PASQUA in INTRODACQUA, ABRUZZO, ITALY Madonna Che Vola – The Pageant of the Flying Madonna

Easter high in the Apennine Mountains of Italy

Easter 2024

 Each year, I roll out this story because it was one of those that connected me to some of the ancient rites of Spring in Italy, or Pasqua, which is the Italian Easter. It takes place high in the Apennine Mountains east of Rome in a miniscule village called Introdacqua which means ‘between the waters’. There was something so otherworldly about this weekend experience. And, I’ll have to tell you about it sometime . . . or once I get this book written . . . .

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My friend, Lucia, whose hometown of Introdaqua we were visiting, had promised me an opportunity to witness a most unusual ancient rite.  She had described it as part pagan ritual from over three millennia past, and part medieval ‘passion play.’ At sundown, the Good Friday services were set to begin. Sharon and I, not knowing or understanding Italian, rushed around to get a good place to view the events.

The solemn parade was led by the ancient confraternity, known as the Trinitari, or Trinitarians, who wore crimson surplices and white capes.   I caught only a fleeting glance of them as they disappeared into the darkness.  Next came the town band with their funereal dirges echoing through the canyons of the 10^th century town buildings.  They were followed by elaborately robed mace and lamp bearers who lit the way for the children.  They, in turn, were said to carry instruments—small whips, I believe—representing the pain suffered by Christ at his crucifixion.  (Odd, I thought.)  A small choir, in mournful and plaintive song, continued the cortege in a slow gait—a struscio—a shuffle of sorts, which represented the sorrow the world felt after the death of The Lord.

In the center of this corteggio, was a group of laymen who somberly carried two cloth-covered plinths, or catafalques: one bearing a statue representing the tortured body of Jesus Christ and the second, the Madonna, who was covered in a silky black mourning cloth or scarf.  Somewhere in our midst, a solemn and prayerful voice rose resonantly above them.  

Bringing up the rear were streams of silent, but tearful villagers—all women, all dressed in black—who sobbed quietly into handkerchiefs as they made their way through the narrow, cobblestone streets, up and down the hills, through the town and back down into the church, Santa Addolarota.  It was here that each penitent filed before the illuminated statue of the Dead Christ, before flowing back out of the church and into the piazza.

Sharon and I had been skittering behind the crowd and had avoided using our cameras due to the reverential tone of the procession, but we then found ourselves hovering outside the church of Santa Addolarota, looking like idiots instead of cautionary observers.  Again, we looked around for our friend, Lucia. 

“What did Lucia tell you,” Sharon asked me.  “When did she think she would be here?”

I said, “I thought she would be here by now, or at least leave us a message of some sort at the hotel she booked for us.  I don’t know.”  Sharon rolled her eyes.

“Well,” I stammered, “she told me her parents had come to the United States from this area of Abruzzo. She had been invited to come to this festival by family and friends and she asked us to join her. That’s all I know.”

Suddenly, and before we could adjust to the change in atmosphere, the reverence for the Dead was broken with an explosive array of fireworks which bloomed again and again into the darkened sky, then cascaded down onto the waiting crowd of expectant and jubilant-faced children and adults.  The fireworks were accompanied by the staccato tempo of firecrackers popping loudly around the feet of the participants.  People were moving about as if in a fit or enacting the Tarantella. (Another Italian specialty.)

“What next?” I whispered nervously to Sharon as we pushed up against the church.  Yes, I was a little on edge, I admit, for I was the one who had insisted we make this Mad-Hatters’ dash across Italy. This unquenchable thirst of mine to understand traditional folklore was getting the best of me.  And, from the look on Sharon’s face, it was getting the best of her, too.  My hopes of having some explanation of the procession and its connection to the Christian and the pagan were still wanting.  I would have to wait for another day.  I looked at the crowd.  Even though I could pick up on some of the light and jubilant expressions of folks around me, I was literally in the dark.  And reading Italian lips?  It wasn’t happening!  And Sharon, as I mentioned before, who has little interest in history or learning to speak Italian was obviously feeling uncomfortable; probably hungry too! And there was no food available. We returned to the hotel, where they quickly embraced our needs and we were truly blessed with

We waited to see what was next on the list of festivities and I was praying that we would be introduced to some feste food.  Don’t food and festivals in Italy go hand in hand?  But as we began looking for a café or trattoria, we noticed that most people were carrying their transformed selves away from the piazza and home for a late and private repast.  All stores were closed, and no restaurants appeared to be open. We hurried quickly back to the car, as freezing temperatures were beginning to set in.  We hoped for the best at our heat-deprived hotel. 

It was there in the hotel restaurant that we found warmth—from the heat of the open pizza oven. Our hosts stood waiting for us and without words (we understood) welcomed us into the dining room for a delicious meal.  The most memorable of the courses served that evening was a lovely pasta course with a lamb and roasted pepper sauce, called Maccheroni alla Chitarra con Ragù d’Agnello e Peperoni.  Got that?  Thought so.  As I attempted to ask one of the waiters for the English translation of the pasta, Sharon perked up as she was familiar with the term ‘alla Chitarra.’

