It
would be great today to be in New Orleans for Mardi Gras. You could walk from
parade to parade catching beads and drinking alcohol on the streets while
wearing a funny costume. It would be terrific to be in Venice where you could
be taking pictures of the most exotic masked figures who would be strutting
around just for you. But the very best place of all to be today would be Ivrea,
Italy.
Ivrea is a small city near my
ancestors’ neck of the woods in the section of Italy called Piemonte, or Mountain
Foot. The town is an hour north of Turin, which is a city at least most people
have heard of. Ivrea might be small, but on the subject of carnival, it has no
rivals. Today, for the third day in a row, people will go around town throwing
oranges at one another.
“Oranges, you say?” Yes. Oranges
imported from Sicily. Today thousands of oranges will be sacrificed in the name
of tradition.
“What kind of silly tradition is
that?” you might ask. To make a long story short, in the Middle Ages or so,
brides were supposed to spend their first nights not with their chosen husbands
but with the ruler of the town, who was a member of nobility. In Ivrea one
night, the miller’s daughter rebelled. She attacked the nobleman, murdered him,
and survived. She became the town’s revered hero. In her honor, then, the
townspeople of Ivrea and neighboring areas join squads. Either they join squads
of noblemen and women and drive around in carriages drawn by horses, or they
join squads of peasants and stay in the squares ready for battle.
During the course of the day, all
the horse carriages, which will number around fifty, will drive through the
four main squares to have battles with the Mercenari and other squads. The “nobles”
in the carriage will furiously throw oranges down at the “peons” who will fight
back as quickly as possible.
Oranges will fly through the air
until the whole piazza looks like a juggling match gone wrong. Sometimes an
orange will bounce the wrong way and even attack the spectators. As long as you’re
wearing a red cap, declaring that you are neutral, you are not a target—until a
stray orange splats all over your coat. Then suddenly you are part of the fray.
The first time I saw the orange
battles of Ivrea, my mouth dropped open. I couldn’t believe that people were
wasting so many oranges or that the air could actually be perfumed with the
smell of citrus. Such a thing was inconceivable. But that was back in the 80s. Today
the traditional is still going strong. By the time I wake up Arizona time, the
air in Ivrea will be scented with oranges. The big crates of fruit will be
emptied, one by one, as the squads madly grab for ammunition to throw at their
peers.
When the battles finally conclude,
the day’s light will be coming to an end. The tired orange throwers will retire
for showers—actually, my cousin doesn’t even let her sons in the house. They
have to shower off outside no matter how cold it is to get the worst of the
sticky liquid off their clothes and out of their hair. Then they can go in the
house for a regular warm shower. After that, you might think the tired battlers
would go to bed, but of course, that’s not the case. They will have a deep need
to go out and celebrate their triumph by partying far into the night.
If I were in Ivrea today, I would
not join in on the battles. For one thing, it’s quite expensive. To
participate, you have to have the right outfit, and you have to pay a fee to
your squad. Most of that money goes for clean up. The horses don’t care that it’s
carnival or not, so after the first few hours, the oranges blend with horseshit
with spilled wine, with lost scarves. The streets become a slippery, gluey
mess. It’s far better to crash at my friends’ house. They have a balcony that
overlooks one of the biggest squares. From there I not only have a great view,
but from three stories up, I don’t get any oranges.
All in all, Carnevale in Ivrea is a
glorious celebration. The fighters say that it helps them get out their
frustrations, that they can unleash all of their disappointments in one big,
three-day festival. I prefer to get out my frustrations by killing off ex-boyfriends
in books or short stories, but I admit that throwing oranges for three days at
carnival would be a more efficient solution than putting in the long hours it
takes to write a book. But it would also be a whole lot messier. Plus I’d have
to find some earrings to match the vibrant carnival color of orange.
Mercenari Pictures
Short YouTube Video from 2009
D.R. Ransdell is a novelist in Tucson, Arizona, but her Italian roots take her to Italy time and time again. Please visit her at
http://www.dr-ransdell.com.
