On Elba: "Meeting Il Signor Polpo" ( Non Mangiero' il polpo mai piu')

In the four years I'd spent living in Siena I had anxiously attempted visits to the historic and romantic isle of Elba, each time to meet disappointing failure. Attempt number one: with Australian super hunk surfer and travel partner Dwayne Power, 'Uno Sciopero'. Ferry on strike. Oh well, we made it down to beautiful Monte Argentario and I was appeased. Attempt number two: with my Caro Giuseppe, The ferry would have been running, but 'il mare mosso' kept me once again on the mainland. Fast forward to september 2011, a bonafide diving trip to Elba has been scheduled, and the third time will be a charm. Finalmente!!!!!! The 'mare mosso' was acting up again, but decided to calm her spirits as to not crush my now very high hopes. She could feel my bursting anticipation. Four days of diving had been planned, and in the process I'd do at least most of the skill tests and dives to get my underwater diver certification. Exciting to say the least. I was enjoying my last month of being in my thirties, and had been through a hurricane of emotional upheaval in 2011. As an appropriate remedy for said strife, I was spending a total of two months in Italy, not bad eh?....but was particularly desperate for this mini getaway from the very depths of my DNA. I marveled at the size of Elba as my friend and I enjoyed the ferry crossing over from Piombino. I had always imagined Elba to be a sweet and petite island, 'dolce e piccolino'. It was sweet, and beautiful in deed, but hardly tiny. Eight-six square miles around to be precise. As we neared closer to the island, I fell in love with its majestic coastline, mountainous landscape and sensual, Loren- like visual appeal.

We would be staying in the area known as Capoliveri, right on the sea looking out towards Corsica. The only thing that was planned in advance were some dive classes with, strangely enough, a german outfitter up the road from our hotel. All other details and adventures would be placed in the very capable hands of the universe. The power of impromptu is not to be messed with in my book. Impromptu also happened to work very well on Elba. Our hotel was familiar and perfectly strategic, the weather sent from heaven, almost balmy for mid-september, and I was thankful for it all. The winding roads that led to the beach where we did our first dives were bursting with giant aloe that clung to the steep landscape with grace despite their size and weight. In italian you'd say they had 'grinta' which means to hang on with spirit, and that's just what they did. The 'grinta' of the aloe was adversely but perfectly balanced by the elegance of the pink oleander that were the last trees you saw before your eyes met the peace and distance of the sea. We made all the right choices when it came to food as well. We were hungry for fresh seafood, and would not be disappointed at any stop. We enjoyed octopus salad with red pepper, olives and celery for lunch at the hotel -restaurant next door to us. Stuffed squid at a simple trattoria in Capoliveri center, and tiny fresh clams with bursting warm cherry tomatoes on pasta that was 'the dish' of the locale at two different restaurants. We had a proper fancy meal out in Capoliveri center as well, at a place called 'Freccia Azzurra', Blue Arrow. The red wine was unique and spicy, appropriately from Elba, and the appetizers were as visually sumptuous as they were delicious. Grilled polpo, octopus with potatoes and rosemary, and a layered composition of 'seppia', squid, cavolo nero, black cabbage, and tomatoes in a garlic gravy between paper-thin crisp bread. 'Favoloso'. So fabulous my taste buds were totally stoned. An honorable mention goes out to the extremely fresh grilled fish paired with roast potatoes that followed those oscar winning apps.

'Polpo' is big on Elba, and I couldn't seem to eat enough of it. The texture and tenderness, in garlic and oil, with a slight but perfect grill on the edges drowned in fresh lemon juice.....ecstasy. I'll admit I was a bit drunk on polpo by the third day there, but couldn't deny it's inherent deliciousness. I didn't know it, but my relationship with polpo was about to be altered forever. I was pretty happy with the dive shop where I'd done my first dives, and had a nice comradery with Nadja, my instructor. My friend however, who was a much more experienced diver than I, was curious about the shop that was next to our hotel. We ironically found out from our waitress at the hotel whose boyfriend was an instructor there, that they were the Mack Daddy shop on Elba and had been for over fifty years. She walked us over moments later, and our last day of diving was now planned with Centro Corsaro Sub. Corsaro had some amazing history with record setting free dives, and the free diving God, Jacques Mayol. The photo wall inside the center made me feel confident and exhilarated about the day of dives that we'd do with Corsaro. I couldn't wait. Marco, our boat captain and dive leader was a sweetheart and his confidence in me made me feel an unwavering confidence in myself. I was the beginner of the group, and wasn't even certified yet, but was going to go for it. The dives would be deeper than I'd done before, but I felt safe and excited about the spot they'd chosen for the day. We went to Capo Fonza that morning and the boat anchored in a cove that made me feel like I was in a scene from a sixties Bond film. The sun was strong, and the turquoise waters kind of rough, but despite the all over heaviness of the gear, I felt levity. Down we went, me following Marco, checking in with an "ok" sign meter after meter. I had been doing well the previous days, but finally felt I was starting to master the laws of buoyancy, and moved in and out of close quarters along the reef formations with ease. I felt fearless, weightless, and my normally tightly wound brain was, in a word, buoyant. I had never felt so peaceful and free in my life. We saw moray eel, bright purple starfish, lavender micro-creatures called Fiabellina, schools of barracuda and polpi. Tanti polpi. I had an eye for finding the well camouflaged octopus in the days before as well, but hadn't gotten so close or personal, as I would on that very memorable dive. We were nearing the time to start our ascent, and I savored every cycle of breathe in, breathe out, knowing that soon enough I would be back to the surface. I was just next to, but in front of Marco as he motioned for me to come to him. As I got closer I could see that he had a small octopus in his hand. I glided up as close to it as I could, hoping not to frighten it, and could see every detail of the fascinating creature, as my eyes fell into a syrupy trance with it. It was a momentary mental and spiritual exchange between species. It was so enchanting and more powerful than any natural experience I'd ever had. Marco motioned to me that I could stroke it, so I gently caressed its ultra-delicate, alien like head, and I felt its very soul come into my fingertips. A moment later Marco let it out of his hand and it floated next to me for a few more seconds in my gaze before releasing a ceremonious squirt of ink and propelling itself away. I was totally mesmerized. Thinking back on the out of body experience, I realize that I left a metric ton of emotional fear and self judging in that cloud of ink. It was about time, or better stated, it was the right time to do so. I had visited Saint Peter's, and many of the grandest cathedrals in Italy, and never felt the presence of God as I had there with that magnificent creature. I think about Signor Polpo every day, and need not tell you that the octopus now has an all-gracious spiritual power for me, and I a reverence and respect for it, such that I will never again think of it as a food source. Grazie, Signor Polpo.

