Winding Down and Gearing Up

Change is in the air around Cotignac. I feel it more each day. Summer is beginning to wind down with days that are noticeably shorter. The outdoor theater has completed its series and we attended the last Friday night mussels and fries (moules and frites). At the Tuesday market we’re still enjoying flavorful, yellow and white peaches and purple figs even as apples, pears and deep, russet-orange pumpkins appear in the stands. There are fewer tourists downtown. We’re able to walk through the market without too much jostling and easily find a seat for a cup of coffee. Gardens around town are largely empty except for a few remaining tomatoes, onions and squash. Hay and wheat fields have been harvested leaving pale yellow stubbly stalks sticking up like pin cushions. Mike pulled up his tomato plants but he still has peppers that are producing. My petunias are finished for the season. We have a quince tree with five quince. I look at them each day trying to determine when they are ripe and what to do with them if they are. Almonds are falling off the tree now. We tried to shell some but ended up crushing all but a few. I’ll leave almond shelling for others.

Even though the atmosphere is changing as fall approaches, the weather continues to be wonderful – warm days and cool nights. Mike and I are trying to take advantage of every moment and this week we packed in a hodge-podge of activities, all beginning with "c" - canoes, clarinets, cars, carnival, cabaret and canning.

We heard about place that runs canoe trips down the l’Argens River which sounded like fun. The French are more laid back about this sort of thing than river trips in the US. We arrived, were given paddles, and vests. We loaded into a bus pulling the canoes and went to the put-in point. All as expected. That’s when things changed. We unloaded, they pulled the canoes off the trailer, pointed to the river and wished us well. That’s it – no guide, no instructions, nothing. They assumed that we would find our way back through the rapids and over the dam – yes, the dam. And, we did! It felt free to be on our own without having to keep up with anyone else. We got stuck on the rocks - a lot – but always managed to work our way out – a little wetter, but fine. The river was small by Maryland standards and flowed along under tall trees – oak, silver leaf maple that glittered above us. As we paddled along, water striders skidded across the surface in front of the boat, and blue dragonflies circled around. It was a fun time but my body is still recovering from the 3+ hours of paddling.

We also went to a chamber music concert in Flayosc. I’ve not a huge chamber music fan, but the program sounded good and it was a new event to try. The performance was in the local church – high vaulted ceilings and warm, honey-colored stone walls – a perfect setting. The group consisted of two violins, a viola, bass, cello and clarinet. They were young - the women in slim black dresses and the men in tuxedos, – and very accomplished. Their first piece, featuring the clarinetist, took me by surprise it was so exquisite. I grew up with clarinet music – my dad played and taught me – but I haven’t heard anything like this in years. My dad would have said that this young man had a tight tone, precise fingering technique, and excellent breath control. While all that was true, it was better to let myself get caught up in the sound - like thick, rich liquid pouring out of the clarinet. He ran up and down all the registers and I was captivated. He even played a piece by Carl Maria von Weber, my dad’s favorite composer for clarinet. Dad and I spent many long hours practicing von Weber together; he counting out beats and humming as I struggling with the notes and fingerings. All of it rushed back as I listened, and while it was fun to remember all the work and technique that goes into playing, it was also great to simply let the music wash over me. The violinist furthered the experience; her music soared into the old church as she poured out pure emotion from the strings. The entire performance was enthralling and I’ve never seen Mike clap so hard.

Earlier in the week there was a benediction service at the Sanctuary Notre Dame for antique cars. The streets in town were filled with old European cars, most of which would not typically be seen in the US. It was fun to look at the polished, well-loved old cars – but we skipped the benediction service!





This weekend was Cotignac’s local festival. A carnival is in town – literally set up in the streets – and concerts were held every night in the Cours accompanied by fireworks. The local boules association is holding a week long tournament along with an aioli lunch. We attended the lunch to see what exactly aioli is. It satisfied only our curiosity – not our stomachs! Lunch was boiled cod, potatoes, a carrot, beet, and hard boiled eggs – all served with a bowl of aioli (garlic, oil and egg yolks whisked into the consistency of mayonnaise). Everyone but us cleaned their plates. Now we know. Don’t have to go back for another one of those! We also attended a "Cabaret" in Montfort that wasn't our best effort. We opted to skip the dinner before the performance only to discover there were no seats for non-diners. I ended up sipping wine from plastic cups sitting on a rock! We left early.



While all of these events help wind down the summer season, the vineyards are gearing up for the grape harvest – les vendanges. All summer the grapes have been quietly growing in the Provencal sun. Now, the grapes, smaller than table grapes, are a deep blue, purple hanging along the bottom of the vines. During my morning walks, I’ve noticed increased movement of farm equipment. It appears that preparations are underway for the harvest. This is an active and tricky time for the producers – organizing loads of workers to pick the grapes when at their peak while watching the weather – a dilemma common to farmers worldwide. We’re anxious to watch this process as it unfolds in the coming few weeks.

