I was perched at a posh spot in the southwest corner of the 14th century Loggia della Signoria, on the stone rail. My favorite Pio Fedi to the right and the entire piazza, in full view, before me. I would be above the fray. The column of stone would make it impossible for me to be moved from my vantage point. Like a general plotting a battle, it was calculated. I had walked around and around, viewed the battlefield, before making my decision as to which spot best suited viewing the festivities, the annual flag tossing competition. Sun vs. shadow. Distance and height, with its advantage for panorama vs. proximity and the drawback of the gesticulating push and shove of the masses. Once chosen there would be no turning back. No bathroom breaks or the spot would be gone. I knew I would have to be patient and wait. But it was a beautiful day. Shorts and a tee shirt. Gelato weather if ever there was. I just sat there leaning against ancient stone watching the ebb and flow of the camera laden sight-searching crowd. The sun was tempered by a cool clean breeze. There were always at least a thousand people milling around with a constant turnover of new explorers. Singlely, in small groups or a long stream gaggled together by yellow caps or blue lanyard earphones with an alpha guide at point; mushing onward with arm out-stretched, pointing forward and upward, brandishing a flag or umbrella to keep the chicks together. All this humanity and the noise wasn’t…noise. It was more subdued. It most closely resembled white noise. Yes, occasionally there was something audible that stood out, but seldom. It was like the rushing hiss of waves on the beach. So I closed my eyes, for a long time. I felt the cool air flow across my face. I relaxed and nearly fell asleep. I didn’t have a schedule or commitment (well there was laundry to do, but screw it!). I just waited.
The pace of the scene changed. Slowly the city-crew began setting up barriers. Chairs were set up in front of the Palazzo Vecchio. They, the masses, knew something was going to happen but were forced onward by their commanding general of a tour guide. Slowly as the barrier was closed off some of the street-clothed competitors began blocking out their movements. Pushy tourists still wandered through, as the planning competitors weren’t especially prominent or noticeable.
The Loggia began to fill with Florentines. They knew the treat in store. Team Firenze would compete. They were here to cheer. Soon my patience would be rewarded. Not that the time spent was anything but salubrious.
An announcer, with the ability to speak but not breath, began the ceremonies with a monologue of monumental stellar mass. All time seemed to cease. His voice and speech pattern had the gravity of a black hole. It seemed nothing nor any of us would escape. Not even time. But then, from down the Via dei Calzaiuoli and just around the corner of the Via Porta Rossa came a cannon blast. Chills bumped the skin at the back of my neck and arms. The announcer ceased. There was a split second of total silence and then the crowd roared with an open floodgate of enthusiasm. Through the now gathered, many-thousand-mass of tourists, I could see colorful flags streaming, billowing and thrusting above. The crowd quieted, a bit, and Team Firenze was announced. The crowd roared again and the period instruments began. Brass heralded. Drums beat. The stream of history began.
A banner bearer came first with the colors of Firenze followed by the dignitaries in their period costume. Then more instruments. Heavy drumming that reverberated in the vaulted and groined Loggia. It was almost as if the drumbeats were answering back. As they drew closer the crowd intensified but parted to allow, to pay tribute to, the procession.
They entered the cordoned area. Instruments were at the back facing the Palazzo Vecchio, guarded by David, as the regally costumed dignitaries took their place below the Palazzo. Finally, Team Firenze entered. Two huge flags to a person were whipping, flowing and undulating in the breeze that was intensifying by the moment. Mother nature seemed to be as caught up in the impending battle as the audience.
The procession continued with the brightly costumed teams, from Liguria, San Marino and Bologna along with their costumed hierarchy and brightly festooned instrumentalists. They filled the area to the brim with silks, brocades, velvets, leather, brass, enthusiasm and music to rattle the swallows from their nests. It was a goose-bump event.
We had a breather from cheers and applause. The long-winded announcer cranked up yet again. But each time he mentioned Firenze…. Liguria…. San Marino…. or Bologna the cheers roared and the applause battered him into quiet.
Let the competition begin.
Twice, each of the groups came out… individually. The dignitaries remained seated in their place of distinction. First was, of course, Firenze. More cannon blasts. Trumpets heralded and the competitors began. Ballet with large poles and yards of brightly emblazoned fabric. Like the performance of a fan-dancer but the fabric was so much larger and had so much more movement. The whipping and snapping of the fabric in the ever-increasing breeze added yet another voice to the sound of it all. With each ever increasingly difficult maneuver the applause rang out. But when the poles began to fly through the air, there were gasps of breath. Cheers of pride that seemed to taunt the competitors to ever-greater distance and feats. When the flags flew farther and farther across the playing field it took the audience further and further into frenzy. Especially the little Firenzer boys held up by their fathers as they screamed out the number of times the flags flew. Uno, due, tre, guattro and even qinque. If not the feats of skill, the civic pride displayed was a tearjerker.
I pulled myself back to force myself to imagine. These competitions have been assembled, in this place of historic presence, for hundreds of years. The pride is deep seated. Like the fans for the Yankees…if the Yankees had been playing and winning and seats were available when Columbus sailed the ocean blue. I don’t think we, or I as an American can imagine the thread of historic pride that is at play here.
It was a breathtaking moment in my history.