'Leaving Leonina', excerpt from Saved by Siena, written by Danielle Boiardi

There is nothing like the feeling of the strong Italian sun on your face, and the sun at Leonina was particularly omnipotent and invigorating. It made time stand still. We’d hang out around the pool on the weekends and there was always some kind of party going on with fun people I was happy to be sharing my time with. It was a great existence, yet there were dreams I hadn’t pursued that started speaking to me, subtly scratching at me like cat claws in my side. I felt, somewhat pessimistically, that it would be impossible to achieve my dreams if I stayed where I was. I will admit to you now, that my defeatist attitude would stay with me regardless of my geographic location. I was always dreaming about something. Life was pretty damn sweet right there where I was, but I had a rare talent for inventing a reason to bale, no matter how abundant my momentary paradise was. I was wanting. I longed to create, to tap into the endless fountain of inspiration I felt to write songs and stories. Me and my ego wanted to be less anonymous than we were. I had more pipe dreams in my head than Home Depot, Leggoland and New York City could contain. I didn’t know where to start on the path to turning my desires into a fulfilled reality, but had an itch that told me I would be better off back in The States. It was after all, the land of opportunity,.... right? I had run away to Siena, and then stayed hiding out like Harrison Ford in The Fugitive. Except I didn’t have to prove my innocence, just the mere matter of my value in the world. I was sure of that, and I felt like I’d be living a coward’s life to stay where I was. Maybe I was just full of shit and excuses. I certainly wasn’t prepared to swallow my pride and accept the miniscule career options that were staring me in the face there in the Sienese countryside. I could have lived a quiet, contemplative existence with the love of a good man beside me, and yet I was hungry for more, even if I couldn’t pinpoint what it was at the time. I was acting like a greedy american for sure, but was also desperate to fulfill a lust to create.

On one gorgeous afternoon mid May, I went out on my own to conquer the six-mile loop around the craters. I had been working my way up to it, as running was one of the only ways I could find a sense of control in those frustrating indecisive times. I made my way up past the castle and to another group of condos where a mother was outside playing with her kids. Their lean and muscular, gray mastiff was leashed onto the fence that sat just off to the side of the dirt road. It was a very big beast. And as I got closer, it started barking up a territorial storm. I would’ve been petrified to continue onward had I not seen it securely tied up. Just a breather after that false moment of security, suddenly, its leash came undone, and in a split second it was lunging at me. There was nothing to stop it from attacking me, and I was gripped with fear. It latched on to my right hip at the bone, and I was face to face with it’s devilish white-blue eyes. This canine was all muscle, and all I could do was pray that it would loosen the searing bite it had on my flesh. The mother started screaming, not knowing what she should do, and suddenly the devil dog let go of me. I was so pumped up with adrenaline from the shear terror of the moment that I started running again as if my life depended on it. The woman screamed “Non correre!, Don’t run!.... I’m sorry!”, but I was already on auto pilot, fueled by an unbelievable rush that encompassed flight instinct, a biologically induced strength, and my common sense that said ‘get far away from here and do it fast’. I had never experienced a physical strength like it before, and haven’t since. I was unstoppable. I left the scene behind me in the dust and the distance, and without thought of slowing down, just kept on running.

I ran down into the lower lake section of the craters and moved through the landscape like a gazelle. Like a warrior. I was barely conscious of my body, my breath, or how far I’d gone. Before I knew it, I had made it all the way back around to the dirt road entrance that led back up to our house, and I began my last ascent. I got inside the house, and with the adrenaline finally waring off, I started to feel the hot pain from the bite again. I called Paolo at work and launched into the drama of the whole story. The creature had left a serious mark on my hip and broken the skin, which was already starting to bruise. Paolo was rightfully concerned, and offered to come home early, but knowing I was no longer in any real danger, I told him “Non ti preoccupare’, not to bother. I had experienced some gripping fear that day, but something had also freed itself up in me. After the terror, tears, sweat and distance I had run wore off, I wondered if it was time to leave. I wasn’t so much afraid to stay at Leonina, as I was afraid to NOT go back to New York. I feared I had been unconsciously living my days masquerading as my own worst enemy, and that it was time to stop the charade.

