Sul Lungomare (on the waterfront): Festa del Pesce (Fish Festival)

“Fish recognize a bad leader”

- Conan O’Brien




We were happy in our quiet little house on the hill, with the terrace, kittens, distant sea view, and the privacy and freedom to wear minimal clothing and/or yell at each other if necessary.
It’s different down here in the marina. We have close neighbors. We are in the midst of things. The lungomare, the centro—this is where it all happens.
Carloforte is bustling in August, as the population swells from 6,000 to 20,000. The ferries are busy shuttling tourists in and out of the harbor. Some of the stores are shortening their siesta hours, or even staying open. Umbrellas at the beach are getting closer and closer together. Tables of people are spilling out onto the streets, speaking French, Italian and sometimes (rarely) English.
And every weekend there’s a different festival—“Festa del Tonno” (tuna festival), “Festa della Musica” (music festival), “Festa della Nonna’ (festival of the grandma), “Festa del Turista” (tourist festival)--festa festa festa. Everything from parades to carnivals, fireworks to fashion shows, singing contests to teenage dance ensembles—the Carlofortini like to dress up, get henna tattoos and party.
There’s always live music at the festa, and unfortunately it’s always seriously lacking in musical talent--but that doesn’t stop anyone from dancing. After a few glasses of wine, I’m out there doing the local “line dance” with dozens of other women. Sure, I’m stumbling through the moves, sometimes bumping into people, but I’m learning. My favorite tunes, though, are the waltzes, when all the Carlofortini elders show off the smooth, gliding steps they’ve been practicing for decades.
Last week we went to the “Festa del Pesce” (fish festival).
We arrived around 9 pm, and took our place in the long line of people extending from the “fish tent”. My mouth was watering in anticipation of a freshly caught, freshly fried fish dinner. After ten minutes in line, though, we hadn’t moved an inch, so of course I went to investigate.
At one end of the tent were two types of fish soaking in buckets of water: gamberi (shrimp) and the little unidentifiable fish we catch from the dock—the fish that our Italian neighbor girls call “bob” (it’s funny to listen to Italians say ‘bob’—with a hard “b” at the end). The shrimp and “bob” were drained, coated with a cornmeal/flour mixture, and then passed to the cooks, who poured the fish into sizzling oil-filled metal cookpots. The pots looked like huge woks set over an open flame. The cooked, golden fish were then lifted, drained and dumped into large metal pans and set on a table. The pans were brought, one at a time, to the prep table, where (theoretically) the plates were prepared for the customers. Each plate held a handful of both types of fish, along with a hunk of watermelon, a roll, and a sweet hard cake.
It seemed like all the elements were in place--there were plenty of staffed workers, tons of fish--so what was taking so long?
Since I didn’t understand most of the language, I decided to use my powers of observation and imagination to make up various scenarios.
A man stood in line, holding a 10 Euro bill, talking loudly to the cashier. (Was he angry?) The cashier had her cash drawer open, and was alternately looking at him with a bored expression, and looking at a woman at the prep table. (Was she waiting for a plate of food? Was her cash drawer out of change?) The woman at the prep table held a half-filled plate and was talking loudly, almost yelling at the man next to her. The man shrugged, threw up his hands, and yelled back at her at the same time. (This simultaneous yelling happens all the time here—it’s ever-present, like background music). A different woman at the prep table absently placed a piece of watermelon on a plate and then wandered off to talk to the fish cooks. Finally, the woman at the prep table picked up a handful of fish, put it squarely on the plate and walked over to the cash register. The plate was given to the customer. The cashier took his bill and gave the man 5 Euro change. Then they both yelled at each other for ten more seconds, and then they laughed (laughed!) and the man walked away with his plate of food.
This exchange took at least 2 minutes. For one plate of food. I continued to watch for a few more minutes, to see if this was an aberration, but discovered that on average, each plate of food took at least one minute to prepare (I counted to myself). I quickly calculated that it would be 100 minutes until we got our fish. Goodbye blood sugar.
From my observation, it seemed as though there was no specific “plan” in place with regard to actually getting the plates of food to the customers. It was as if this so-called “fish festival” caught the staff by surprise. Most of the time, the staff were either talking, yelling, laughing, walking around, drinking wine, or waving their hands.
No one was taking this seriously! Didn’t they know there were hundreds people in line? Didn’t they care about the hungry masses? Who was in charge, here? I desperately fought the urge to jump in and offer my assistance, since I could see it all so perfectly, and they so clearly needed my help. I had several good suggestions for improvement, several smart, insightful ideas as to how they could run this festival in a much more organized and efficient fashion, starting with an assembly line.
If only I were in charge…
I walked back to find Jeff and Jenna in line, a few inches closer than when I’d left. I relayed my observations, and we laughed at my obvious neurosis.
As has happened so many times in Italy, we were torn between the EXPERIENCE (eating fish at an Italian fish festival) and the need to maintain adequate blood sugar levels. Should we just grab a pizza and call it good? When I suggested the pizza idea, Jenna objected and said she wanted to wait for the fish, so we decided if she could wait, we could wait.
So we waited (and waited) and we watched. And then we noticed it: the subtle art of celebration Italian-style--a festa within a festa – the “line festa”. Multiple generations were simply celebrating being together to queue up for a good cause. The food seemed quite secondary to the primary act of celebration. It was all there--intimate conversations between couples young and old, groups of bantering teenagers, random outbursts of simultaneous yelling, laughing, kissing, waving of hands.
Wait a minute…
No one appeared to be the least bit upset that we were essentially at a standstill in line (except me). No one was dumbstruck at the lack of organization (except me).
Again, I am given a lesson in patience.
Why am I in such a hurry to achieve my goals? (Well, we were hungry.)
Time works differently here. Sure time moves on (in linear fashion), but it is frequently diverted into timeless loops of human experience. The evidence is everywhere—at the festa, at the market, at the post office, on the street. I’ve seen two cars going in opposite directions stop, in the middle of the road, to have a conversation, cars backed up in both directions, and everyone waits, nobody honks.
When am I going to get this?
When am I going to stop this inner honking?

NEXT UP: Mercatino (the weekly market)