“Ah, that’s Guitar Pasta,” she exclaimed cheerfully for one of the first times that day.  “This is one of this region’s most celebrated pasta courses!”  Aha! I thought to myself with a slight smile.  This is her forté!  This is where she shines!
 
Two mornings later, we rose into another bright, sunlit day. This one was filled with great expectations as today was Pasqua, and it was the morning for the main ritual of the ‘passion play. Lucia, our Italian host, arrived early that morning—well, early for her—and by 11 a.m. we were commingling on the streets of Introdacqua awaiting the moment of the main event: the Madonna Che Vola, or the Pageant of the Flying Madonna.
 
The air literally crackled with anticipation and an almost circus-like atmosphere surrounded the hundreds of villagers lining the sidewalks around the tiny medieval piazza, as others were pressed up against stone walls and store fronts. Jubilant voices rose from all age groups, as villager met villager and old and new friends came together. Yes, joyful expectation hung in the air like invisible smoke. Above us, on wrought-iron balconies which clung to the sides of the ancient buildings and hung over the narrow village streets, elderly women dressed in their best black dresses waved to the crowds below. All were waiting . . . waiting for the Mother of God.
  
I, too, was pressed up against a storefront, opposite the Farmacia, when Lucia and George introduced me to the top brass, so to speak, of Introdacqua.  The mayor and vice-mayor along with members of the village counsel were out in their finest suits and ties, as were their young wives bedecked in their pastel Pasqua finery. I was introduced as a foreign correspondent, and I blush in the telling. Yes, I was foreign, but no, I had yet to become a correspondent. Nevertheless, I leaned close to Lucia as she attempted to interview and interpret our conversations. 
 
Unfortunately, the roar of the crowd bellowed wildly, and the pageant began. All that was left for us to do was smile kindly at one another, before turning to position ourselves along the street to be able to see as the procession began.
         
Somewhere, way down the hill from where we stood, a ruckus was beginning to build. Like a wave flowing upstream, the crescendo of exhilaration rose. Lucia leaned close to tell me that the Lauretani, a group of lay priests had just filed out of the main church of Santa Addolarota, where the Dead Christ (a statue) had been laid to rest. The Lauretani were leading the laymen, who were bearing a life-sized statue—this time of the Risen Christ, who was in a position as if running, while wearing nothing more than a white loin cloth and a bright crimson flowing sash. He had been placed on a stand on top of a plinth, and was being carried by laymen, raised high above the heads of the crowd. Why, some of the elderly women on the balconies could have reached down to touch His hand if they had been so inclined. But, no! Protocol won out. Instead, they were grasping the railing and dabbing at their eyes with a multitude of colorful handkerchiefs. “Christ has risen! He has risen, indeed,” they cried out in Italian. He was quickly carried past us and beyond our vision, but the flurry of excitement which surrounded Him enabled us to know His continued whereabouts.
 
Then, there was a hush throughout the crowd. Again, and without our clear observation, witnesses to the arisen Christ had supposedly carried word to Mary, the Mother of God.  She, too, was hoisted into the crowd held high upon a crown of sorts and on top of another plinth. She continued to wear the black garment of mourning and was moved back and forth through the crowd as if in a search. She does not believe; she can’t possibly believe; she wants to believe . . .  And then the crowd erupts with cheers and chanting begins, as the black robe slips from her head and out of sight. Now, atop her head is a crown of gold. And, she is festooned in a regal dress of white silk, embroidered in delicate tracery of gold flowers and stars, which course up the skirt and throughout her bodice. An elegant, long, sky-blue cape, also embroidered with gold, covers her shoulders, and flows down behind her. And lifts as if in flight. And that is exactly what happened, because as she began running, running, running, in search of her beloved Son, her elegant cape flowed, billowed, lifted and soared behind her. She became the ‘Flying Madonna’.

       
The swell of emotion preceded Mary’s carriers, but as the crowd parted to make way for the eight men who rushed up the steep cobblestone street—rushed, rushed, rushed—carefully balancing the Queen Mother of God—the outpouring of fervent sobs filled the streets and echoed against the age-old walls as She raced by. I was told that doves were released just as church bells rang throughout the town. Why, every mother in the crowd resonated with the emotion Mary must have certainly felt. Her Son was alive! Her Son was alive!  Even old men standing near me swiped away a tear or two with the back of their sleeves of their very, best suit.
 
At this point, or possibly in some other order, another procession filed past us, now moving in the opposite direction. It was a repeat of Friday night’s ritual, but now everyone within the parade was dressed in colorful regalia. No more wearing of the black. No more mourning clothes. First came the band, which proudly marched past wearing their crimson red jackets while playing joy-filled music. They were followed by young boys wearing light-blue capes over white surplices. Then came the men—the Lauretani, the ‘elders’ of the Church—who wore rich crimson capes with heavy gold chains and bright gold medallions. They were followed by young girls in long white surplices with light-blue sashes, while older girls were in crimson capes over white surplices. At the end of the procession were both Christ Jesus and Mary moving side-by-side through the streets bestowing blessings on all those in the village of Introdacqua. Stoics within the crowd were few. I must confess I am easily touched by emotional scenes, so I, too, was awash with tears. In the process of dabbing at my own tears, I dropped my notes and they disappeared under many feet and into the crowd.
 