Le Foto Sparite, (The Vanished Photos)

Seven weeks in Italy. The food, the wine, staying above Siena's best pastry shop,....the unforgettable moments with friends old and new. Thank God for the precious photos that had captured so many of those delectable instances in time.......the very same photos that are now gone. "Sparite". Disappeared. My alter ego has reminded me that the visual majesty of the twelfth century, now roofless abbey of San Galgano, could make anyone lose there concentration just enough to leave behind their camera. Yet I have mentally flogged myself for that stupid mistake over and over these last two weeks, and I am desperate to really understand why. If I'm such a live in the moment person, then why so much attachment to images of what is now the past? The truth is that I had scrolled through those pictures enough times before I'd lost the camera, that I would have at least pretty decent memory recall of each snapshot. But I'm greedy. I'm an Italian culture vampire. I was in utter misery in the first moments when I realized the camera wasn't in its case, and subconsciously my trip was already over. Too bad really, because at that moment, I was enjoying one of the brightest, most romantic white wines I'd ever tasted, in a very unassuming but lovely piazza in the relatively unknown village of Monticiano with Dad and my best Sienese buddies, and I wasn't even really THERE for it. Why couldn't I shake it off? I answered question one with ease. I was over the loss of the camera itself within moments, (although it was a sweeeet little digital...). It was all about the images: The photos of my first real scuba diving adventure on the island of Elba, and the visions of the gigantic aloe and oleander strewn across its terrain. Photos of my father and I meeting our distant relatives for the first time in the fairytale town of Bettola, the very town where my great-grandfather was born. Climbing the equally glorious leaning tower of Pisa and La Torre del Mangia in Siena with a dear friend, and thinking that from up at those heights, anything was still possible. 'Momenti indimenticabili' as they say in italian. If the moments were indeed so unforgettable, then why am I still so gutted by the fact that I'll never again see those images? So much for staying in the moment. A picture is worth a thousand words they say. But what interested me more, was what those particular words would have to tell me. I had already teleported myself "trekky" style, back to the U.S., where I would lean on those images for mental support, for the times when I'd have a Jones for a good strong shot of La Toscana. I was in the midst of a major reorganization of my very chaotic life, and I would cling to those visuals as if they were no- fail recipes for reliving all the emotion and aromas of those moments with perfect accuracy. So I could feel the water from Bettola's Val Nure where I had dipped my hands and collected stones in the life-affirming river of my ancestors, so I could hear the laughter of my gorgeous community of friends at Cinzia's vegetarian dinner while we played Italian board games from the nineteen- seventies, so I could again smell the decadent cherry liqueur notes of the La Calla red of Montecucco that I savored with wild boar sausage and pecorino. I am somewhat of an addict to the landscape, cuisine, and people of The Tuscany, and Italy. So from the unkind snowbelt geography of The Hudson Valley, where I consider myself to merely half-live, I would use those precious photos to dose myself with italianita' as often as needed, to tap back into a lifeline....

La Famiglia Rosini, Amici del Cuore.

Nel mese d'agosto 1997, avevo appena passato l'estate impiegata come cuoca per una coppia 'infame' d'inglesi in una certa villa a Sovicille, appena fuori Siena. Avevo accettato il posto di lavoro in un periodo d'insicurezza, e pieno della ricerca per la mia indipendenza. Di vista, la villa era un vero paradiso. La sua architettura era strabella, con i suoi giardini eleganti, situata in mezzo ad una foresta da favola. Al'inizio dell'esperienza, il luogo mi sembrava un rifugio personale, sia per la sua bellezza visiva che per il guadagno fisso che c'avevo assicurato. Ma nel mezzo di ogni paradiso si nascondono sempre dei viperi, pronti con un morso acide per farti ricordare che sei solo in un'oasi. Dopo qualche mese d'aver lavorato in un ambiente falso e aristocratico, senza il rispetto minimo dei miei datori di lavoro, avevo deciso che fosse l'ora d'andarmene via. L'unica problema era che non sapevo ancora dove andare....

Avevo parlato della mia ansia con un mio carissimo amico del cuore, Robertino, che ci viveva vicino, nel paesino accanto, a San Rocco a Pilli. Appena gli ho parlato della mia situazione difficile, lui mi ha subito suggerito che io andassi a stare con la sua famiglia per un po'. Anche se avevo gia' conosciuto la sua famiglia, mi sembrava un grande gesto d'aver fatto. Ero gia' abituata all'ospitalita' italiana, ma quest'offerta mi ha colpito in maniera profonda. Mi sentivo tanta lontana da casa mia, e sapevo che Robertino e la sua mamma Maria erano di una bonta' enorme che avrebbe rifornito il mio spirito. Ho gentilmente accettato il suo invito e fra qualche giorno mi troverei al loro ingresso con le mie valigie.

Sono arrivata a casa della famiglia Rosini verso le otto di mattina a ricevere un bel abbraccio acogliente da Maria. Lei era una signora piuttosto piccola di statura, ma di grand'affetto. Robertino era un uomo cosi alto e grande, che non potevo mai capire com'era possibile che lei l'avevo partorito. Maria mi ha benvenuto nella cucina e subito mi ha preparato del cafe. Era la prima volta in tanti mesi che mi sentivo davvero rilassata ed al mio agio. Ci siamo mese a parlare di tante cose, mie e sue, ed ero molto contenta d'accompagnarla a fare la spesa in centro. Lei era una cuoca bravissima e mi sentivo tanta fortunata di stare alla sua tavola durante le prossime settimane. Mi ricordo un sugo speciale che lei ha preparato con dei peperoni freshi del loro orto. Era cosi' vellutata, ed e' fuso in bocca. Ogni suo pasto era fatto con attenzione, il suo talento, e tanto amore. Quando Robertino e' tornato dal lavoro, staremmo un po' sulla terrazza accanto alla cucina a godere la serata, e mi sentivo sempre spensierata ed a casa. Ho passato piu' di tre settimana da loro prima che trovassi un nuovo lavoro e apartamento in centro a Siena. Mi sentivo veramente beata d'essere stata la loro ospite. Mi avevano dato una casa e tante coccole quando avevo bisogno di riprendermi, un dono che non dimenticherei mai.

