Fireworks!
Siamo in Italia! It means “We are in Italy!” People here often say this to us when they cannot explain some bureaucratic tangle or incomprehensible administrative regulation. With a rueful smile and characteristic gesture that is half-shrug, half-surrender, they let us know there is nothing more they can do at the moment. Because. Siamo in Italia. More than a statement of fact, it is an expression of capitulation tinged with gentle regret, a recognition that certain frustrating realities are to be expected when dealing with Italian officialdom. However, as with most things in life, there is another side to this catchphrase, as I was reminded last evening.
Wednesday night I joined British friends for the annual community band concert and fireworks in Piazza Maggiore. I walked up and found them at a table at Bar Antico Borgo with S__ and G__, an Italian couple. On my way, in via Vico, I passed two old ladies, walking heads together and chatting away. A young man came walking quickly up the street and I heard him greet them politely. One of them said to him, “Oh, you’re one of the twins!” and they all chatted and laughed a bit. I went on up the cobbled medieval street, smiling. (Siamo in Italia.)
The band was still tuning up (concert scheduled for 8:30; I arrived at 9:00; siamo in Italia) but the chairs for the audience were nearly full and small groups stood under the portici or sat on benches in the piazza or strolled up toward the Belvedere. Diners sat at tables outside the pizzeria. Everyone was talking to someone. Children skipped and ran, weaving through clusters of grownups, or walked hand in hand with a parent to the gelato window.
S__ brought a chair and I settled in, joined the conversation, watched the night sky deepen between the church of La Missione and the old municipio. A microphone squealed and a city government official said a few words. The proprietor of the bar said a few words, in his capacity as president of L’ Associazione della Funicolare. The band leader said a few words, then took his place and raised his baton, and the music began. Throughout the concert the crowds thickened; Piazza was packed with families, couples, groups of teenagers. S__ brought plates of baked peaches stuffed with amaretti and cocoa; G__ told us the recipe while we ate.
Around 10:30 the band played a final, rousing number and the first rocket sailed into the night. The display was spectacular: easily 30 minutes of florals, fountains, and feathery sprays of light punctuated with big bangs, circles and flares of bright green, red, purple. The climax was a glorious, nonstop eruption of sound and color. G__ stopped taking video on her phone to cover her ears. Afterward, the lights came up in the portici and the crowd began drifting toward the funicolare, down via Vico, toward the parcheggi below the Belvedere. The band struck up again to see us all home. We said our goodnights and strolled along the piazza, dancing a bit to the music. The night air smelled of cordite and old stone and baked peaches. I turned down the hill toward home.
Mondovì is a time warp, a parallel cultural universe kinder and slower and more beautiful than much of the rest of the 21st century world. I feel lucky to live here, and I will try to remember that the next time I get frustrated with bureaucracy or stymied by over-regulation. Siamo in Italia!