Orange Traditions

Rather than the traditional exchange of oranges for red packets with elders this year, I found myself dodging them in the midst of a Battle of Oranges. I’ll never forget the day that I, a Singaporean university student in Canada on exchange in France, celebrated Chinese New Year on the cobbled streets of Ivrea, Italy.

The trip had started out promising as I boarded the bus from Lyon to Torino realizing that I would be sharing the ride with just one other passenger. Was no one else headed to Italy for the Storico Carnevale di Ivrea and the Battaglia delle Arance? At dusk, I was greeted by my Couchsurfing hosts in Torino, the city famous for being the 2006 Winter Olympics host. However, it wasn’t until morning that I noticed the magnificent Alps in the distance as I crossed the river Po.

Ivrea, about an hour and a half train ride from Torino, bears spectacular views of the mountains where its narrow streets and intimate size enhances the feel of the Alps. The town was transformed to medieval times and was divided into nine teams, ready for the Battle of Oranges. Every corner was dedicated to teams such as the Scorpions, Panthers, Spades and Death, amongst others. However, the night before the battle, as party filled the streets, we quickly befriended the Tuchini team, represented by the raven. We stumbled upon their nook of town as live music played while the teal-jacketed team danced under papier-mâché ravens hanging from one building to the next, with Camelbaks filled of mulled wine, which they were more than willing to share.

Though this festival is a three-day affair, I was only able to attend the first battle. The anticipation was hard to contain as we saw crates of European Union rejected oranges – probably for its shape or size – lined up in the square. In preparation, I made sure to sport a red Smurf-like hat that was to supposedly protect me from being hit by oranges. A portrayal of the defiant miller’s wife stepped out of the Town Hall to signal the start of the battle, which is in celebration of her historical refusal to sleep with the King that resulted in his murder. Chariots pulled in and oranges started flying. Armed with fruit, I took off my red revolutionary hat and charged in. Seeing others with bloody noses and broken glasses, and having to catch my bus home, I retreated not long after. Covered in orange juice, I headed back to reality. This was certainly not a Chinese New Year I had been expecting but is one I’ll always remember.