We left zia Maria’s house early in the morning after the daily coffee and marmalade ritual. I wandered outside to have a few figs; who knows how many I’ve eaten in the last few days. But I’ll tell you this: each and every one of them was spectacular.
Our drive to the autostrada took us through a number of small towns. From the back seat my mother read out the names of the upcoming small town festivals: apple festival, grape festival, egg festival, festivals in honour of all kinds of patron saints. The list went on and on; each town trying to come up with its own unique reason to gather, celebrate and draw attention to itself. And then on the side of the road, I spotted it; the sign for the festival to end all festivals. Festa delle Perdono. Loosely translated: Festival of the Forgiven. Here, I reasoned, was the perfect gathering place for every kind of sinner, criminal, murderer and shifty-eyed son of a bitch. Even those feeling a general sense of non-specific guilt had somewhere to celebrate their degenerate lives.
I imagine a festival with a strong police presence and instead of port-a-pottys, rows upon rows of portable confessional booths. What a sight to behold! Too bad we were just passing through.
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