Singing of the Eggs

After a study trip as punishing as Portugal and Spain, you would assume most of us would bolt home off the bus, throw in a load of laundry, drink a gallon of water and crash.  Even more so considering 3 hours before our wake-up call that morning found me, Lindsy and Casey prowling Sevilla desperate for a late-night snack.  And yes, we realize there was some serious irony in standing dejectedly outside the just-closed McDonald's on the very last night of our very last Slow Food stage, foiled in our attempt to balance our sangria-fueled festivities.  We would've begged for forgiveness, but our stomachs were growling too loudly.

Yet 7:30pm that night found six of our number gathered in the crisp night air in Piazza Settembre, surrounded by hollering undergrads.  Jumping into the first car with spare seats, a long caravan of rowdy students wound their way up to Fontanafredda winery.  The occasion?  Practice #2 for Cante j'euv - the singing of the eggs.

An old Piemontese tradition, the week before Palm Sunday would find groups of young people wandering the hills between farms at night while singing and playing music.  Either collecting eggs or alms for the poor as the "reward" for their music, the focus was on taking care of those in the community.  Several years ago, Carlo Petrini in his zeal to promote all things local and traditional enlisted the UNISG student community to carry on the tradition.  After three fairly intense practices in local cantinas or wine cellars, the black-cape clad masses are unleased to sing.  And sing they do.  I have never seen so many young undergrad boys clutch their friends and belt out traditional folk songs with such unabashed emotion.  And then promptly mosh-pit until Papa Petrini yells for more restrained behaviour.

But first, a massive free-for-all masquerading as a potluck.  The huge jug of Fontanafredda red perched on a side table only serves to mock the thirsty crowd.  But the master of ceremonies decrees that half the set list must be practiced before any beverages can be consumed. 

Complete with a highly talented back-up band and a pre-printed songbook, Petrini conducts the packed room with a winning combination of flair and intimidation:  when Papa Petrini asks you to stand and sing a solo, you do so.  Even if you've never heard the song before and it's in old Piemontese dialect which is even less decipherable than regular Italian.  We ducked our heads and hid behind large potted plants but to no avail.  At least we were only dragged up in a group for a rowsing chorus of "Yellow Submarine", the only English song in the book.

Despite the late hour, lack of sleep and glaring lights of the cantina, there was no small level of magic to the evening.  As the band sang folk songs with longing and gorgeous harmony, I looked around the room at all the faces caught up in the haunting song, eager to add their voices.  There have been moments throughout this year of study where I have taken that small step outside of myself and observed what passes for my "reality" with awe.  I have learned that beauty is most often found in the little things in life.  And I have been blessed with a year woven through with so many moments of beauty it makes my heart ache to contemplate the scope of it all.

No sooner had this quiet awareness surfaced when the room erupted: Carlo Petrini and his undergrad army of acolytes were sprawled on the concrete floor, singing and doing the bicycle.  Sweet Italy - I have a sneaking suspicion I'm going to miss the constant juxtapositions that make up life here.