Ho fatto la decisione difficilissima di lasciare La Toscana due anni dopo, per tornare negli Stati Uniti, e non vedrei la famiglia Rosini di nuovo fine a piu' di dieci anni dopo, quando sono finalmente tornata a Siena questo novembre scorso. Ho avuto il piacere di passare del tempo sia con Robertino e la sua sorella Isabella che con la loro cara mamma Maria. Loro erano piu' accoglienti che mai, ed i profumi che venivano dalla loro cucina erano ancora inebrianti. Adesso Robertino e' diventato un cacciatore di cinghiale ed ho avuto la fortuna di provare una delle sue cacce. Maria mi ha spiegato come aveva bagnato bene la carne per poi prepararla 'in umido'. Lei aveva fatto anche un contorno speciale, uno sformato di cavolfiore, che sembrava pericolosamente delizioso. Eravamo a tavola in quattro, e sentivo del rimpianto d'essere stata via per cosi tanto tempo. Sia 'il cinghiale in umido' che 'lo sformato di cavolfiore' erano buonissimi ed ho mangiato fine a quando non potevo piu' respirare. Col passare degli anni, si capisce che non esiste una data di scadenza per le amicizie del cuore. Si capisce anche che di sentirsi 'a casa' e circondata dagli amici sia una cosa preziosa, e comunque un sentimento cosi forte da dirigere la tua vita. Ho capito tante cose durante la mia ultima visita in Toscana. So bene che di vivere nella toscana mi ispira tanto. So bene che di stare a tavola con la gente buona e' un dono grande. E tengo presente in mente, ovunque io vada, di riconoscere le mie benedizioni.

"Insalata di Riso", Rice Salad recipe from Graziella Mazzon, Seveso, Milan

I first enjoyed "Insalata di Riso" one summer at the Milan family home of my dear friend Enrico, prepared by his lovely Italian super mom Graziella. Some of her other specialties include 'Fresh Calamari Stew', slow cooked in her own unique tomato sauce, and her own summertime alcohol infusions; 'Basilcello', fresh basil liquer, and 'Limoncello', fresh lemon liquer. Both are absolutely heavenly! She told me this 'Rice Salad' was one of her 'quick, summer staple recipes', and upon my first taste, I became an instant, adoring fan. It's refreshingly delicious, and so full of flavor. Over the years, I've made it many different ways, varying the fresh green vegetable, and only sometimes adding in tuna or ham. The vinaigrette can be made sans garlic too, but I would never advise you skip it! Alla tua salute Graziella... Enjoy!

Insalata di Riso Ingredients ( for six people plus)

1 lb. arborio rice

one block swiss cheese in small, cubed chunks

one half pound ham in small, cubed chunks

one container ripe cherry tomatoes

half cup pitted cured black olives

half cup pitted green olives

half cup plus capers

one cup chopped fresh basil

*Dani Variation add one cup toasted pine nuts

Vinaigrette

One cup extra virgin olive oil

Fresh squeezed juice of two lemons

3-5 cloves of garlic finely chopped

Salt and fresh ground pepper to taste

Boil rice 'til cooked 'al dente', drain well, and chill in fridge.

Cube swiss cheese and ham, chop olives and cherry tomatoes in halves, chop fresh basil, toast pine nuts. When rice is well chilled, add in all ingredients, including capers, and mix thoroughly, but gently. Lastly, pour fresh vinaigrette over mix, mix again gently and serve!

Other variations on original recipe*

-add one half pound chopped fresh, lightly steamed green beans, chopped fresh lightly steamed asparagus, or lightly steamed chopped zucchini

-add finely chopped scallion

-replace chopped ham with chopped tuna

Siena, Citta' Mia, City of The Palio, excerpt from Saved by Siena

In the mid-nineties, I was an excited, bushy-haired American girl studying Italian in Siena, Italy. What was intended to be a typical six month study abroad, would turn into a live-in love affair with the dreamy, medieval city that would last almost five years. During my first months there, I was lucky to live in the very picturesque Via San Marco, otherwise known as the beating heart of the Contrada della Chiocciola, the Snail Contrada. It was here that I’d come to understand the glorious, impassioned, and moving traditions of the controversial Palio, which has been taking place in Siena for centuries.

The city of Siena is divided into seventeen contradas, or neighborhood ‘sections’ that have their own history, society clubs, and even baptism ceremonies for new “contradiaoli”, or members. I was charmed enough to be living right across the street from The Societa’, clubhouse, and for six wonderful months, had a birds-eye view on the larger than life traditions and preparations for the spectacle of The Palio, that’s seated in the soul of the city’s history. Not every foreigner would want to be woken up early on weekend mornings by a troupe of snare drummers parading and singing under their window. But for me, it was the best alarm clock you could have after a short night’s rest fresh from drinking amazing and cheap red wine in the Piazza del Campo the evening before. The Palio parade practice was always as stimulating to see as it was to hear. Every contrada has its own symbol and insignia, in most cases an animal, as well as its own flag with a unique color scheme. The symbol of “my” contrada in Via San Marco is the chiocciola, or snail. Its flag’s colors are yellow, red and bright royal blue. All of them are beautiful, especially when viewed being twirled and tossed around in parade, as are the traditional medieval costumes that share the same colors. In late spring, the members of the contradas start practicing their flag and drumming drills for the ceremony of The Palio, that will start three days prior to the big race day, including the two hour plus long “Corteo Storico” parade the day of The Palio itself. On the weekend mornings they’d start drumming their way down my street, and regardless of how many hours sleep I’d had, I’d love to hear them approaching from the top of San Marco’s hill. I marveled at the passion, commitment, and preparation they gave to every aspect of the centuries old horse race. Besides, they were damn good at “La Sbandierata” tricks, launching their flags high up in the air and catching them, and I found the traditional songs so infectious and moving. The race itself occurs two times during the summer, once on July 2nd, and then again on August 16th. The contrada flag bearers and drummers will parade through Siena and their prospective contrada, if they’re participating in the Palio that year, and boy will they parade if they win it. The victorious contrada will march and sing at the top of their lungs throughout the city, and wine will flow from the contrada street fountains as if the world was coming to an end.

