Of the seven horses left to vie for the win, only one runs, cavallo scosso, its jockey thrown into the stands. One-third of a lap remains, and I have yet to locate my team. It is a fruitless effort. Wave (light blue and white) and Forest (orange, white, and green) are neck and neck; with each second, the tension becomes increasingly palpable. Forest’s nerbi lashes against Wave’s jockey and horse; the beating is so brutal, I almost turn away. Exposed slices of flesh appear on Wave’s horse, the bloody horse and jockey slow, allowing Forest to overtake them and gain the lead. In an inconceivable feat, the crowd doubles its fanaticism. I do not notice that I, too, am screaming at the top of my lungs; screaming for whichever team has just taken the lead; screaming for the injured horses and jockeys; just screaming to scream because it feels good to be part of the commotion. The jockey glances back, and then, quickly back in front — just in time to see himself become the winner of Il Palio di Provenzana!

The crowd explodes and breaks through the barricades (confirming to me their flimsy nature). The fanfare is overwhelming. Contrada Forest! — my area goes wild. People run mad through the square. Grown men scream, hold each other and sob, the colors they wear being the only indication if they cry tears of joy or sorrow. Others quietly wipe their eyes and shuffle away as zealous Forest enthusiasts sway scarves printed with the winning contrade’s flag back and forth in triumph. Contrade Forest’s district anthem floods my ears from all angles. I briefly catch a glimpse of the coveted palio as it pops up and down through the crowd in the hands of its new owners. The winning horse and jockey stand in the middle of the chaos, surrounded by ecstatic devotees, engulfed in countless camera flashes. They are celebrities, heroes, added to a long list of Il Palio winners. They have secured a spot in Sienese history.

• • •

Even with our shirts, it is difficult to find members of my group. Those of us, who do find each other, thread our way through the fanatical crowd and into a bar. It is dark out now. The race is relived on two television screens that bookend the bar, the frame-by-frame slowing for key highlights. Complimentary bar snacks and a bottle of beer find my lips as I match my memories to the screen. The experience of being inside Piazza del Campo fails to translate on-screen. It looks like a completely different race, and for a moment, I wonder if it is. This antisocial behavior lasts only minutes before I find myself in conversation with a stranger, an Italian stranger with impeccable English.

“What did you think of the Palio?” he asks. He has tan skin and dark eyes. He is sensibly dressed (like any respectable Italian) with a collared shirt, long pants and nice shoes, and unlike many Italian men, he still has his hair: dark brown. Deep purplish-black circles carved under his eyes suggest that he has not slept much lately, and his smile is genuine.

“So, incredible!” I say. “Although, I was rooting for Team Giraffe…” It feels good to get it off my chest.

A bit of casual conversation later, I learn that his name is Massimo (“Forgive me, I did not introduce myself,” he says. “My name is Massimo…”). He lives in the neighboring town of San Gimignano, and he wants to know why we are not at the party.

“What party?” I ask.

“The winning party!” he exclaims while smiling, and I feel mischief afoot. “Come. Follow me,” he says to Polly and me.

He finishes his beer and walks outside. “Come,” he repeats, waving us into the street. “I will get you all in the party,” Massimo promises. “I know people.”

While leading us through ancient alleyways, and weaving through celebration after celebration, Massimo and I speak a mixture of German, English and Italian, just for fun. As he navigates the dark labyrinth of Siena’s oldest streets, I wonder if I should have trusted a stranger who “knows a guy” and press Massimo to tell me how he can get us in into the exclusive party in contrada Forrest that we are about to crash. He responds only with coy smiles and “I said I know a guy.” As far as I can tell, no visitors are allowed at these parties, especially not tourists. Turns out, Massimo is a bona fide 52 generation count from Colle di Val D’Elsa, a medieval wine town specializing in the Vernazza varietal. “I’m very well-known in Tuscany,” he says, his eyes twinkling. ‘More mischief,’ I think to myself. “Which is very good for you, especially because you wear the enemy colors!” he says laughing, but I am cautious as a misrepresented Trojan horse.

Warm embraces, kisses on the cheek, and gregarious greetings put to shame any apprehension I had carried with me into Contrade Forest’s cozy cobblestone cul-de-sac. A few cheerful partygoers stand behind modern folding tables, dispensing generous cups of red wine from traditional looking wooden barrels, an old-fashioned wine keg of sorts. A small church, surviving hundreds of years of use and weather, sits on my left; its windows beam with pride, illuminating the outside cul-de-sac. It is tradition, before each race, for the Palio horse to enter its contrade church and receive a ritualistic blessing. Tonight, only Contrade Forest’s church bells ring, a right and reminder of their victory. People wander in and out of the church doors to pay their respects, thank God, and say prayers. Eventually, I find myself drawn inside, like a moth to the light. In the left corner, by the entrance doors, a subtle set of black spiral stairs attracts passersby, and swallows them one-by-one, spitting them out into a dimly lit corridor.

I step off the final stair, gazing down the passageway. ‘Where am I?’ I ask myself. Curiosity guides my feet through the ancient lair and I am fully prepared to interrupt a black-cloaked séance, or even Nicolas Cage digging through stones in the floor. Instead, I enter a small room encased in white walls. It smells like dirt, the good kind of dirt, earth. It is a living museum, carved out of the ground; white walls adorned with Palio artifacts dating back to the late 1400s — winning banners, old contrade scarf and flag designs, statues, painted advertisements. I spot Polly walking through the entrance in disbelief. We are inside the cuore delle contrade, the heart of the contrade.

“This is amazing,” I say with a loss for suitable adjectives.

“I can’t believe we are here,” she responds.

“Do you think we are allowed to be here?” I ask. Trepidation paces my exploration as we marvel at almost a millennium’s worth of history. Pride emanates from the walls and bursts through the glass cases holding tangible and priceless pieces of times past. It is not until I slip back up the stairs, and out into the night’s festivity that I learn how providential my discovery was. The heart of each contrade lies in its basement, hidden underground, and is only accessible after winning Il Palio. Only then, can the entrance, normally sealed at the spiral staircase, open (and remain open for a brief 24 hours). A local could live his or her entire lifetime and never be privy to the inside of the cuore delle contrade. I feel guilty as a Trojan horse, undeserving of this honor.

It is already 10:30 p.m. I refill my cup for the last time, already nostalgic for a night that is quickly ending. Massimo guides us back through the city, to our buses waiting to return us to Florence; waiting to return us to the 21st century. It is the first time I have noticed the heat for hours. Cobblestones in the old city streets press through the soles of my shoes, against the bottoms of my feet. Massimo and I resume our trilingual chatting — he invites me to Colle (an invitation I accept almost a year later) — until we reach our destination. We are the last group to arrive, and receive angry looks from tired eyes and sunburned faces. I let the grunts and indignant stares roll off my shoulders because I know they have all just missed out on one of the best nights of their lives.

Note to readers: This article covers the Il Palio di Siena that took place on July 2, 2010. For more pictures of the writer’s experience in Siena, or throughout Italy, please visit www.katherinealex.com.

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