If we were in Annapolis, the end of summer wouldn’t be complete unless Mike canned tomatoes. I assumed that this would be his year off, ….but nooooo. He couldn’t resist the boxes of lush, red tomatoes. Off we went to the market and returned with three boxes of these beauties. After one more stop to buy jars from Frank at the hardware store, he was ready. The smell of fresh basil and warm tomatoes filled the house and heat poured from the kitchen as he boiled, blanched, peeled and canned his tomatoes. He didn’t have his normal equipment so he rigged up contraptions to pull the hot jars from the boiling water. He’s very ingenious! We now have lovely jars of red tomatoes interspersed with green basil to help us wind down the summer and gear up for the his homemade pasta sauces and soups this winter. It enough to make me look forward to fall and winter….well, almost.

Centuries of Tradition

Like most, Mike and I thought of the Palio as the frenzied bare-backed, horse race, around the Piazza del Campo in Siena, Italy. Thousands come twice per year to see the spectacle. But, for me, the Palio will forever more be about neighborhood pride steeped in literally centuries of tradition.

The Palio became an official institution in 1310 with the August 16 date set by decree. But was run even earlier. Think about it, this race was underway before Columbus set sail. We were fortunate to have the opportunity to learn about and come to appreciate the complete experience that makes up the Palio.

To understand the basics, you need a short (very short, I promise) primer. First, the Palio is a banner that is created each year by a noted artist with ties to Siena. Next, the horses represent Contradas or neighborhoods within the city. For a resident, your Contrada is your social life. Each has its own name (Ram, Shell, Forest, Owl, Turtle, Giraffe, Goose, Panther, Dragon, Wave, Snail, Caterpillar, etc), colors, flag, shield, scarf, song and church, museum, community center and even a bar. Kids grow up with other kids from their Contrada, and young people care for the aging in their Contrada. The Contradas have existed for hundreds of years, but the current geographic boundaries were set in the 1700s. Each Contrada has a sister Contrada and an enemy Contrada, and they take this very seriously – as we learned. The winner of the horse race claims the Palio banner that is housed in the Contrada’s museum. Of the 17 Contradas in Siena, ten participate in the Palio each year.

The horse race consists of three loops around the Piazza del Campo which is encircled by five-story buildings with restaurants on the first floors and homes above. The Piazza is dominated by the red brick campanile topped with a very large bell. Normally, the Piazza is cobble-stoned, but they haul in loads of sand to create a 8” think race course around the perimeter of the Piazza. (Sand was hauled away and businesses reopened the day after the race.)

During a normal time, Siena is a charming, walled, medieval city built on a hill with the Piazza del Campo and the Duomo as the two noteworthy tourist attractions. The Duomo is built from black and white layers of marble, which are the colors of Siena. The streets wind around, up and down, and somehow always lead to the Campo or the Duomo.

During the days leading up to the Palio, the city had a frenzied feel with excitement hanging in the air. The main streets smelled of fresh-baked pizza and souvenir shops sold Contrada flags at every turn. The tourist areas were crowded and bustling, with everyone jostling for pizza or gelato. Baby carriages fought for space with dogs straining at their leashes. Everyone was headed to either the Campo or the Duomo. But, step off the main streets into the neighborhoods and the atmosphere changed.

In the neighborhoods, frenzy was replaced by quiet tension and anticipation. While the Palio attracts tourists galore it is a truly local event. Contrada flags lined all the streets no matter how small. We could tell the neighborhoods by looking at the flags. The residents went about their daily life but with their Contrada’s scarf draped around their shoulders. Everyone is adorned with their scarf – tiny, Italian women, teenagers, and babies in carriages. Old women looked out from their flag-draped windows while old men gathered in small bars to discuss the politics of the race. Groups of teenagers bustled along as though they had somewhere important to go. It all felt very serious. Neighborhood pride hung in the balance.

The Palio is a multi-day event for Contrada members. Each Contrada holds a big dinner the night before the race and everyone shows up. We attend the dinner for Ram. There were more than 2000 people there. It was like a huge family reunion with hugs and kisses and everyone wearing the same scarf. The dinner was outside the Contrada’s church with flags lining the streets for a perfect night – and very long. We arrived at 8:30PM. Dinner started at 9:30PM and we left around midnight with the party still underway. Everyone made us feel welcome.