There’s historic debate over exactly how long the race has been happening. Some historians believe it even dates back to The Etruscans. But by most historic accounts, it dates back minimally to the mid-thirteenth century, and has been occurring inside Siena itself since the mid sixteen hundreds. A few years after my study abroad, while living a somewhat crazy, ex-pat life outside Siena for a time, I saw evidence of the much earlier Palio days. Walking through the bucolic “Tebaide” forest near Sovicille, there were stone contrada sculptures in the woods behind my house, honoring what was known as a temporary Palio race track between 1669 and 1692. Only ten of the seventeen contrade can run horses in any given race, as is tradition and for logistical reasons. The seven that didn’t run in the last Palio will get an automatic spot, “d’obligo” and the three remaining spots get decided by lottery at a nail-biting ceremony in the piazza, called the “Estrazione”. The horses and riders have no room for error in the minute long race, as the piazza has wicked sharp curves, especially the curve of San Martino. The fantini, jockeys, may come from Siena, or also outside the Tuscan region. There are a lot of shady maneuvers that go on during the race, including swats at each other with their riding crops, and sometimes, riders have even gone so far as to push other riders off their horses. Despite the aggressiveness of the race, it is something to be seen and experienced, with levels of hysteria you can’t imagine. Locals especially, will sleep out from two nights before the race to ensure a view right on the track. They scream, cry, sing, and generally go ballistic, both as winners, and losers. I was lucky enough to see The Palio a few times from inside the track center, packed in like cattle, and from an above apartment balcony looking onto the race. What actually is The Palio? It’s a large drape like fabric banner that gets designed and painted each year by a new artist, which is awarded to the winning contrada. Historically, they were created to recognize a holy apparition of The Madonna, and protections that The Madonna offered the city of Siena during war time. You can go see many of the past year’s Palii in a museum in the city center, which are unique and quite beautiful. The jockeys are chosen, in most cases, both for their ability and their race cunning. A lot of money and pride are put on the table for The Palio, and each contrada has an emotional, spiritual, and yes, financial vested interest in coming out the winner.

Centuries ago, the race was first run by buffalo, and then by farm horses, who obviously moved much more slowly, hence the race was less dangerous for the animals. These days, the piazza hasn’t changed, and still boasts tricky corners, but the type of horses they race most certainly has. The honor that’s bestowed on the winning contrada has led the stakes to be risen, and they now use fast paced racehorses that reach speeds never intended for the small, ancient track. Each contrada raises as much money as possible to buy the best jockey, and they pray they’ll get a good horse when they are chosen for them by lottery. They all want a combination that will produce a win that will be celebrated as if it belongs personally to each member of the contrada. In the week before the race, a crew comes in and begins laying down three or so layers of dirt that will convert the outer part of the seashell piazza into a makeshift track. The terra cotta bricks get covered over so much that they disappear completely. They also erect bleachers to view the race, which will go around the track, and from which you can watch the whole set up process. One early morning after taking in the hot sulfur baths at Petriolo, outside of town the night before, my friends and I sat on the bleachers, stinking of rotten egg from the sulphur, and watched some of the Palio practice races which start at six am or so. It was really exciting and well worth staying up all night for. These bleacher seats will get sold for a pretty penny, and the numerous apartments that have balconies on the piazza will make even more money for their unbelievable and prestigious views. Being in Siena for the Palio is one very festive and intense time. As the Pre-Palio season begins, each main street of the various contradas will put out decorative, ceramic street lights, and their colorful flags. Each contrada also has a rival contrada, and these oppositions run real deep. In some cases if a husband and wife are born and baptized into different contradas that are rivals, one will leave the family house during the Palio days, proof that the rivalries have no boundaries. In disdain you’ll hear one contrada member say about the other, “fa schifo alla citta” which means ‘that contrada brings disgust to the city’. These same words are even sung in traditional Palio songs that are chanted at all hours of the day and night throughout the city. Whatever your personal feelings about the race, the Palio has stood the test of centuries of time, which is an admirable thing in an age where nothing seems to last, culture is diluted, and most things are disposable in the modern age. I’ve been back in the U.S. now for many years observing some of our traditions, which include stopping in for a daily half-caf at Starbucks, and participating in Black Friday shopping, which has proven to be just as dangerous for shoppers as the Palio is for horses. Where’s the substance and celebration? The first place I ever lived in Siena was in the Chiocciola Contrada, so I have a particularly sentimental fondness for it. And despite not being baptized into the contrada at birth, which most sienese are, I still consider myself “of the chiocciola”, una chiocciolina. I miss the sights and sounds of The Palio and that feeling of infectious love and appreciation for the city I called my home, if only for a time.

