Corsa dei Ceriby Haley Kingsland, Stanford University

 

For the past 900 years Gubbians have observed the Corsa dei Ceri, an annual festival that unites generations in celebration of patron Sant’Ubaldo’s May 16, 1160 death and whose wrinkled, leathery body is preserved in the basilica atop Monte Ingino. In early May citizens of Gubbio carry the seven meter high wooden candle that lies in the church in his memory all the way down the mountain for veneration, feasting, and of course, the May 15 Corsa dei Ceri— a marathon race through the curving, twisting streets of Gubbio that re-delivers the candle and those of two other saints, Giorgio and Antonio, to their resting places.

But the holiday really begins the night before, when drunken youth host impromptu gatherings in the medieval grey cobblestone piazzas, Italian tourists savor the charred taste of Gubbio’s famous truffles mixed with tagliatelle, and giddy schoolchildren chase each other along Corso Garibaldi long past their bedtime because they don’t have class the next day. To fare una passeggiata through Gubbio is like strolling through a place untouched by time, where a gurgling stream delivers mountain water as it has for centuries, the grey stone buildings glow light pastel purple in the moonlight, and windows with curved tops and roofs lined with neat jutting squares are so out of a children’s storybook that one almost expects a dazzling princess with perfectly pruned curls, puffed sleeves, and a richly decorated gown to pop out from around the corner. Because the whole town anticipates the excitement the morning will bring, the atmosphere is one of hopeful expectation— the kind that builds in the abdomen and slowly creeps up to the heart and pulsates there until it bursts when the doors of the grand castle in Piazza Grande are flung open the next day at half past eleven and a dozen men carrying S. Ubaldo’s candle lying horizontal on their backs come rushing down the marble steps to a crowd of cheering spectators. Townspeople are dressed in three different colored shirts— the artigianati in giallo in honor of S. Ubaldo, the commerciali in blu to commemorate S. Giorgio, and the contadini and studenti in nero for S. Antonio— crisp white pants (khakis, jeans, or linen), and red sashes and bandannas. Here the candles for S. Giorgio and S. Antonio also make their debut until all three are together like giant hourglasses lying side-by-side, their captains standing proudly atop them, and at the sound of a bell are whipped up to their upright position and spun in a circle three times through the center before directly deposited at the starting point on Via Savelli della Porta for the much-anticipated afternoon race in which the men officially display the candles to the city like pallbearers.

So much energy is enough for one morning, and so the Gubbians retire for lunch, for vino bianco e rosso, for spumante, for sleep, and for congratulations. The streets are calm and hushed as they await the strong running men and three heavy candles topped with miniature statues of each saint who will soon mercilessly tread upon them. Citizens emerge from their stone houses and begin gathering at the starting point around 5 PM, where fathers in yellow hoist their sons dressed in blue upon the candles’ carriages while beaming wives snap photographs. At precisely 5:45 the men raucously run the candles to the first pause, their friends and family clapping and screaming from the sidelines. There they will pass the candles on to the next crop of bearers— the order carefully chosen and deliberated at a conference solemnly held every year to decide— while all spectators compete for the best front row spots along the second street. And so the grand run continues in this manner until the men and their candles race back into Piazza Grande amidst a sea of well-wishers. Here they circle around again three more times, waiting for the white-haired mayor leaning out a palazzo window in a classy Italian suit to wave the white flag with the flutter of his delicate hand that signifies the true start of the Corsa dei Ceri to return the candles to S. Ubaldo’s dead body by running straight up the mountain.

Everybody— even ninety-year-old nonnas— makes the steep climb above the city to line the bent road past the Porta del Monte where the candle bearers will next appear. As they finally go by heaving with sweat, Gubbians watch the wooden candles and their figures disappear uphill behind the tall dark green cypress trees before slowly descending back down to the city center, where the night’s celebration is just beginning. That evening still in their costumes citizens of Gubbio rejoice with boisterous feasts, private parties, and flowing wine distributed outside their ancient stone houses free for the taking. And then a wild festa with professional performers ensues in a major piazza, where singing and dancing commences to forget that in 364 more days the candles will shine again in this town that lives for il quindici maggio. 

For more information and photographs from this year’s festival, visit the Corsa dei Ceri official website, http://www.ceri.it.

Interestingly, Gubbian immigrants who settled in Jessup, Pennsylvania at the turn of the twentieth century also celebrate Saint Ubaldo Day every Saturday of Memorial Day weekend. Browse the official website, http://www.stubaldoday.com, for more information.

First Year Italian prepared me for False Friends. Romanzo may sound like romance, but is actually a novel. One who is annoiato is bored, not annoyed, just as something noioso is boring, not noisy. And i parenti don’t mean parents, but relatives. I knew that I would recognize some of these little word tricks during my time in , but also stumble into others along the way.

“I won’t tell Laura’s boss about her wicked nature because I was educato bene,” my Language Partner declared over his Sex on the Beach cocktail while lamenting his breakup with his ex-ragazza. I knew that for years he had been studying art history, but how had staring at Renaissance paintings educated him about love? I wondered. A page through my Italian dictionary revealed that educato bene means well-raised, or well-bred. 

A few weeks ago my host sister accompanied me to a much-needed hair appointment with the family parrucchiere (hairdresser). After a wet hour of shampooing, conditioning, cutting, styling, and blow-drying, my hair had never looked better. “Adesso i tuoi cappelli sono molti morbidi,” Greta said as we walked back, running her hands through my product-dense locks. Is she saying my hair looks morbid? I was shocked. But no, she was giving me a compliment— morbido is soft. 

This past weekend my friends and I sampled the endless free food at Florence ’s annual Artigianato festival— pasta, cheese, cannoli, limoncello, olive oil, bread, and chocolate— and I salivated over organic broccoli paste spread on crackers. “Vorresti assaggiare il sugo con i peperoni?” the vendor asked me. “No, grazie,” I replied simply, “Sono una vegetariana.” His look of such puzzled confusion made me realize that peperoni are not the circular pieces of meat sprinkled over typical American pizzas, but hot peppers. 

Yes, after nearly four months in Florence I am still making these funny mistakes. Other false cognates that have sent me to wordreference.com are sensibile (sensitive), confetti (sugar-coated almonds distributed at weddings), and finalmente (eventually)— but decoding their hidden meanings is just part of the excitement of living in a foreign place.