There was something about summer nights that made everything feel a little different. You stayed outside longer, dinner started later, children somehow forgot they were tired, and there always seemed to be something happening somewhere.
Una festa. Una sagra. Una processione. Io adoravo i mercatini serali! All it matters: simply a reason to stay outside fino a tardi!
One of the nights I remember the most was la notte di San Lorenzo, August 10th.
As a kid, I don’t think I really understood what San Lorenzo was. What I did understand was that on that particular night, someone would eventually tell you: “Guarda il cielo. Stanotte cadono le stelle.” And obviously, you looked.
We would stay outside waiting for a shooting star, absolutely convinced that if we saw one and made a wish quickly enough, something magical might actually happen.
And let’s be honest… half of the time you weren’t even sure if you had actually seen a stella cadente or if your eyes were just playing tricks on you.
“ECCOLA!”
“Dove?!”
“Lì!”
“Dove lì?!”
“È già passata!”
Every. Single. Time.
But nobody really cared. Because the beautiful part wasn’t actually seeing the star.
It was being outside, together, in the middle of an August night, esprimendo desideri and sharing stories about wishes and future!
And Italian summers always seemed to have nights like that.
There were the sagre and the feste di paese. You always knew when something was happening.
The streets suddenly had lights hanging from one building to another. Le luminarie. Music appeared from somewhere. Tables came outside. There were food stalls, children running everywhere, older people sitting and watching everything as if they had been given the very important job of supervising the entire town. I vigilanti della notte!
And there was always a smell. Something frying, magari un bombolone alla crema.
Maybe grilled meat somewhere in the distance, profumo di pane e salsiccia.
You didn’t necessarily know what everyone was celebrating. Honestly, sometimes I still don’t. But somehow… si festeggiava.
And nobody seemed particularly interested in going home.
Maybe that’s what I remember most about those summers. There was always something bringing people together.
La festa of a saint. A falling star. A sagra.
Or sometimes absolutely nothing. Maybe we just needed an excuse.
And summer gave us plenty.
Ciao,
Laura
