The Arena Star

Last year, I stood on the top tier of seats in Verona’s ancient Arena, all too keenly aware that soon I would have to pick my way down the rain-slick steps.  Climbing up, I’d powered my way like Edmund Hillary, but now I remembered the old mountaineers’ maxim that the finish line is at the bottom and that these steep steps had been worn smooth and uneven by millions of feet for thousands of years, ever since the time of Christ.  Vertigo was setting in, or maybe it was altitude sickness. 

So I tried to concentrate on my surroundings.  I happened to be next to a large, complicated steel structure of I-beams, C-channels, and trusses. From this base, an enormous steel girder, shaped like a white comet’s tail, arced over the lip of the stadium and touched down in Piazza Brà amid an exploding star of giant gleaming-white steel spikes.

As I inched my foot over the broken edge of a rotten limestone block, I recalled that this huge, 80-ton artwork has been installed every Christmas season since 1984.  It represents the “Star in the East” that, back in the day, tipped off a trio of foreign Wise Men that the King of Heaven had been born in Bethlehem, and they needed to pay a diplomatic visit.  Who were these biblical savants?  The Apostle Matthew doesn’t tell us their names or where they were from – he just says they were Wise Men.  Were they poets, astrologers, Economics professors?  Who knows?  They showed up in Jerusalem, asked King Herod where they could find the Newborn King, and he said probably in Bethlehem, and if you find him, could you stop by on your way home and let me know?  But, unlike Baby Jesus, the three Wise Men weren’t born yesterday, so they left town “by a different route”, and we’ve never heard from them since.

Looking down a steep slope makes vertigo worse, but descending with closed eyes is not an option.  So I sat down to compose myself, and thinking of eyes reminded me of Santa Lucia – probably because Piazza Brà, down below where the comet lands, is the traditional Veronese location for an annual market festival named for the saint – Il Mercantino di Santa Lucia, every 10th to 13th December.  Her name, of course, means “light”, and she’s the patron saint of the blind. A Sicilian, she is popular in Verona because in the 13th century, it’s said, an epidemic of blindness afflicted Verona’s children.  The people staged a barefoot pilgrimage to an ancient church dedicated to Lucia, and the children were cured.  She also brings presents to good children on the night of 12th December, making her rounds on a flying donkey.

It occurred to me, as I slid down a series of damp, broken steps on my bottom, drawing pitying looks from several youngsters leaping from stone to stone like Alpine Chamois, that Verona’s children have an extraordinary number of opportunities for Christmas presents.  Probably more than they deserve, I thought grimly, as I noticed a couple of them pointing and giggling.  In addition to Santa Lucia, they can also collect from Babbo Natale – Father Christmas – on Christmas Eve and La Befana on Epiphany, 6 January; and since 2007, there is one other gift-giver in Verona: Christkindl.  Yes, the name does have a German ring to it – in fact, it means the Christ-child.  During the Protestant reformation, Christkindl was pressed into service to distribute presents, in preference to Catholic saints.  Nevertheless, for the last dozen years, Verona and Nuremberg have been doing a bit of cross-cultural sharing, and so typical Bavarian wooden booths offering bratwurst, dunkel bier, bratkartoffeln, and hot glühwein can be found among the exhibiters in Piazza dei Signori.  It’s Verona’s own miniature Christkindlmarkt. 

I found that my feet fit more snugly on the treacherous treads if I adopted a crab-like, sideways approach to my descent.  I even began to imagine how I would reward myself if I made it safely to ground level. A mug of glühwein was appealing, but I thought perhaps some good Italian Cioccolata Calda would restore my savoir faire more quickly; and I knew I could find plenty in Verona’s other Mercatini di Natale, which extend beyond Piazza dei Signori to Cortile Mercato Vecchio. I even began to think of picking up a few Christmas trinkets, for which the markets are famous, to give to deserving children back home – if I could find any.  Trinkets, I mean.

Finally back to street level, I began to wonder what else there was to see in Verona at Christmas.  I’d heard rumours of something called “the Running of the Santas”, but that event – a charity race in costume – had already taken place.  I knew there was the traditional Presepi dal Mondo exhibit, 400 crèche scenes from around the world, in the Palazzo della Gran Guardia, and I didn’t want to miss that.  Today, though, I thought I’d have my hot chocolate, and go to bed.

I dreamed I was back in the Arena, in the snow, pursued by a herd of maddened Christmas Elves up the icy steps.  At the top, in desperation, I leapt upon the tail of a passing comet, and slid down to the piazza below.  There was a blinding flash of light. When my vision cleared, Santa Lucia was leading me and a slightly singed donkey toward three startled Wise Men. The saint peered sternly at them.  “What on earth does a newborn infant want with gold, frankincense, and myrrh?” she demanded.  The Magi shuffled their feet sheepishly, and she handed each of them a lump of coal.  

Text © 2021 by Joe Gartman; Photographs © 2021 by Patricia Gartman. First published in Italia! Magazine, December/January 2021)