Race day was a madhouse on the main streets, but, again, all was quiet and tense in the neighborhoods. As the day unfolded, we were overwhelmed by the richness of the history and the extent to which this event encompasses the whole city. The horse provides a focal point for the attention. Mid-afternoon each Contrada gathered for the blessing of their horse. We went to Wave (a fish on a blue and white background). When we arrived at their church, residents were already gathered outside and the hum of expectant conversation filled the air. But, the minute the horse stepped into the street, a hush fell over the crowd. The horse was led up the narrow street and into – yes, into – the church to be blessed. Centuries of experience probably teaches that you get the horse into and out of the church promptly, which they did.

Mike and I left to find our seats and on the way ran into procession participants in full costume. This was the real thing – real crossbows, arrows, swords, spears, and – the musical backdrop –drums. Deep tradition oozed from every participant, and the distance between resident and tourist felt vast.

Further along we stumbled into the four oxen that would pull the wagon carrying the Palio banner. I was raised around cattle but I have never seen such large beautiful animals. They were enormous! We were literally nose to nose with them. The oxen created a stir in the narrow streets. People were milling about the animals in awe snapping photos and trying not to be stepped on. Their handlers – including a tiny, old man –enjoyed the attention. They probably aren’t in the limelight often.

Finally, we were seated in our terrace overlooking the Campo and watched as the Carabinieri (police) managed an ever-growing crowd. People arrived in the morning for the best places along the railing in the middle of the Campo. As the day went on, more and more people crammed into the space. It was like the infield at the Preakness but without the beer! When the procession started, the Carbineri formed an alleyway to funnel people into the center up to the last minute. The space was packed – thousands of people! Finally, the Carbineri linked arms and literally pushed the last few observers into the center of the Piazza. They had clearly done this a few times before.

We had seats directly above the procession’s staging area. It was fun to watch the organization of it all but nothing prepared me for the procession itself. Everyone knew the event was about to start when the bell, Sunto, in the campanile (it is only used for the Palio) began it’s deep “thong, thong.” Its rhythm was the heart beat that accompanied the procession for its entire duration (a man literally rang the bell for a couple of hours). With drums rolling and Renaissance-style trumpets blaring, the musicians stepped out onto the track dressed in blue velvet like they had emerged from a Renaissance painting. Next were rows and rows of festively dressed men with banners. They filled the track to the delight of thousands of expectant residents and tourists. It was like being transported back in time and reliving a slice of history. I still get chills thinking of it. One of my favorite moments was when the Carabinieri rode their matching horses around the area in a control prance only to break into a full run, swords drawn and outstretched for the second lap. You just knew these guys had been living for this moment!



The procession continued for two hours. There were the guilds (woodworking, blacksmith, goldsmiths, etc), little boys serving as pages, representatives from neighboring towns who had helped Siena win wars in the Middle Ages, and finally, the Contradas. Each Contrada had its own drummers, flag bearers, horses, men in full armor (the real thing), and, my favorite, the flag wavers. Two men did choreographed stunts with large flags – twirling and throwing them several stories into the air to be caught by their partner, or jumping over each other to catch the flags. As with everything else, flag waving had historic origins. It was derived from the flag bearers of long ago who needed dexterity to keep the army’s flag aloft in battle. Of course, the Contrada’s race horse was in the procession as the guest of honor. The procession culminated with the parading of the Palio banner on the oxen-drawn cart from the 16th Century.





By now, many thousands have been waiting for the race for hours. Finally, with a roar from the crowd, the horses emerged ready for the race –a horse, a rider and a bridle. But first, they have to get into the starting line up. There are no gates, just two ropes that the riders line up between. When the ropes drop, the horses run.



The rivalries were evident right from the start. Here’s the story line. The Contradas draw for the horses but hire the jockeys. The winning horse from the last race was drawn by the Ram Contrada. They hired the same jockey who won previously. Their enemy Contrada, Shell, did not draw a good horse so their objective was to ensure Ram’s defeat. As we understand it, Shell has lots of money and hired the best jockey then gave that jockey to Turtle who had a very good horse but no money. The reasoning – if Shell couldn’t win, they would set up another Contrada to defeat Ram. This strategy caused a stir in the politics of the Contradas and it was on display from the start. Anything goes in the Palio and the jockeys, tension high provoked each other even while lining up. After several false starts with riders angling for the best positions, the jockeys for Shell and Ram ended up beating each other with their crops – at the starting gate! It took about six false starts for the riders to eventually line up.