My father and his wife Lily were visiting me during the week of The Palio my second year there, and upon my suggestion, bought tickets for us to attend the famous sidewalk dinner “The Cena della Prova Generale”, basically, the Pre Palio trials/practice dinner. It was a beautiful summer night, and I was ecstatic to have the chance to both discover and share this special traditional dinner with them. The contrada members set up an outdoor feast, decorating and turning on all the antique street lights up and down each contrada’s principal street. In the Chiocciola, the dinner was set up in my beloved Via San Marco, and the neighborhood never looked so gorgeous. The contradaioli are honored to share their contrada pride with Siena’s visitors, and make the five course meal a memorable one. After the dinner that night, a kind and very handsome contradaiolo named Robertino, spent the better part of that late night trying to teach me how to ride a motorino there in San Marco, adding to my many poignant and unforgettable Chiocciola memories. The year before, my norwegian roommate Hanne and I had been the lucky subjects of a very lovely, surprise serenade. We returned home late to find two of our Chiocciola friends, Massimo and Patrizio with another gentleman, Altero, outside the societa’. They greeted us with a sweet but simple ‘Buona notte ragazze!’, and we headed up to bed. Within a few minutes, they had assembled chairs below our bedroom window right there in San Marco, and began ‘la serenata’. As true ambassadors of romance, they sang both Sienese and Italian traditional standards for a couple of hours as we looked down on them from our third story window sill. It was a clear, starry night, and even after the neighbors started yelling ‘Basta con la serenata!’, they kept right on singing. Change is inevitable, and so much in life uncertain, but the years I spent in Siena, and my tender memories of San Marco stay fresh in my mind, and as bright as ever. As time ticks on, Siena remains the irreplaceable ‘citta’ mia’, city of my heart. ‘Con lento passo e grave nel campo a trionfare Chiocciola scende’. This is the motto of The Chiocciola contrada, which translates to; ‘with a slow and important step, the chiocciola enters the field triumphing’. I was always awestruck by this saying, and think I’d be pretty happy if I could live my life with ‘a slow and important step’. Just three days ago, I heard the very sad news that one of my serenade crew had passed away some years ago of cancer. So I dedicate this story to your dear memory Altero, and to all the dreamy romantics still out there.

Estratti dal Primo Capitolo di 'Saved by Siena' scritto da Danielle Boiardi

Pian piano, siamo arrivati alle colline di Asciano, e la vista divenne più mozzafiata in ogni momento. Ero piena di curiosità per vedere dove Paolo aveva la casa. "QUESTA E’ LA STRADA', ha detto, 'LEONINA'. Come se fosse una republicca propria sua, con una sua propria famiglia reale, da una favola. Non potevo credere ai miei occhi. Abbiamo girato su una strada sterrata che era fiancheggiata su entrambi i lati con cipressi. La strada saliva sempre più in alto, i cipressi mai ad abbandonarci, ed mi sono sentita come se fossi in viaggio segreto di paradiso perduto. Era la fine dell’estate, e l'aria che ronzava dentro e fuori i finestrini della macchina era calda ed inebriante. L’aria era da imbottigliare, da drogarsene. I punti di vista da entrambi i lati della strada erano altro che belli e da un’altro terreno. A sinistra apparse una visione perfetta delle Creti Senesi, le colline argillose senesi. Sembrava contemporaneamente fuori i tempi degli etruschi antichi, ed un paesaggio da un altro pianeta etereo lontano. A destra c’erano colline di campi di grano verdi e dorati che, sotto la luce radente del tardo pomeriggio potesse farti piangere dalla loro bellezza. Si alzò in alto, una collina alla volta, fino a quando noi eravamo proprio sotto un casolare rinnovato. Li’ Paolo disse con orgoglio, 'IO VIVO QUI'. Non potevo credere quanto era spettacolare il luogo. Sembrava di essere una muta dal mio silenzio. Ho potuto vedere delle sculture in marmo nel cortile anteriore sopra il bordo spesso e tortuose di cespugli di alloro mentre stavamo per entrare nel parcheggio. Abbiamo camminato lungo il sentiero verso la porta dove ho potuto vedere un imponente arco di marmo nella parte anteriore della sua casa. Ha poi spiegato che è stato fatto in 'Giallo di Siena', un marmo giallo-oro dalla regione. ‘Giallo di Siena a Leonina’.... i suoni ballavano per la mia boca..... Che posto. Che sogno. Che uomo affascinante. La sensazione complessiva del giardino è stata meravigliosa, siccome ci sono state più piccole sculture in marmo dappertutto il suo prato. Siamo entrati dentro il suo posto e ho avuto la visita completa. La casa era alta ma stretta, e completamente cool. Ci sono stati accenti in marmo ad ogni sguardo, e la scalinata arrivava su un secondo piano pieno dei dipinti di Paolo. Al terzo piano Paolo aveva stabilito la sua camera da letto su un soppalco, che mi susurava ‘pace’. Avevo sempre amato l’idea di dormire su un soppalco, come un rondine al nido. Poi, da bambina avevo un letto a castello e di pensare a dormire lassu’ con lui mi fece pacificare. Abbiamo parlato, mentre ha iniziato la cena e mi sono sentito immediatamente a casa con lui, nonostante il pre-bacio tensione che sempre accompagna un primo appuntamento. Io ero seduto al tavolo, mentre lui ai fornelli, e mi ha scoperto in un momento di sguardo fisso verso lui che, ovviamente, non stavo facendo abbastanza di nascosto. Quando ha catturato il mio sguardo, si è mosso rapidamente verso di me, sulla mia sedia, e si e’ mosso verso me per un bacio appassionato. Mi sentivo come se fossi una gazzella che era stata sorpresa da un leone in un video della fauna selvatica. Come se la calda personalità di Paolo e il suo bel sguardo non sono stati sufficienti ad ubriacarmi di infatuazione, il paesaggio di Leonina mi ha fatto girare la testa e cosi, l'affare è stato sigillato più rapidamente. Ancora più importante, lui era un tesoro reale, e ho sentito che forse avevo finalmente trovato il link che mancava nella mia vita senese................

