Amazing Italian Floral Festival!

Spring is everywhere showing its colors, and in the midmorning sun the hilltop town of Civita di Bagnoregio beams at me from the valley, so close it’s almost in front of my face. The church bell chimes the hour over there in Civita, always thirty seconds ahead of our Lubriano church.

Tomorrow is Sunday and the Feast of Our Lady of Lubriano, known among people in the area as La Infiorata. For the past 250 years, on the sixth Sunday after Easter, the residents of Lubriano have been celebrating this day by covering their one and only street with flower petals. On this Sunday every year the townfolk transform the charcoal- colored granite of the street into a dizzying artist’s palette. Spring blossoms will decorate the paving for half a mile from the eleventh-century Church of San Giovanni Battista to the seventeenth-century Chapel of Santa Maria del Poggio. From year to year the priest and the people will come and go, but constancy will reign in La Infiorata. The colors of spring, like a river, flow through time.

We have never been here in May before, so we aren’t quite sure what to expect. Signora Gaspari explains the rules. Tomorrow our two families will be responsible for entirely covering our sixty feet of road frontage with flower petals. Oh, yes, and they must all be freshly picked.

Pasquina has instructed us to meet in the street the next morning at 9:30 a.m., with our baskets of flowers. We will then chalk out our design onto the street pavers. At 10 a.m. the street will be closed to traffic and the laying of the flowers will begin. At 10:45 a.m. it is molto importante that all is done. At 11 a.m. sharp, the long religious procession will begin to walk barefoot over our artwork.

The whole town now feverishly sets out to see the full effect of how, in just one hour, an army of homeowners can transform a town. We all quickly side step down the edge of the street to assess how others have fared florally and artistically. Everyone is being very careful not to step on anyone else’s petals. For as far as I can see, up and down our street, the four-hundred-year-old houses look happy. On this one day each year they reside along the banks of a river of flowers. The color of it all meanders with the curve of the street, babbling into the distance.

Large concentric circles, drawn with or without a broomstick, dot the stream of flowers. Some villagers have written their initials with spring’s proliferating sunny ginestra-broom-and then there is the occasional big white cross of small downy petals. In front of the fruit and vegetable shop “Ave” is spelled out in velvety red roses. Luigina, the owner, lost her father last week.

I wander past the palace down Main Street towards the bar. The people at this point in the street have also cheated. The effect is pretty impressive. They have dyed fine woods shavings all sorts of bright colors; just as we used flowers, they have used wood shavings. They have created a very intricate portrait of Our Lady of Lubriano, the Madonna del Poggio herself. I would like to think this dust if from the workshop of Lubriano’s one and only cabinetmaker, who under no circumstances will work with any wood but chestnut.

Pasquina whispers to me, “Piu bella” – more lovely. We all nod furiously. The town’s monochromatic medieval cobbles are now bursting with color and fragrant scents, and everyone has a spring in their step.
At 11 a.m. I sprint up to my bedroom and noisily call to my daughter in the next room, “Where is the iron?” We have been invited to a First Communion celebration immediately after the procession ends. Still amazed by the speed of it all, I peek out my window to check that I’m not dreaming.  I’m startled to see the priest silently standing below me with all the procession formed behind him. The procession is so long I can’t see the end of it. The people are so still they look like an Italian version of the Terracotta Warriors. Everyone is waiting for the band to signal the start of the parade. I feel like a noisy buffoon acting up in the middle of a minute of silence.

Solemnly, a trumpet sounds somewhere behind Don Luigi. He steps forward and slowly, like a train leaving the station, the procession glides forward. Right behind the priest, the church’s icon is held up high by three young ladies. They’re followed by an armada of barefoot celebrants. The first few devotees are young girls covered from head to toe in black garments, their faces hidden as if in mourning; their black-stockinged feet accentuate the brilliance of the petals underfoot. They’re carrying gigantic white altar candles that are as tall as they are. Gloria gives me the scoop. These young women, she tells me, are young ladies who owe a great debt to the Madonna and are humbling themselves in fervent thanks for prayers answered. The enormous candles they’re carrying are the altar candles for the coming year.

Everyone in the procession looks quite polished. The village garb of butcher’s apron, baker’s hat, or shoemaker’s leathers are all put aside for today. Our Italian teacher, Emilio, is right behind the priest, looking very solemn in shining white robes as he holds a big wooden cross up high. Our garden constructor, Roberto, is flanked by two small girls in pink satin robes who look like a couple of Raphael’s cherubs, which I am sure they’re not. Two marching bands follow the procession. The second band is a very smart contingent. They all have massive iridescent black feathers fluttering atop their helmets, bobbing to the beat of their step like an army of rooster tails.

The procession passes on our petals. At first I wince a little as our design is scuffed, but the crushed, scattered flowers waft still more perfume into the air. Our floral canvas is losing form and turning into a misty Monet as it is deconstructed before our eyes. In five minutes our design is gone. Looking at the flowers all mixed up, I wonder which is better-before or after? The new potpourri at my feet is a testament to nature’s glory, all pearly white, cherry pink, sunshine yellow, burgundy, garnet, and coral. The new palette mocks me. To think I believed I could make a better design than spring itself!

Fifteen minutes after the procession has disappeared, husbands, including mine, bring out just-emptied laundry baskets and old boxes. With great gusto the street is swept clean of every last petal. I see the mayor, dressed in his suit for Mass, sweeping too. The sweet, sweet blossoms’ hour is past. Father Don Luigi is saying Mass, and the heavens open up with a good soaking rain.

Editor:  The above has been taken with permission as an excerpt from Diana's book, 'Somewhere South of Tuscany'.  There is a short review of this book on our web site under 'Recommended Reading' and you can purchase a copy via Amazon from our site.  It is a great read!