But now that you did, what came to mind? Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade being my only previous experience with parades on a grand scale, memories of a much too early departure for the event (I was in college at the time), chilly extremities, being sardined into the fencing which prevented my friends and me and the thousands of others lining up against it from improper egress into Garfield-the-Very-Very-Big-Cat’s path, shining trumpets and trombones blasting, long legs kicking in sync, and more and more enormous ballooned cartoon figures floating ponderously above all briefly flashed through my mind when I started thinking about Carnevale and the parade we hoped to see in Viareggio.
Carnevale celebrations happen all over the world but this would be my first experienced live—and Italy’s eight-hundred seventy-fifth, or something like that. I will not expound on the history of Carnevale other than to say that its culmination in Martedì Grasso, “Fat Tuesday”, the last day to let go of inhibitions and to drink and eat with abandon before the forty days of solemnity, abstinence and fasting of Lent, would be our day to see the parade (it also happens the three weekends before and two after) and so, wanting to participate fully, I began stocking up on spirits, greasy victuals and soliciting…okay, okay, truth be told, while I could take a pass on gross inebriation and shattering my marital vows, the fried, sugary Cenci and Capricci di Arlequino were too much to withstand, so I bought a few packs. Thinking exclusively of the kids, of course.
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Carnevale in Venice has its fancy costumes, masked balls, canals, and visitors from all over the world, but Viareggio is Italy’s other most famous Carnevale, supported by a more local contingent and featuring in prominence the parade we were about to see. As we headed from the train station towards its route a kilometer away the air became salty, unintelligible words crackled through loudspeakers louder and louder, and then, almost predictably, Niko decided he wouldn’t walk any farther.
Ingrid loves a parade, whether it be her own version traipsing through the house or something more official, and she wasn’t about to miss any of it so, putting aside any past perceived injustices perpetrated by her little brother, she squatted down and had the little monkey jump on her back. “I’ll take you, Niko,” she said, “…at least some of the way.”
With the wire, wood, metal and papier-mâché floats taking a year to design and build expenses are incurred and local government only helps so much, necessitating moderately pricey entrance fees on five of the six parades dates. But, to allow as many to enjoy it as possible despite any financial hardships, the parade today, on Martedì Grasso, was free. Getting there early helped, too, allowing us to squeeze into the free seats, the bleachers no different than those next to us costing fifteen euros a head and providing enough altitude for even nine-year-olds and five-year-olds to see with unobstructed sightlines a bare-chested Silvio Berlusconi surrounded in his tub by a trio of bare-breasted mermaids fawning over him and his guise of eternal youth. Steadily rolling, his wide grin not faltering a bit, Il Cavaliere made his way towards us.
Maybe that would have been enough to scare you away from the party. Not us. We steeled ourselves to a stare-down match with the ex Italian Premier while hoping to distract the young ones’ attention to the large snarling dog coming up in the float behind him but then had our own attention distracted by Mario Monti and Angela Merkl each straddling their respective canons and wearing nothing but the slightest S&M leather, forgot about distracting Ingrid and Niko and then just sat back to enjoy the show along with thousands upon thousands of others, the minority in the stands, the majority down in the streets all around the floats, intermingling effortlessly, nobody keeping anyone blocked off from anywhere, a mass of humanity, some sporting a mask or a wig to join in the spirit, others shooting silly string and throwing confetti. It was Carnevale.
Out came our masks, into our tummies
went the little fried pastries, and, in Italian all-together-with-the-beat style applause, clap-clap went our hands. It was a parade where we could easily see everything, be above the crowd and with it at the same time, feel the beat rumble through us from each float’s theme song and then walk on the beach afterwards and instantly detox on hyper visual and audio stimulation by staring out to the horizon and sparkling ripples of light while water lapped up on the shore and, already feeling nostalgic and wanting a little more, turn back towards the parade’s route, see Nicholas Sarkozy à la Napoleon in front of the Arc de Triomphe with the Alpi Alpuane mountains as a backdrop, and have a whole new archetype, a greatly expanded repertoire of smells, sounds, sensations, tastes and sights that will come to mind the next time we happen to be thinking about parades (or trying not to).
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