FESTIVAL – ITALIAN CATHOLIC STYLE!

A few Sundays ago, I spent the afternoon at nearby Havemeyer St., observing the annual Giglio Festival hosted by Our Lady of Mt. Carmel Church. I had been sent there by my editor, who assured me that large men would be lifting a giant altar and carrying it down the street.

No, he wasn’t predicting a robbery; he meant it as part of the festival itself. Every year, able-bodied men of Williamsburg gather together to carry the “giglio,” which is an altar of lilies dedicated to Saint Paulinus, down Havemeyer St. This is no mean effort, let me assure you. The giglio stands about fifty-feet tall and supposedly weighs several tons. See, it’s not just lilies, but includes wooden cross-hatching, metal beams, and the weight of a small band that plays while the men lift.

Now, I assumed that the Giglio Parade would be a simple, albeit symbolic, lift-and-carry job. However, the parade actually stopped several times in the course of three hours, allowing fresher legs to be rotated into the mix. If giglio-lifting sounds like a sport, there was, in fact, a coach standing at the front lines, who barked loud instructions in Italian. Oh man, could he inspire those fellas to move! One second, the giglio would be fifteen feet away, and the next, it would be right on top of the crowds.

Speaking from my own experience, I had to turn and run numerous times to avoid being trampled. I think it had something to do with the fact that thirty guys were carrying it that made it lurch and behave unpredictably. Police were on-hand to try and keep people at least 20-feet away, for fear of injury and death. But professional journalists like me have to be up on the front lines snapping photos, risking life, limb, and being run over by big, sweaty Italians and their equally-oversized tribute.

Since I lived to tell the tale, I can admit it was a fun afternoon. Eventually, the giglio reached the intersection of Havemeyer and North 8^th St., where it met another giglio, a smaller one that looked like a boat. There was much music and merriment, which exploded into outright joy after someone announced that Italy beat France in the World Cup. The crowd had been on pins and needles up to that point. The news that Italy pulled the game out was like the lifting of a great weight from off the shoulders of the collective masses, perhaps even greater than the weight relieved from the lifters when they finally put the giglio to rest, though I sincerely doubt that.

Incidentally, K. and I went back to the festival on its final evening, to get what my girlfriend referred to as “old lady food.” By that, she meant the freshly-baked treats available at one of the neighborhood’s senior centers. We assumed that was the place to find the best goodies, and we were probably right. After indulging in flaky, cheese-filled pastries and a savory sausage sandwich, we walked past kiddie rides and amusement booths. I noticed that the crowds had dwindled somewhat since opening night two weeks prior, which reminded me of sadder times, specifically the fair each April at my old college in Miami. Its dying was a sign that the school year would soon be over.

But squeezing K.’s hand in mine, I did not feel depressed, for once, at the prospect of time passing. Instead, I was reminded of the good times we shared in the recent past, that we were enjoying at the present moment, and which we would have together in the foreseeable future.