and there was this typical Italian scene I found that I thought I’d share with you.
And here’s a picture of 5 Euro worth of festival food.
Oh how I wish I were in Italy right now.
Gassano, Italy: Sagra della Polenta Capra e Cinghiale · Aug 4, 11:24 PM by James Martin
Gassano is a little village with one of those medieval cores that you don’t find much outside the Lunigiana—one that hasn’t been modified a whole lot since the middle of the millennium. 
Narrow lanes go up, down, through arches—and you never know where you’ll end up unless you’re familiar with the territory. We like to do this at night, when folks are at home and the flickering glow of lights lends some atmosphere to the place.
Gassano also seems to be sagra city. It seems we’re there almost every weekend in the summer, eating with the locals. A few weeks ago we were slugging down fried eels. Last night we consumed polenta with capra (goat) and chinghiale (wild boar). The side dishes you see in the picture are farro salad and tomatoes. You probably figured out the tomatoes.
As with most sagre, you look at the price list and memorize the stuff you want. Then you go over to the table where people will write your desires down on a sheet of paper, total up the cost, take your money and hand the paper back to you. You can see this process in the picture below.
Then you find a seat and hand the paper to your “waiter.” A bit later you find yourself soaking up the last bit of sauce on the plastic plate with a piece of bread. You can go through the process again and order more.
As we were chowing down, the dance band (Ikebana Group and Fabio Ceccarini) was tuning up. Well, they weren’t tuning up exactly, they were testing the limits of the sound system, all 17 jillion watts of it.
Gassano is the ideal place for a sagra with dance band because they not only have a perfect space for it, they also seem to have cornered the market on wattage for sound equipment. We older folks try to eat early to avoid the assault to our ears. But last night…
The procedure for testing the sound system seems to involve turning the volume to full, then having the musician play the instrument while the sound man nudges the volume control counterclockwise until the screeching just barely stops. Alternatively, the sound man can listen for the cries of “Basta!” from the people trying to eat in peace and act accordingly—or not. Once a sound level is reached that can split an eardrum as easily as a big axe splits balsa wood, the sound man can leave the village to let his ears recover.
I often wonder how music ever existed in Italy before electronic amplification. I was once at a traditional music festival in Sardinia which got called off because they couldn’t get the electronics to work. These guys were playing 2000 year old instruments. Go figure.
Oh, and the cinghiale was very good. The polenta was so-so. Now that Fabizio and Marla of Bella Baita have introduced me to the polenta they have in the alps called pignulet, made from a type of Piedmontese heritage corn and so much more flavorful than standard polenta, I’m a critic, especially of the “instant” crap-polenta some restaurants serve.
Have fun at a traditional sagra. Today they’re celebrating truffles at Lago di Monte.
Pigs on a Spit With Fireworks · Jul 20, 11:10 PM by James Martin
There is nothing so medieval—or divine—than a pig roasting on a spit. For those of you who have an aversion to cooking an animal that hasn’t been hacked up by kids just out of high school and stuffed into a Styrofoam tray so that you can’t actually tell what it is without an intimate knowledge of animal anatomy, you might not want to scroll down to view the image. On the other hand, the experience could be like car crashes; nobody ever admits stopping to look at one, but everyone does.
Anyway, Brian Burton has a nice article called Baby Pigs on a Spit that tells a tale drawn from the medieval festival in Brisighella, just outside Bologna. You should read it.
(You peeked, didn’t you? This divine creature was part of the Fosdinovo medieval festival, although whether he knew it or not is open to debate.)
Yet Another Anatomy of a Summer Festival in Northern Tuscany · Jul 16, 01:03 PM by James Martin
We are enjoying the apex of the summer festival season in Italy. Sunday was spent driving idyllic lanes from an ancient archery festival to a canceled Gregorian Chant to a Communist festival. But we had to end up in our own village for a religious festival. You see, after taking pictures at a procession last month and showing them around, we had suddenly become the town’s photographers. “Don’t forget, tomorrow at 8:30, a procession!” the old women would say to us every time we passed, sometimes cutely pantomiming a person clicking the shutter of a camera. Like everything, the festival would begin and end at the little parish church on the main road.
Our village suffers during these festivals by not having a bar across the piazza from the church. During mass, men have no recourse to hanging around just outside the door, puffing away and speaking to each other in hushed tones. Under normal circumstances they would be at the bar, out of the way during the mass so nobody has to shush them, but close enough to the door to dovetail handsomely with the line of women filing out of the church—as if they had been there all the time, in spirit at least.
Although men through the years have been smart enough to recognize the incredible power given those who take the spiritual helm of the religious ship without letting women anyhere near the rudder, religion suits women far better than it does men.
Honestly, it’s easy for women to become one with the Lord. They practice on men all the time.
After all, if a couple weren’t one in spirit and body, we men wouldn’t get asked the unanswerable question every women asks at some point during a relationship, “Honey, am I going to be warm enough in this sweater? (...which is so small you can’t possibly wear it and despite the fact you usually sleep naked on top of the covers and sweat away like an over matched sumo wrestler while I shiver under 13 blankets and the weight of a large Labrador Retriever.)”
Or, to simplify things, there’s the French fry ploy, proving you always share a stomach with one you love.
“Honey, I’m not so hungry, so I’ll just eat some of your fries.”
“But I want to eat them myself. I’m immensely hungry. Order your own and I’ll eat what you can’t”
“No. I want yours.”