Il posto di Paolo era la dimensione perfetta per due, ed i prossimi mesi sono stati di beatitudine. Non abbiamo mai avuto neanche un’argomento. Ho finito un altro lavoro o due in restauro, ma poi le cose si sono prosciugate. Non c'è nulla come la sensazione del forte sole italiano sul tuo viso, ed il sole a Leonina era onnipotente, tonificante, e fece fermare il tempo. Ci piaceva stare intorno alla piscina durante il weekend e c'era sempre una sorta di festa in corso con della gente simpatica con cui ero felice di condividere il mio tempo. E' stata una esistenza grande. Purtroppo c’erano sogni che non avevo perseguito e sentivo che sarebbe impossibile da realizzare se fossi rimasta dove mi trovavo. ( Un’idea sbagliato). Sono sempre stata una sognatrice. La vita era dannatamente dolce proprio lì dov’ ero, ma ho sempre avuto un talento per inventare un motivo per scappare, non importa quanto fosse abbondante mio paradiso momentaneo. Sentivo una mancanza. Ho voluto creare, a scrivere canzoni e storie. Io ed il mio ‘ego’ volevamo essere meno anonime di quanto lo fossimo. Ho avuto sogni grande, più nella mia testa che potesse contenere Home Depot, Leggoland e New York City. Non sapevo da dove iniziare il cammino per trasformare i miei desideri in una realtà soddisfacente, ma aveva un prurito che mi diceva che avrei piu’ speranza se fossi tornata negli Stati Uniti. E’ stata, dopo tutto, la terra delle opportunità, giusto? Ero scappata dal’inizio per Siena, e poi rimasta nascosta come Harrison Ford in Il Fuggitivo. Tranne che non ho dovuto dimostrare la mia innocenza, solo la mera questione del mio valore nel mondo. Di questo ne ero sicura, e mi sembrava di vivere la vita di un vigliacco se fossi rimasta dove mi trovavo. Forse ero solo piena di merda e di scuse. Di certo non ero disposta ad ingoiare il mio orgoglio ed accettare le possibilità di carriera minuscole che mi stavano guardando in faccia. Avrei potuto vivere una esistenza tranquilla contemplativa con l'amore di un buono uomo accanto a me, eppure ero affamata per altre cose in più, anche se non ho potuto individuare ciò che è stato in quel momento. Io agivo come un’ americana avida, e basta. Avrei dovuto trovare una maggiore disciplina dentro di me. Piu’ grinta.

Su uno splendido pomeriggio a metà maggio, sono uscita da sola per conquistare il ciclo di sei miglia intorno ai crateri. Ho lavorato la mia strada fino ad essa, siccome la corsa è stata uno dei pochi modi in cui avevo trovato un senso di controllo. Ho fatto la mia strada finche’ ero passata al castello e sono arrivata ad un altro gruppo di condomini, dove una madre era fuori a giocare con i suoi figli. Il loro mastino, magro, e grigio, era al guinzaglio sul recinto che si trovava appena fuori al lato della strada sterrata. Era una bestia grande. Mentre gli stavo avvicinando, ha iniziato ad abbaiare come se facesse una tempesta territoriale, e sarebbe stata pietrificata per continuare avanti se io non avessi visto che era legato alla recinzione. Tranne un tratto, venne annullata il suo guinzaglio, e in una frazione di un secondo è stato affondo contro di me. Non c'era niente per fermarlo di attaccarmi, e sono stata afferrata dal terrore. Si e’ attaccato alla mia anca destra proprio sull'osso, ed ero faccia a faccia con i suoi diabolici occhi bianchi-blu. Questa bestia era tutto muscoli, e non potevo fare altro che pregare che avrebbe allentato il morso bruciante che era sulla mia carne. La madre cominciò a gridare, non sapendo cosa avrebbe dovuto fare, e improvvisamente il cane diavolo mi lascio’ andare. Ero così pompata con adrenalina dal terrore del momento che ho ricominciato a correre come se la mia vita ci dipendesse. La donna gridava "Non correre !.... Mi dispiace! ", ma io ero già sul ‘pilota automatico’ alimentato da una corsa incredibile che comprendeva l'istinto del volo, una resistenza indotta biologicamente, ed il mio buon senso che ha detto 'Vatene molto lontano da qui e farlo in fretta'. Non avevo mai vissuto una forza fisica di simile prima, e mai successivamente. Sono stata inarrestabile. Ho lasciato la scena dietro di me nella polvere e la distanza, e senza il pensiero di rallentare, ho continuato a correre. Corsi giù nella sezione inferiore del lago sui crateri e mi muovevo attraverso il paesaggio come una gazzella. Come un guerriero. Ero appena cosciente del mio corpo, il mio respiro, o quanto lontano ero andata. Prima che me ne fossi resa conto, avevo fatto tutto il viaggio di ritorno in giro per l'ingresso della strada sterrata che portava indietro fino a casa nostra, e ho iniziato la mia ultima salita. Sono entrata all'interno della casa, e l'adrenalina finalmente se ne andava, percio’ ho cominciato a sentire il dolore del morso di nuovo. Ho chiamato Paolo al lavoro e ho lanciato nel dramma di tutta la storia. Il cane diavolo aveva lasciato un segno grave sul mio fianco, aveva rotto la pelle, e ci stava già iniziando un livido. Paolo è stato giustamente preoccupato, e diceva di tornare a casa presto, ma sapendo che non ero più in alcun pericolo reale, gli ho detto di non preoccuparsi. Qualcosa si era liberata in me quel giorno, e dopo il terrore, le lacrime, il sudore e la distanza che avevo corso, mi sono chiesta se non fosse l’ora di andarmene via. Non ero tanto impaurita di restare dove ero, quanto ero pronta a smettere di comportarmi come il mio proprio peggior nemico.

