The Palio in Siena; Worlds Most Unique Horse Race Since 1300s
The ANNOTICO Report
The Kentucky Derby, America's premiere Horse Race can not come close to
comparing with The Palio in Siena.
Read and see if you don't agree. Where would you rather go?
TO
THE RACES!: ITALIANS JOCKEY FOR PRIDE IN CENTURIES OLD EVENT
Boston Herald
By Eric Grossman
Special to the Herald
Sunday, June 4, 2006
SIENA, Italy - This hilly, medieval Tuscan city has seen its fair share of
infighting over the years. A proud people, the Siennese
have endured countless battles within their ranks, with most disputes occurring
between rival contrade (districts).
Even in modern times,
But the people here maintain a calm, genteel atmosphere for the hundreds
of thousands of tourists who come annually to wander the city’s ancient,
winding streets - except twice every summer, when order and good manners take
the day off.
That’s when
All of
To an American used to associating horse racing with million-dollar purses, it
comes as a surprise to learn that the winner receives nothing more than an
elaborate silk banner (also known as the Palio). And the pride of his contrade.
Last August, I braved scorching heat and a capacity crowd to witness what would
turn out to be one of the more memorable races here in recent history.
At about 3 p.m., some 3hours before the start of the race, the grand
procession began, with elaborately dressed members of each contrade
streaming toward the Campo from every direction, sporting traditional costumes,
most of which date back to the Middle Ages. The likewise colorful flags of the contrade hung from buildings.
Tourists and locals filled the achingly narrow streets (every rooftop and
window also were filled by those with invitations).
And like me, the spectators couldn’t help but get swept up in the
pageantry and heat.
With the temperature hovering in the 90s, the oppressive conditions caused the
crowds to seek shade until the last minute, and the tension among the mass of
humanity as people jockeyed for position was palpable.
Once inside the tight square, a friendly local water vendor pointed out
to me jockeys talking to one another, noting the tangled web of alliances and
grudges that existed between the contrade. (The
politics behind each Palio are intense and sordid,
with secret negotiations and doping scandals commonplace.)
Meanwhile in the crowd, with few concession stands and no bathrooms,
dehydration was something EMTs stood by to address,
IVs in hand.
At
As the scheduled
So it came as a surprise that after maybe two minutes of posturing and
positioning, a roar rang out and thousands of flashbulbs went off. With roughly
30,000 spectators crammed into the square and millions more watching on TV
across
From my small perch atop the ledge of a fountain, I saw the heads of the
jockeys as they sped through the first turn.
The noise was deafening, the shouts of the crowd reverberating off the historic
buildings of the Campo.
Almost immediately, a jockey was propelled from his horse - riderless
horses often win the Palio - and moments later, an
accident occurred. As I later saw on countless TV replays, one of the horses
entered the notoriously tight San Martino curve, lost its footing and fatally
collided with a decorative post. None of the other equines missed a beat. Less
than a minute later, Alesandra (the only mare in the
race) crossed the finish line, sans jockey, winning the Palio
for the district of Tartuca.
But straight away, a hush fell over the Campo, as word spread of the fatal
accident - it was not unlike the reaction when Kentucky Derby winner Barbaro shattered his leg during the Preakness.
People craned their necks to watch as a truck backed onto the track and a tarp
was placed over the dead horse. Moments later, as the truck drove off, the
crowd burst into spontaneous applause and I spotted a couple of older men
gently weeping (a proud bartender would later tell me that the fallen horse
“gave its life” for the Palio).
While the official festivities ended here, I opted to make like a local and
catch up with the winners. This proved to be effortless, as I spotted a mass of
Tartucans, easily identifiable by the blue and yellow
scarves wrapped around their necks. I stopped at a vendor, bought a scarf of my
own, and rode a wave of humanity to their corner of the city.
The joy of winning was infectious, with women of all ages kissing me on each
cheek and shouting “Bravo!” Beers were produced and celebratory
songs bellowed.
In the distance I heard bells ringing and soon the crowd arrived at Tartuca’s church, where the winning jockey was
carried in on the shoulders of teenagers. Young children took turns ringing the
bell, and inside speeches were made, prayers recited and the Palio raised. I returned to the
street, where I spotted a festive mob, arms raised, and a pair of men sitting
on a second-story windowsill. As I approached the group, it became clear that the
men were operating kegs and filling the revelers’ cups and bottles.. ..
I struggled to find someone who spoke English. Finally I bumped into Daniella, a student in
“Tartuca is a working-class contrada,” she explained. “Historically we are
not a wealthy area, so for us to win means so much, it means everything.”
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