A quick post from the train as we make our way from Florence to Venice.

It’s Easter – buona Pasqua, tutti – and if it’s Easter and we’re in Florence, then I must be writing about the Scoppio del Carro.  I am.

The Scoppio is an ancient Easter tradition in Florence celebrating one of Florence’s native son’s theft of three stone fragments from the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem during the first Crusade.  The Florentine, whose name was Pazzino de’ Pazzi which, as far as I can tell translates into Little Crazy of the Crazies, scaled the walls of the holy city and brought back the fragments which light some sort of holy fire.  Today pyromaniacal Florentines each Easter Sunday use the holy fire to ignite a huge wooden structure covered with all manner of explosives that light up the Piazza del Duomo because, let’s face it, what says Easter more than enormous explosions?

We woke a little earlier than usual this morning, needing to pack for our trip to Venice and wanting to get a good position for explosion watching.  Unfortunately, about half of our group woke in various stages of malady, all sore throat and slight fever.  A few of us, however, met in the hotel lobby, having been unable to sleep through the loud parade that had a short while earlier processed a block from the hotel.  We grabbed our cameras and headed out to follow the two processions that would unite the stolen stones and the ox drawn exploding tower.

Just to the right of the hotel, along the Via Calzaiouli, one parade was moving along smartly, trumpeters blaring and men in tights slow marching, followed by sword carrying men in ornate colorful renaissance garb.  Banners abounded and at the end of the procession men in modern civilian clothes – coats and ties – followed, the center of attention being a young man wearing a green white and red sash indicating that he was probably Florence’s mayor.

We then reached the Piazza della Repubblica where the carro was waiting.  It was enormous – probably two or three stories high, looking like an Italian version of a pagoda in its red wood, adorned with decorations and rows upon rows of fire crackers around its perimeter.  In front were two teams of white oxen, gussied up with Carmen Miranda-type headwear and foaming at the mouth like Jimmy Perkins in front of a bistecca alla fiorentina.  The crowd completely ignored the police officers who were trying to maintain a safe zone for when the oxen began to pull the carro.  There were photos to be taken after all.

The cart then did lurch forward and the oxen dragged it through the piazza and toward the duomo.  We then made our way to the Piazza del Duomo to witness the annual pyrotechnics.  When we arrived in the square we discovered two things.  First a lot of other people had the idea of watching the Scoppio.  Only they got to the piazza a lot earlier than we did.  Second, it was not a good idea to pack our rainjackets and assume it was not going to rain.

We pressed forward and forwarder, trying to squeeze past fathers with little children on their shoulders (one with an inexplicable sweatshirt for “Mickey’s [Mouse] Boxing Club”) for a good view of the space between the duomo and the baptistery, where the carro had come to rest after much fanfare.  At last we got to the best vantage point possible, about 5 people from the front, when I felt the first drop on my nose.  It was a raindrop from the gray clouds overhead and it was not the last.  As the rain steadily became harder, I cursed my packing efficiency and even more the fellow next to me who was not only dry under his umbrella, but was soaking me with his runoff.  It was then that I realized what a metaphor an umbrella is for our current political dialog.  The umbrella provides a bubble of comfort and safety for its owner but for those unfortunate enough to be left outside (me) there is no such comfort.  To one person it is an umbrella.  To another it is a rain gutter directed directly above the head.  As my shoulders, neck and scarf filled with water I realized I was the 99%.

But we persevered.  We don’t often get to see a town blow up something huge and throw a party to celebrate it.  We weren’t going anywhere without seeing the explosion.

And as the hour neared 11:00 the rain began to wane (on the plane or at least in the piazza) until it stopped completely.  This, however, did not stop most of the umbrella toters from keeping their paraplui fully open and fully obstructing the view of everyone behind them.  As with the traffic jam we had witnessed only two days earlier, the crowd gently reminded the umbrella carriers of their civic duty.  “Take down your bloody umbrella” I think would be a good translation.  Everyone did except the grumpy old man whose umbrella had caused my moistening.  What a jerk.

And then came the first explosion.  I understand that it is ignited, somehow, using a mechanical dove or some other similar contrivance.   Packed in the crowd and distracted by the taunting that was being hurled at the man next to me, I failed to see how the cart was initially lit.  But it was.  There was a thud and showers of sparks, followed by rat-a-tat-tat.  It sounded like a Mafia hit.  But it went on for fifteen or twenty minutes.  During that time firecrackers exploded in staccato bursts and roman candles would launch fireballs skyward.  Waves of sparks would erupt followed by thumps and more explosions.  Things twirled and popped and smoke choked the square, obscuring the Duomo completely.  It was grand fun and a jolly good time.

The cart, the carro, does not blow up.  Instead, its outside is peppered with smaller firecrackers and showered with sparks and its inside is used to hurl larger explosives into the air.  This is a good thing.  It is far too beautiful to be destroyed.  I think I would like to come back and see the cart again sometime, either in a museum during its down time or, more likely when it’s doing its thing in the Piazza del Duomo one Sunday Easter morning.

Buona Pasqua, tutti.

Ci vediamo!
Bill and Suzy