Now, Lucia—perhaps, to bring me around—mentioned in passing that not all of the events were without touches of the pagan.
 
“Dark and light omens were carefully monitored by some within this gathering,” she whispered.
 
“Why on earth for?” I asked, my surprise splashing across my tear-smudged face.
 
“Oh, to track the movements of each character. You see, if the run was successful, the year will be a good and fruitful one for the valley. If Mary’s cloak fell but didn’t touch the ground, then all would be right with world . . .  Never assume that everything is exactly as you see it,” she said with a wink and a smile.  She put her arm around me and led me away.
 
It was at this point and time that all families began to disperse as they headed to their homes for their annual Pasqua dinners.  Lucia bid Sharon and I farewell, as she had been invited to participate with a number of local families and we—knowing no Italian whatsoever—were left to our own devices.  We plodded somberly back to the hotel. I suddenly felt the impact of being part of a celebration, only to be left on the curbstone with my face pressed against the window of desire. We walked back into the lobby of the hotel where we were once again merrily greeted by our hosts and invited to partake in their annual feast.  We were led into the center of the dining room, where we were surrounded by families of ten, fifteen, up to twenty-five in number, and all of us were there to enjoy and consume a Pasqua feast—a feast of incredible springtime delights. 

The following is a smattering of the fare:

Pasqua – Day of the Feast
Antipasti
Fresh buffalo mozzarella and
Scamorza cheese
Prosciutto and
Melone (cantaloupe)
Slices of Parma Ham
Bowls of fresh fava beans
 
Primo Piatti
Torta Pasqualina (with whole eggs baked into dough)
Covered with a Creamy Marinara Sauce and Ricotta Cheese
Homemade ‘Trofie’ pasta with
Mushrooms, Olive oil and Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese
 
Secondi Piatti
Veal in Lemon Sauce
Lamb Riblets-Grilled with Rosemary
 
Contorni
Fresh Ensalada Mista (Mixed Green Salad)
Roasted Potatoes
Peas with Rosemary and Oil
 
Dolci
Fresh Fruit in Pizzelle Cups
(Strawberries, Apples and Kiwi)
Ricotta Pie
Ciambelle Pasquale
(Cake baked with Chocolate and Almonds)
 
Pane (Breads)
Pizza di Pasqua
(Bread baked with Sausage and Pecorino Cheese)
and
Candied Fruit-filled Bread
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Trebbiano Wine
Cappuccino

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Here’s to wishing each one of you a Springtime fête and a celebration that gives you and your family joy – whether it’s the celebration of Easter, or Passover, or any of the pagan rites we share for rejoicing with the warming of our seasons.

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Some professional reviews for Italian Book Three

"A cultural and gastronomic tour through Italy by train, car, and ferry with culinary delights at every turn...Elaborate descriptions of almost every meal and snack turn this compelling travel book into an enjoyable vicarious experience...A joyous book of Italian history, traditions, and food that’s worth savoring."—Kirkus Reviews
 
"Carole Bumpus' culinary travelogue A September to Remember is written in the inviting voice of a learner. [Her] exploration as an American abroad will draw in those who hunger for travel as much as they hunger for flavor. For Bumpus, appreciating food requires a strong sense of people and place; in fact, she regards food and culture as inseparable.... Bumpus embraces authenticity over simplicity, encouraging cooks to rise to the challenge. A September to Remember is a food narrative that brings the heart of Italy to tables around the world."---Foreword Reviews

“…here, as in other places, [Bumpus] also sends us on a sensory tour with her descriptions of the marvelous meals they enjoyed, of course all handmade, regional, and accompanied by superb wine. A true celebration of Italy. I believe that Carole Bumpus is such a successful author because of the love and passion she puts into her books, through her writing the landscapes, architecture, and gastronomy of Italy are brought wonderfully to life. Highly recommended!”—Susan Keefe, TheColumbiaReview.com 

To Pre-Order CLICK HERE

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For those of you who were excited about the trip to Italy this September based on my book, I must sadly tell you, I have decided to hold off on that tour. I look forward to hosting a tour which more directly reflects the stories I shared in my book, as that is what you would expect and look forward too. But, there are other food tours.

Cooking Vacations:

I developed a friendship with Lauren who spends half of her year in Boston and the other half on the Amalfi Coast, but Lauren runs a gourmet cooking company in Italy, and she is always setting up new classes for culinary students to join her. If you want to check out her website and tours for 2024, peek in here:

https://www.cooking-vacations.com/

  If you make contact, tell her I sent you.