Free Seven Seasons in Siena by Robert Rodi

hose, but I can’t make anything out. It’s a pretty decent metaphor for my current existential condition: on the outside, peering in, certain of something remarkable just beyond but unable to see much of it.
    Later I’ll discover that the startled outcry was due to the Ram’s horse slipping. The soft turf, still holding the moisture of a recent rainfall, is blamed. I’ll learn all this from reading the front-page headlines of the Sienese dailies on display at the news vendors. From this point on, Palio news will consume pretty much all their coverage. If there’s a war or a plague or a flood or a terrorist attack elsewhere in the world … well, I’ll hear about it on August 17.
    At that night’s contrada dinner I’m once again paired up with Joshua, but by now I’m actually happy to see him. He and I compare notes on how difficult it is to break through the wall of Sienese reserve. They’re a lovely people, and we both adore them, but they’re invincibly self-contained. It’s one of the things that make them so attractive to me; that’s the paradox right there.
    The following day I awaken to a steady rain. In spite of this I set out for the Campo to watch the prova; but it’s canceled due to weather, leaving me with nothing to do.
    When the skies clear in early afternoon, Dario calls and arranges to meet in Società L’Alba. I find him at the bar, of course, and he treats me to a prosecco. I give him the tickets for the dinner, and we both look dubiously at the sky, which glowers threateningly, and wonder whether it will actually take place. The tables are all set up and are covered with plastic sheeting to keep them dry till the appointed time; but that’s presuming the appointed time will be any drier.
    â€œIt wouldn’t surprise me if the dinner was called off,” he says, a bit dispiritingly. “This is what we call a Quattro Verdi Palio—because four of the participating contrade have green among their colors. Every time there’s a Quattro Verdi, it brings a chain of bad luck.” Suddenly I recall the Ram horse slipping in yesterday’s prova, which I mention to Dario. Of course he’s already heard of it, and he nods in confirmation. “Yes, and before that, there was the sad death of the young man of the Tower. But wait. There will be other misfortunes, both trivial and tragic.”
    As if on cue, I’ve no sooner returned to my room at the San Francesco than the sky opens like a piñata and an epic storm commences. I pass the hours boning up on Sienese history, but the rain outside my window doesn’t lessen in intensity. Eventually it becomes apparent that the
cena
will have to be called off. I’m crestfallen; the dinner five years ago was one of the most joyous nights of my life. But the Caterpillar aren’t suffering alone; every other contrada in the city hosts an enormous outdoor dinner for all its members and guests and will thus be equally inconvenienced. But at least they can allhunker down in the comfort of their own homes; I’m stuck at the B&B and have nothing in the way of alternative plans. I’ll probably end up darting through the rain for a
panino
, which I’ll eat in my room while seated cross-legged on the bed, watching a movie on my laptop.
    I’m rescued from this sad fate by Dario, who calls and tells me to pack a bag; I’ll dine with him and Rachel in his village, then spend the night at his house.
    Dario lives in a small town in Chianti called Vagliagli, a name that seems to defeat any English speaker who attempts to pronounce it. (It’s perfectly simple, really: val-YAL-yee. It means “valley of garlic.”) Despite this, it’s pretty much every American’s fantasy of a town in Chianti; it’s nestled in a little clutch of hills, like the crook of two plump arms, and its quiet streets are amicably patrolled by old women in shawls