MG in Emilia Romagna - November 2009

Through the cypress trees, a strip of sea can be seen in the distance. For a late November day, it's not cold; in fact, when the sun occasionally breaks through the clouds, it's pleasant to be outside and admire the landscape below. It seems so far away—it actually took us ten minutes to get up here—but it still feels like we've reached the end of the world.
 

The images of the exhibition we just left are still fresh in my mind; we spent part of the morning immersed in art, visiting "From Rembrandt to Gauguin to Picasso: The Enchantment of Painting" at Castel Sismondo in Rimini, masterpieces from the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, some of whose works have been temporarily transferred here, otherwise only enjoyable overseas. It's a strange feeling to find yourself in front of certain masterpieces in such an intimate setting, without any barriers or barriers keeping them at a distance. You could reach out and touch them, but you're content to stand close to them in religious contemplation, almost holding your breath to try to retain the vibrations those canvases impart; you seem to somehow sense the artist's breathing as he conveyed his essence to the canvas with his brushstrokes, and it's a sensation that transports you to another dimension. The clumps of paint, hardening, have become universal matter. But time in our present is a dimension we cannot escape, not even at lunch, perhaps because the location, as it's been described, piques our curiosity, I'm tempted to think. But I know the reason is entirely different.
The atmosphere is austere, as befits a place of worship housing sacred relics. One is compelled to observe due respect, were it not for the fact that some, despite the rules—with all due respect to those who frown upon the profane interposing the sacred—thought it was the ideal setting to gather together for a few hours, enjoying a bite to eat and exchanging greetings for the upcoming holidays. This isn't surprising, given that since ancient times, churches have been gathering places where prayer and food for the soul are consumed. It's a little strange, then, if these prerogatives are put on the back burner, and the food, rather than satisfying the soul, pleases the eyes and palate of those who have come to this peaceful retreat for anything but spiritual purposes. This, too, is a sign of the times.
The fact remains that the NOSRE (Historical/Romagnolo Emmegista Organizational Nucleus), supported by the SDORE (Recognized Women Emmegista Supporters), composed of the tireless Fausto, Franco, and Gianni, led by our beloved secretary and friend Pier Paolo (listed strictly in alphabetical order), have come up with another one of their own, pulling from an inexhaustible magic hat an event that will be hard to match for its originality. However, we can't be certain of this, since no one is as capable of contradicting such persuasions as they are. First of all, it was explained to me that for the event to be a success, it was necessary to hire a group that has made the culinary tradition of those lands an equally unusual hallmark. Sailors by tradition, fishermen by profession, and caterers to supplement their income, this handful of seafarers have created the simplest yet most delicious of local cuisines. Since their cuisine is inherently inspired by their natural ingredients, it couldn't be anything other than what they contain. Anchovies, sardines, and sardines, as well as mantis shrimp, moletti, mazzole, calamari, and prawns... marinated, floured, breaded, perfectly aligned by size, carefully tended, expertly handled, expertly seared with loving care and patience, to the delight of those who, knowing the background, had decided that the Christmas lunch was an event not to be missed, as good as, if not more so than, a traditional gathering organized by the Romagna group.
After being slowly grilled, it finally passed through the long corridors separating the occasional field kitchen set up on an outdoor terrace from the dining room where a throng of noisy and impatient diners awaited. Centuries of silent austerity were shattered by a fervent and insistent hubbub that not even the countless delicious grilled fish dishes, arriving at a steady pace from our tireless hosts, could silence; which speaks volumes about the convivial spirit of the event. But if the task, for once, forced the hosts to forgo the traditional verve that normally distinguishes them at more formal gatherings, the same cannot be said for the dedication devoted to the success of the last event of 2009, dedicated once a year not to cars, but to gentlemen drivers and their companions. None of them spared themselves, each shouldering the burden of serving the insatiable tables with robust appetites, from aperitif to dessert, sacrificing themselves (it's a figure of speech) for the Emmegist community coming from everywhere.
Toward late afternoon, sated, satisfied with having seen dear friends again, and calmed by the somewhat complex digestive process underway, when the distances prompted those who had to undertake long journeys to resume their journey, calm returned to those places of prayer. For once, shedding its cheerful recreational attire, the cenacle resumed its austere essentiality.
After a careful tidying up of what had been kindly granted, the final minutes were marked by a soothing silence, punctuated by a sweet organ lullaby coming from the adjacent church packed with faithful for Evening Mass. The time for merriment was over, and the place had rightly regained its customary sacredness.
Let's stay a little longer to discuss how the day just ended. For those who put in so much effort, the reward is the sincere gratitude of all who participated in being together, united by the same passion, waiting for the time to once again dust off our MGs, start the engines, and roar free and happy towards the new adventures that the season will bring.
When we leave, evening has fallen, it's colder, and it's starting to rain. We can't complain; given the forecast, the day has been mild, allowing us to complete our planned program entirely.
As we say goodbye, a melancholy ring of bells fills the air. Once again, I breathe in this air of calm and serenity, which reinforces the respect and friendship that characterizes the atmosphere of our club, which values people more than the prestige of the cars.
I look out to sea, but it's gone. A bitter scent lingers. Maybe it's the rain, maybe it's winter, I don't know.
 
 
Happy holidays to everyone.
 

Roberto Paolin