Sausages and eggs, and hot and sour soup
Feb. 23rd, 2009 10:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ventaSo, as referenced a few times in recent posts, I went to take part in the carnival run by La Lachera di Rocca Grimalda. I followed the Questua (which translates, apparently, as approximately "the Quest"). I did not, as I claimed, follow a Questura (which translates as "police station"). Italian is not my strong suit.
So, Friday...
Hopping onto the Gatwick train, I bumped into one of our party. I mislaid him again while I was swearing at the auto-check-in machine, then found a large possee of Boojums sitting down to breakfast. Slowly we all massed together. Then Jean noticed the 8am SMS from Mike-the-musician: "Stuck in traffic. May not make it".
He didn't. In fact, he got to the airport carpark around the time we taxi'd for take-off. Oops.
While I gazed out of the window at the Alps (aren't there a lot of them on a clear day?) the others plotted. By the time we landed in Genoa, they'd decided that we could risk a cappella rapper: Melanie (who, if you remember, had a broken arm so was out of the running) could pop her clogs on and do standard rapper stepping, thus providing us with a beat to dance to. Easy.
As we waited in Genoa airpot from the bus, Mike-the-musician reported back. He was on stand-by for a flight to Turin at 3pm. At the station we had some time to kill. I wandered out into the town to attempt to buy the rather obscure cell battery my camera takes - first successful transaction in my phrase-book Italian. Emerging in Paris is always a disappointment; after all that travelling, it's not so very different from London. Genoa, however, is satisfactorily and unmistakeably foreign. The buildings are pink and boxy, stacked up on hills. Prominent hills have ludicrous square or pepperpot towers on them. There are palm trees. We are not, you can say with confidence, in Kansas any more.
We caught the train out to Ovada, noticing that out of the city the snow was still lying thickly on the ground and on roofs. Easily a foot thick in places, it had melted in odd patterns, and then frozen solid. While we coasted through the country, Mike reported back. He was not on the flight to Turin. He was on stand-by for tomorrow's flight to Genoa.
We were met by a bunch of men from La Lachera (the name of the dance team, not a placename). They mostly spoke little English, and we spoke less Italian. There was much saying of "Ciao" and "Hello" and "Bene!" - this rapidly became a feature of the weekend. If in doubt: smile, say thank you a lot, and say the same thing repeatedly and enthusiastically. They delivered us to our B&Bs.
Incidentally, if anyone fancies a break in rural North Italy I can't recommend Cascina Maddalena highly enough. Bed-and-breakfast-and-vineyard, it has beautiful, simple rooms, the most amazingly hospitable and helpful hostess I've ever encountered, and gorgeous views of mountains.
We convened at 6pm for a tour of the "Mask Museum". La Lachera have their own small museum, dedicated to the masks and costumes worn by their own dancers, and by the visiting teams they've invited. I tried to wade through some of the info cards with my pocket phrasebook, but really it wasn't up to the job. Eventually, we were dispatched to a local wine bar to dance.
The a cappella plan didn't, really, work. With practice it could be great; without it we were all over the place and apparently unable to count to 8. People seemed to like it anyway. Giorgio translated for us: the staff would you like to buy you a drink. Huge glasses of red wine all round. Oh, and we're leaving in two minutes.
Gulp.
We were packed into cars. As we pulled away, I realised I had no idea where we were going. The driver spoke no English. I consulted the phrasebook. It was very concerned with helping me find out how to get to places, or purchasing tickets. There was no translation of "Where are you taking me?"
Shortly, it became obvious. A darkened house. Everyone piled out. La Lachera formed a procession and, playing loudly, we proceeded round to the back of a house and into the garage.
Eh ?
The garage was full of people. The tiny side-room off the garage was full of people. And has strings of sausages slung across the ceiling like bunting.
Eh ?
A few of La Lachera began to dance.
"But Venta," you cry. "That's just a blurry photo of loads of people, and strange sausage decoration, and we can't see what on earth's going on!"
Well, yes, that's exactly what it felt like. Jammed into a corner, only able to see the tops of La Lachera's heads (and a lot of sausage) I was suddenly struck by the ludicrousness of the situation, and began giggling to myself.