Ero piena di scuse stupide, e ne sono partita con una come un paracadute per essere tornata "a casa". Capisco solo adesso che di sentirsi d’aver ‘casa’ sia un sentimento quanto importante che sia aver il cibo, l’aqua e l’aria da respirare. Ci voleva un coraggio grande per decidere di vivere li’, fuori il mio paese, lontano dalla mia famiglia, ma avevo seguito il mio istinto che diceva ‘Qui tu appartieni’. Nei quattro anni in più che avevo trascorso lì, ero sbocciata da una studentessa americana insicura di sé e piena di dubbi, ad una giovane donna coraggiosa che ha saputo prosperare, o almeno sopravvivere da sola. Ho misurato le vittorie della mia vita uno macchiato gustoso alla volta. Un giorno, mesi fa, in Piazza Il Mercato, mi ero trovata in mezza ad una conversazione senza sforzo con una anziana donna senese. Qualcosa di cui ce ne siamo parlate mi ha portato a dirle che ero da New York, e lei ha detto sinceramente che dal mio italiano, era sicura che io fossi nativa. In questo scambio momentaneo complementare, avevo vinto la mia borsa di studio Fullbright, sono stata promossa, ed ho meso un premio ‘Golden Globe” sul mio mantello. Ma in fondo, nata un’americana, sempre un’americana. Eppure le mie opzioni sono diventate piuttosto limitate senza documenti e quatrini, abbastanza per vivere una vita toscana piu’ facile che sognavo. Il libro ‘ Sotto il Sole Toscano’ di Frances Mayes mi ha proprio freggato. Spontaneamente, anch'io volevo essere la proprietaria di un casolare abbandonato e vivere una vita rispettabile e gloriosa, con tempo per ristrutturare la casa e preparare dei pasti decadenti con basilico fresco dal mio giardino. Accidenti a lei e il suo romanzo ben venduto! Accidenti ero delusa, e temeva che, per risparmiare soldi per la casa senese dei miei sogni, avrei bisogno prima di ottenere uscita da Siena. Non mi ricordo quanti giorni sono passati prima che ho iniziato la discussione con Paolo, ma mi ricordo che ero davvero triste di lasciarlo. Ha cercato di agire come se avesse capito la mia decisione, ma i suoi occhi hanno raccontato una storia diversa. Lo invitai a venire a vivere con me e fare la prova a New York, ma sapevo che c'era solo una piccolissima possibilità che mai lui avesse avuto fatto la mossa. Fare o morire, la mia decisione è stata presa, e un piano è stato messo in moto. Meno di un mese dopo, ci siamo detti un arrivederci cinematografico e doloroso presso l'aeroporto di Pisa, che è stato uno dei giorni più difficili della mia vita. Non va bene correre delle paure e problemi della vita, ma io ne ero diventata esperta. A luglio ero in pieno shock culturale tornata nello stato di New York, e lavorando sodo per chiudere un capitolo veramente bello nella mia vita. Ero sicura che stavo facendo scelte coraggiose per la mia auto giovane, ma da quando ho lasciato Siena c'è stato qualcosa di vitale mancante in me che non sono stata in grada di rimediare. Ne con la forza della mia penna, la mia voce, né denaro, o nuovo amore. Ho ballato facilmente in una carriera come restauratrice, poi ho iniziato a scrivere e suonare canzoni al vivo. Successivamente ho studiato la terapia di musica e la voce jazz, ma la stessa paura del fallimento e di mediocrita’ che avevo provato seduta a Leonina era ancora con me a prescindere delle linee latitudinale della mia destinazione. Il mio vero problema era che non potevo mai accontentarmi. Ero ‘un maniaco del lavoro’, e sono saltata sulla ruota del criceto di duro lavoro a New York, inseguendo il successo, la stabilità e la reincarnazione di me stessa che mi avrebbe permesso di guardarmi allo specchio ed essere contenta di come vivevo i miei giorni. Ho cercato di vincere la lotta sulla mia strada attraverso relazioni fallite, fatture mediche, e la definizione nuova e cambiando di 'cosa fare per “riuscirci” in America'. Otto anni sono passati prima che io venissi su per aria, e sentivo un pensiero pessante che forse avevo commesso un grosso errore a lasciare Siena. Gli ingredienti della mia ‘dolce vita' sono stati li’, dentro una bella ciotolina, proprio sotto il mio naso da sempre. Ero scappata a Siena al inizio. Poi sono scappata di nuovo di tornare a New York con la speranza che le mie paure si sarebbero rimasti li’ nei campi Toscani. Invece avevano fatto l’autostop indietro con me, e c’erano ancora a succhiare la vita dalle mie vene come sanguisughe disperate di rimanere con la loro ospite. Improvisamente avevo trentotto anni e rimettevo in discussione TUTTO.