There are some murky traditions in little Italian towns like
Allerona. Some have their origins in pagan times, when prayers and sacrifices
were made to the gods of the harvest. These have mostly been Christianized, but
one doesn’t need to look too deep to see their pantheistic roots.
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The guys start hauling wood in the cold early morning air. This calls for wine and bacon. |
Then, there are those traditions that started more recently,
with a bunch of guys who like to drink wine, play with matches and remember a dear
friend.
I’m talking about the Falo,
our annual town bonfire. It’s one of the few non-religious parties we throw
here in Allerona. There are no processions or masses or benedictions—there’s
just a big bonfire, a bunch of people, a lot of wine, and of course, pork. Other
than the Feast of the 7 Fishes, I don’t think Italians can have a proper party
without consuming a lot of pork.
Paolo and a group of his friends founded—or rather,
refounded—the Falo four years ago, as a way to remember their friend Stefano,
who had died the year before. Paolo recalls similar holiday
bonfires when he was a little boy, but the tradition had died away well before
he reached adulthood, until the guys brought it back in tribute to Stefano. The
first year, the bonfire was held in the piazza della chiesa…our town’s most important
piazza, surrounded by houses on three sides and the church on the fourth. That
was a big hit with the people in attendance, but there were legitimate concerns
that it would a) smoke out the neighbors b) catch someone’s house on fire or—and
this was the most credible risk—c) crack the paving stones of the piazza with
its immense heat. Mostly, those not in attendances were annoyed with the noise
levels of those in attendance, and
said solidly, “Never again.”
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You know what a tough job like this calls for? Mmm, bacon... |
So the next year—the year I arrived in Allerona, the Falo
got moved to the campo sportivo, which
is our town soccer field. Though it lacks the intimacy of the piazza, it allows
for a bigger bonfire, reduces the risk of revelers dying from smoke inhalation
and doesn’t scare our town priest, Don Luigi, that the church is going to burn
to the ground. Plus, there are no neighbors to piss off.
Paolo and his friends keep several appointments in the
run-up to the Falo, all of which,
naturally, involve drinking wine and eating lots of pork products.
One early morning in early February, they meet at their friend Fabio’s house (see, there are real live Italians named Fabio, not just proboscidean Italian-American models) and have breakfast, which consists of wine, bread, and grilled ventresca (thick-sliced bacon) and sausages.
One early morning in early February, they meet at their friend Fabio’s house (see, there are real live Italians named Fabio, not just proboscidean Italian-American models) and have breakfast, which consists of wine, bread, and grilled ventresca (thick-sliced bacon) and sausages.
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Lots of small fires are lit to cook the bacon. |
Then they set out to find wood. With several trucks and tractors, they
scour the “white roads”—the unpaved dirt tracks that delve deep into our
forests—for fallen trees. These they gather up and transport back to Fabio’s,
who has plenty of open space, and neighbors disinclined to call Code
Enforcement. The trees are cut into logs and stacked in his yard, where they
will stay and dry out until autumn. This
year, because Fabio’s dad several years ago planted rows of pine trees way too
close together, they cut several of these mature trees as well, as they were
choking each other out.
Sometime in November, another breakfast with an identical
menu is held at Fabio’s. This time, the guys load all the wood onto trucks, and
transport it to the campo sportivo, where it will sit, covered, for several
weeks.
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That big 'un in the back is the main event everyone is waiting for. |
Both of these breakfast events sound simple enough…tuck into
a hearty breakfast and then get to work. But much like the vendemmia, all work
and no play is just not the Italian style. So the guys drink, dawdle, play
cards, or play “Morra,” a hand-game where each player throws out a number
between one and five with his fingers, while simultaneously shouting the total
he thinks his and his opponents hand will add up to. I don’t know why they have
to shout, or how they keep the numbers straight in their heads, especially since
with their free hand they are keeping a running tally of the rounds they’ve
won. (See video above for a Morra demonstration, with a wine assist...)
Paolo usually comes back from these breakfast missions around
11 am, hoarse from playing Morra, reeking just a little bit from the cigarette
or two he bummed from a friend, a bit dehydrated and not very hungry for lunch.
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And so it begins.. |
A week or so before the Falo, the guys set off on their
third and final pre-bonfire mission: to stack the wood for the fire. This is
done in an evening and yes, there is wine and grilled pork products involved.
Paolo comes home and inevitably reports to me how this year’s bonfire is bigger
than ever, and he’s always right.
The Falo always takes place December 23, unless it gets rained
out. Townspeople start gathering around 7 pm, when a series of small cooking
fires is lit at the campo. A couple of the guys have already gone to the store to
stock up on sausages, ventresca and loaves of bread. People usually bring
something to share, like a wheel of cheese or a platter or tozzetti—the biscotti like cookies that everyone eats around Christmastime.
There is a cardboard box with a slot at the top for offerte or donations of 2, 5 or 10 euro to
cover the cost of the food. Someone brings a stereo system. There’s always lots
of wine, and it’s always several people’s home brew, and there are always
whispered debates about whose homemade wine is good and whose is schifo (gross) or troppo dolce (too sweet).
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Getting warmer now... |
A pyramid-shaped piece of wood tops the Falo every year,
and once it falls—always into the infernal center of the structure—it signals
the turning point for the fire. Though it may burn for several more hours, the
pinnacle falling means that those who are tired can go home—they’ve seen the
best of the show—and the rest of us can go back to eating, talking, and
dancing.
Lots of people, Paolo and me included—at least when I’m not
pregnant or breastfeeding—leave the Falo a little tipsy and not quite walking
in a straight line. No one has far to go to get home. We leave our coats
outside where the smoke can air out of them, and still wake up in the morning
with our hair, skin and bed-sheets smelling of wood smoke.
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Can't...stop...looking at the flames... |
But that’s okay. The
Falo happens only once a year, and it’s always a good party. I’m sure Paolo’s
friend Stefano would have enjoyed it immensely. And next year, like the guys
always say, it will be even bigger.
Scroll down for a short video of the 2010 Falo, complete
with dancing.