Finally, in the blink of an eye, they were off – streaking across the Piazza. It was like nothing I’ve ever seen. They hit the first turn – a very sharp one and horses skidded around the corner coming straight toward us. At the next turn, one of the horses fell and lost its rider (neither horse nor rider were hurt). The race never missed a beat. Horses were running all out, tails streaming behind them, legs stretching and jockeys hanging on while looking over their shoulders for the other riders. The horse for the Turtle Contrada had barely crossed the finish line first (Shell’s strategy worked) before Contrada members were tumbling out of the stands to celebrate. It was a mad house. The Contrada members gathered around their winning horse, carried the jockey on their shoulders, and retrieved the Palio banner. In an instant, the race course was filled with people. Each Contrada paraded with waving banners, while Turtle marched proudly with the Palio taking it back to the Duomo and ultimately to their museum. And that was that.

We trundled off – dazed – to find dinner and see what happens AFTER the Palio. What happens is that the winning Contrada doesn’t sleep but parades through the streets of Siena all night and the next day. It is not subtle! First we heard the drummers in the distance. The first time it happened, we scurried to find the source of the noise. In the narrow streets marched the drummers followed by waving flags and the Palio, with a mass of jubilant Contrada members.

During my morning walk the next day all seemed calm and quiet, to my surprise. Most of the flags were gone except for the Turtle flags. Neighborhoods were almost deserted. Then I heard the drumming and there they were again. As was explained by a helpful resident, the tradition is for the winning Contrada to parade the Palio banner to each of the other 16 Contradas and take it into their respective churches, sing their song, and march to the next neighborhood – drummers, flags, crowds and all. That went on all day!

The anticipation, tension and crowds took their toll on us. We left Siena for a brief stop-over in Parma, Italy. It was the perfect anecdote to Siena. Where Siena felt frenzied, Parma felt – well…thoughtful. It has a university that generated groups of young people in the tree-filled parks (something missing from medieval Siena) listening to music, along with well-dressed professionals and a smattering of tourists – all on bicycles. People were biking with their briefcases, in high heels, and with little dogs in baskets. Many of the shops were closed for the Italian holidays which contributed to the peaceful feel of the city. I loved walking through the streets, large parks, tree-shaded neighborhoods and along the river. And it didn’t hurt that we had great meals (zabaione mousse – OMG!).

Parma is the center for Italian foods like Modena Balsamico, Parma ham and Parmigiano Reggiano cheese – each with their own centuries of tradition. Mike was in heaven! We took a tour of Balsamico and Parmigiano Reggiano production. Our very capable guide, Nick, took us – just me and Mike – along small winding roads through the Italian countryside. We finally turned into an unassuming driveway and pulled up to a cluster of old barns. Dogs of all shapes and sizes came romping out. I ended up with perfect, little paw prints on my black skirt (check out the photo)! All part of the experience! Mike and I spent three hours watching two men and one woman make 11 wheels of cheese using the same methods they’ve used for centuries. This family business (two generations) produces cheese 365 days a year. They start at 6am and finish about 9pm EACH DAY.



We watched as they stirred raw milk and rennet to develop curds that settled to the bottom of the tank. Using an enormous wooden shovel, one man lifted 200 lbs of raw cheese from the tank. With artful choreography, they cut it in half and slipped it into cheesecloth to drain. Then it was hoisted – by hand – into molds that will form it into the recognizable wheels of Parmigiano Reggiano. We saw the vats where the cheese spends its initial days in salt brine before being moved to the storage shed where it is cleaned and tested according to the standards of the regional cheese guild. The cheese will age a minimum of 18 months before being sold. The profit margins for these producers are very slim. The distributors and retailers make much more. When we told the owner how much his cheese sells for in the US, he told us to frame it instead of eating it!

On to the Balsamico – another process with slim profits – and great taste. After another country road, we drove through a vineyard arriving at a pretty barn and house. Making wine is the money-making business but the family also produces an excellent, traditional Balsamico – not to be confused with balsamic vinegar. Balsamico is made directly from the grapes, heated, crushed and stored in very old barrels of decreasing size to concentrate the liquid over time. This product, too, is steeped in history. Girls are given a set of five barrels when they are born and the barrels stay with the women of the family through the generations. We met Alexandra Medici (she has her own barrels) who gave us tastings of their Balsamico. The oldest was so thick it would barely pour. The taste was rich and full – a melt-in-your-mouth sensation. The flavor was enhanced by the love and care that had gone into its making – not to mention the generations of knowledge that was contained in each bottle.

In the space of a week, Mike and I experienced and tasted the histories of cities and food that have no comparison in the U.S. How is it possible that traditions survive over centuries? The answer must lay in the pride on the face of each Contrada member, in the joy on the face of a cheese maker who never tires of producing a hand-made product, and in Alexandra’s delight in describing her birthright contained in a barn full of barrels. I don’t know whether the joy comes from centuries of tradition or whether centuries of tradition derive from their pride. Whatever it is, I’m grateful and hopeful that the pride and the traditions will continue.