There was wine - lots of wine - and food. Deep-fried salted doughnuts, and some utterly fantastic stuff called farinata which I must try making, and bread, and salami. And cripsy, deep-fried cake which someone pointed to and said "my grandmother". I hope he meant she made them.
Someone noticed that the Lachera musicians played a tune suitable for rapper (the phrasebook also failed to provide a translation of "We have lost our musician. Can you play a fast jig?"). They were consulted, they agreed to play. We lined up. They started to play.
No, said Jean, after a few bars. The first tune (hold up one finger). The one where four people (count them out) danced. The musicians conferred.
"La giga?" they asked.
A second's pause.
"La giga! Si! Si!"
The played, we danced. This tour forms part of "the begging train", and the host is expected to make a donation. Something - usually a salami - is hung onto the "begging stick", a tall chestnut stave hung with ribbons and bells (and, of course, salami). The first salami, bound up in a complicated string net, was added to the stick to a great roar of applause.
"Let's hear it for the bondage sausage!" yelled Ang in my ear (which didn't help with the giggling). Around this point I decided I'd stop trying to understand, and just go with the flow. Oh look, more salty doughnuts. More wine.
We ate huge quantities. We packed into cars, and went on to the next farm (roaring fire, gallons of ravioli soup, more wine). And the next...
The final stop turned out to be Cascina Maddalena, our B&B. We danced outside, where a huge bonfire of smashed pallets had turned the frozen ground to mud. Halfway through our dance, we realised we were slightly down-wind of a very ashy fire... I spent half the time holding both rappers in one hand while I tried to brush burning embers from Rhiannon's shoulders. I've not yet checked my own fleece for burn holes.
We trooped indoors and partied among the wine vats, drinking wine, eating apples stewed in wine, and eating, of course, salami. Did I mention the salami ? We rolled off to bed, eventually, with threats not to be late for the bus at 9am the following morning.
(I apologise for the lack of pictures - I'm so unbearably old-school that my photos are still trapped on those little celluloid roll things.)
So, Friday...
Hopping onto the Gatwick train, I bumped into one of our party. I mislaid him again while I was swearing at the auto-check-in machine, then found a large possee of Boojums sitting down to breakfast. Slowly we all massed together. Then Jean noticed the 8am SMS from Mike-the-musician: "Stuck in traffic. May not make it".
He didn't. In fact, he got to the airport carpark around the time we taxi'd for take-off. Oops.
While I gazed out of the window at the Alps (aren't there a lot of them on a clear day?) the others plotted. By the time we landed in Genoa, they'd decided that we could risk a cappella rapper: Melanie (who, if you remember, had a broken arm so was out of the running) could pop her clogs on and do standard rapper stepping, thus providing us with a beat to dance to. Easy.
As we waited in Genoa airpot from the bus, Mike-the-musician reported back. He was on stand-by for a flight to Turin at 3pm. At the station we had some time to kill. I wandered out into the town to attempt to buy the rather obscure cell battery my camera takes - first successful transaction in my phrase-book Italian. Emerging in Paris is always a disappointment; after all that travelling, it's not so very different from London. Genoa, however, is satisfactorily and unmistakeably foreign. The buildings are pink and boxy, stacked up on hills. Prominent hills have ludicrous square or pepperpot towers on them. There are palm trees. We are not, you can say with confidence, in Kansas any more.
We caught the train out to Ovada, noticing that out of the city the snow was still lying thickly on the ground and on roofs. Easily a foot thick in places, it had melted in odd patterns, and then frozen solid. While we coasted through the country, Mike reported back. He was not on the flight to Turin. He was on stand-by for tomorrow's flight to Genoa.
We were met by a bunch of men from La Lachera (the name of the dance team, not a placename). They mostly spoke little English, and we spoke less Italian. There was much saying of "Ciao" and "Hello" and "Bene!" - this rapidly became a feature of the weekend. If in doubt: smile, say thank you a lot, and say the same thing repeatedly and enthusiastically. They delivered us to our B&Bs.