Thus, from the sad Gospel of James (26):
Take, eat, this is my French Fry.
———
There wasn’t a procession at 8:30. At 8:30 there was a mass. It was standing room only. The new priest was rather long winded. Mass wasn’t over until after 9:40.
It was dark by then, of course. Very dark. A few Christmas lights were strung across the route the procession was destined to follow. There was no moon.
I admit, just this once, that I am way too attached to reality when shooting night pictures; I hate using the flash. I depend on the spectacular image stabilization on my Canon IS lens to shoot in the dark. Naturally.
I knew I was in trouble the minute the wooden Mary with baby Jesus got hoisted upon numerous shoulders and floated into the dark street—looking like a piece of coal on velvet in the viewfinder. Villagers followed with candles, chanting. Despite the spiritual glow and well-being which flooded my soul, no light to speak of was cast on the proceedings by the following spirits or their candles.
Ok, so I got a couple of shots. They’re not good enough to make big prints out of, I’m sure. The women will be disappointed. I will have to put them off for a great long while before admitting defeat. Or maybe I’ll just leave the country for a time.
———
After the procession there was the promise of “dolce,” little sweets. Of course, this is Italy, so there was more. There was the salata, meaning the savory foods.
Tables were set up outside the little church, at first with mostly dolce and soft drinks. Then, as if out of nowhere, women carrying baskets and trays of salata descended upon the masses from out of the darkness. A few renegade men showed up with wine.
This is where the fun started. Suddenly we’re at war. It’s the dolce vs. the salate, like Malspinas and Medicis duking it out over Fivizzano.
“Eat the salata first!” scream the women with baskets of panini stuffed with coppa and salami. They are the Malspinas, the bad spines trying to assert themselves with meat. The herb torts, of which there are many, are wonderful as well. Each woman wants you to try hers. “Mangia la salata prima!” they scream into the night.
The Medici dolce, hereafter refered to as the sweet Medicis, hold their tongues admirably while gliding effortlessly through the clot of people, tempting them with all manner of little tidbits oozing with sugary gooiness.
And then there’s the wine to wash it all down. It is “white” and home brewed. It has also been sitting for a while in the evening heat. It has become the color of Lipton’s finest, if not a tad darker. Our cups are filled by the organist.
“Yuck,” says Martha upon tasting it, “Here, you drink it.”
Aha! They taketh away thine freedom fries—but they givith, too.
Problem is, the givith part comes from the land of Yuck.
Rick Steves, his Foreskin, and the Cinque Terre · Jun 27, 11:44 AM by James Martin
Those of us who love to explore the real Italy and who live near the Ligurian coast say prayers to Rick Steves all the time. I, in fact, have a little niche where I expect to keep relics of St. Rick when they become available on Ebay.
“Why izat?” I hear you mumble.
Ok, here’s the deal. You get on the train to the coast in Aulla. There are plenty of seats. It’s quiet. Folks are well behaved.
The train lumbers its way into La Spezia. The doors open. Suddenly it’s bedlam. Throngs of people push through, a certain glaze to their eyes that gives you the feeling that they are lost in a dream. Guidebook wielding youngsters hunt for seats in bloodthirsty packs. Doughy adults flop into seats, then wedge humongous backpacks between their knees and yours without so much as a how-do-you-do.
Then, a couple stops later in Riomaggiore they disgorge, squeezing themselves into the little platform like acciughe sott’olio, except without the evisceration part.
You stretch out your legs. It’s quiet. You can dance in the aisles if you want.
It’s the Cinque Terre effect. The tourists have been contained in a tiny little corner of the “Best of Italy,” leaving the rest of the coast to us. The evocative Portofino and Portovenere are ours, we can go topless in Tellaro, or surf the waves in Levanto. Yippee!
Grazie mille, Rick. I mean it. Please keep it going.
I’m still thinking of the relic thing as a way of keeping the flame of tourist concentration alive forever. Relics are important in Italy. Every saint has his own, usually scattered about among several churches that have fought wars to get them. Maybe the relic is a bone, like Saint Mark’s metatarsal, or a shock of hair. My favorite relic is the foreskin. I think it must be the most important of the relic types in Italy. I would really be proud to put in my holy little niche the foreskin of my hero Mr. Steves.
I don’t really have a niche. What I have is a cute little hole in the wall with a whole bunch of wires hanging out of it that is supposed to be for the thermostat we don’t have. Still, I think it would be a central and fitting place.
In Italy, the priest gets out the town’s holy relic and parades it around once a year. That’s the whole idea of the relic as I understand it, to get paraded around so the townspeople can get close and the saint can be venerated.
I would have to hire a priest, because I am not one. Perhaps you can tell from my writing.
In any case, on Rick Steves Feast day, we would have the priest thank Saint Rick for the bounty of the coastal wonderfulness left to us. Then his foreskin would be hoisted on the ancient petard and paraded through the streets, which would be crowded with men, women, and children.
Inevitably a child would tug on the skirts of his mother and ask, “Ma, what’s that gross, wrinkled thing on the tip of that petard?”
“Oh, honey, that’s Rick Steves’ foreskin!”
There would be a moment of silence, naturally.
“Ma?”
“What dear?”
“What’s a foreskin?”
“Oh, um, well honey, that’s the part of the skin that covers the threeskin,” the mother would ad lib shakily.
And then the real party would begin.
