Bam, Kurplop. An orange splattered all over Ellie’s chest.
Apparently the word spectator or neutral is taken as a suggestion rather than a
fact at the Ivrea Carnevale celebration. Blood oranges are ever so tasty in
Italy, but as the succulent red and purple oranges are flying flat for your
forehead, they stop looking so tasty. The “shield of protection” or enormous
net, was very Italian in that it protected you if you were quick and lucky. Running
from the brutal piazza with a traumatized Ellie, I got hit on the arm. AYYYA!
The Indiana Jones theme played in my head and Ellie’s Aussie
instincts kicked in. The scene had become a video game as the only pathway to
leave the orange battle field was to walk the length of the piazza. We tunneled
through mothers, retired players, and children, selfishly hoping that the rogue
oranges would find the arm or chest of someone else. Our eight euro red hats,
supposedly a sign of neutrality, tailing in the wind.
However determined we were to get out of the unsafe safe zone,
the spectacle is mesmerizing. Each horse drawn carriage held about ten men and/or
women in padding, helmets and 16th century looking jerseys. In
typical Italian fashion, the carriages were carefully and beautifully decorated
with feathers and team emblems.
The moment the first hooves touch the piazza the people on foot
inside the piazza wind up. Boom. It begins, a quick succession of people
whipping oranges from the carriage to those on foot and vice versa. Spectators
outside the piazza watch in amazement muttering in all different languages at
the rapid movements of these team’s arms as they ferociously hit each other,
with ironically named, blood oranges. The heavy breathing and sweat of the
piazza’s warriors perfectly echoes their intent to reenact an epic uprising against
imperial powers in 1194.
Finally at a distance and at the exit for valiant orange
warriors, we came upon a different type of fight. “You think it’s funny to hit
an old man?” The orange police had to slide between the two men to stop some
non-orange fighting.
Full of Piedmonte residents, foreigners and Ivrean’s alike,
there is more in the city than simply the piazza of orange hurlers that day.
The parade leading to the piazza flatters its residents by showing off some
their cutest little girls dressed in medieval clothing on horses and marching
bands in medieval attire. Several food stands line the main street offering
yummy sausage sandwiches or polenta and fine cheeses for vegetarians.
Remembered by bruises and a distinct orange and sweat perfume,
the scene was a spectacular way to celebrate Carnevale in Italy without pushing
through crowds in Venice or having to spend tons of money on a mask and
costume. From 1956 the yearly battle has waged in Ivrea and I am proud to have
been one of its 2011 “victims.”