Incidentally, if anyone fancies a break in rural North Italy I can't recommend Cascina Maddalena highly enough. Bed-and-breakfast-and-vineyard, it has beautiful, simple rooms, the most amazingly hospitable and helpful hostess I've ever encountered, and gorgeous views of mountains.
We convened at 6pm for a tour of the "Mask Museum". La Lachera have their own small museum, dedicated to the masks and costumes worn by their own dancers, and by the visiting teams they've invited. I tried to wade through some of the info cards with my pocket phrasebook, but really it wasn't up to the job. Eventually, we were dispatched to a local wine bar to dance.
The a cappella plan didn't, really, work. With practice it could be great; without it we were all over the place and apparently unable to count to 8. People seemed to like it anyway. Giorgio translated for us: the staff would you like to buy you a drink. Huge glasses of red wine all round. Oh, and we're leaving in two minutes.
Gulp.
We were packed into cars. As we pulled away, I realised I had no idea where we were going. The driver spoke no English. I consulted the phrasebook. It was very concerned with helping me find out how to get to places, or purchasing tickets. There was no translation of "Where are you taking me?"
Shortly, it became obvious. A darkened house. Everyone piled out. La Lachera formed a procession and, playing loudly, we proceeded round to the back of a house and into the garage.
Eh ?
The garage was full of people. The tiny side-room off the garage was full of people. And has strings of sausages slung across the ceiling like bunting.
Eh ?
A few of La Lachera began to dance.
"But Venta," you cry. "That's just a blurry photo of loads of people, and strange sausage decoration, and we can't see what on earth's going on!"
Well, yes, that's exactly what it felt like. Jammed into a corner, only able to see the tops of La Lachera's heads (and a lot of sausage) I was suddenly struck by the ludicrousness of the situation, and began giggling to myself.
There was wine - lots of wine - and food. Deep-fried salted doughnuts, and some utterly fantastic stuff called farinata which I must try making, and bread, and salami. And cripsy, deep-fried cake which someone pointed to and said "my grandmother". I hope he meant she made them.
Someone noticed that the Lachera musicians played a tune suitable for rapper (the phrasebook also failed to provide a translation of "We have lost our musician. Can you play a fast jig?"). They were consulted, they agreed to play. We lined up. They started to play.
No, said Jean, after a few bars. The first tune (hold up one finger). The one where four people (count them out) danced. The musicians conferred.
"La giga?" they asked.
A second's pause.
"La giga! Si! Si!"
The played, we danced. This tour forms part of "the begging train", and the host is expected to make a donation. Something - usually a salami - is hung onto the "begging stick", a tall chestnut stave hung with ribbons and bells (and, of course, salami). The first salami, bound up in a complicated string net, was added to the stick to a great roar of applause.
"Let's hear it for the bondage sausage!" yelled Ang in my ear (which didn't help with the giggling). Around this point I decided I'd stop trying to understand, and just go with the flow. Oh look, more salty doughnuts. More wine.
We ate huge quantities. We packed into cars, and went on to the next farm (roaring fire, gallons of ravioli soup, more wine). And the next...
The final stop turned out to be Cascina Maddalena, our B&B. We danced outside, where a huge bonfire of smashed pallets had turned the frozen ground to mud. Halfway through our dance, we realised we were slightly down-wind of a very ashy fire... I spent half the time holding both rappers in one hand while I tried to brush burning embers from Rhiannon's shoulders. I've not yet checked my own fleece for burn holes.
We trooped indoors and partied among the wine vats, drinking wine, eating apples stewed in wine, and eating, of course, salami. Did I mention the salami ? We rolled off to bed, eventually, with threats not to be late for the bus at 9am the following morning.
(I apologise for the lack of pictures - I'm so unbearably old-school that my photos are still trapped on those little celluloid roll things.)
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no subject
Date: 2009-02-24 12:35 pm (UTC)According to Wikipedia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jig):
"The jig derives its name from the French word gigue, meaning small fiddle, or giga, the Italian name of a short piece of music popular in the Middle Ages."
no subject
Date: 2009-02-24 02:31 pm (UTC)http://www.streetswing.com/histmain/z3jig.htm
no subject
Date: 2009-02-24 02:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-24 02:53 pm (UTC)