Friday
Valdagno is a quiet town of 30'000 inhabitants, situated at the foot of the Southern Alps. It's a midway between the industries, highways and pollution of the bassa Padana (the foggy northeast part of the Po valley) and the peace of the tiny mountain villages. Even the mornings are moderate - though the streets will see groups of elderly ladies entering the cafés for their morning cappuccini and pastries, though there will be young mothers walking their dogs and an occasional office worker dashing across the street - the place will still be at it's own measured pace compared to the bustle of, say, Padova. But all of this changes on Fridays.
Friday is the market day. Indeed, as Veneto is an area of few big cities and many small ones, the market is economically divided between the number of towns in the neighbourhood and travels to a different place every weekday. The market arrives early in the morning - trucks after trucks of clothes, fruit, shoes, cheese, kitchen utensils, carpets, fish. (Even the beggars arrive with the market, always the same ones. Do they hitchhike?) The cars pack out tables, a roof, and an unimaginable number of various articles, and the day can begin. Suddenly each open space in the centre is packed with people eyeing the goods, bumping into each other, seeing everyone they know, trying on sweaters, counting out coins, choosing between various types of oranges. The town is unrecogniseable. Streets around the centre buzz with cars: little old ladies driving their twice-a-week round in their tiny Fiat 500-s; irritable drivers finding the usual streets closed and traffic slowed down by the little old ladies; cargo trucks stopping at all imagineable places to unload; streams of people crossing the road apologetically...
Someone making a proper market round should start at the north end, near the statue of Marzotto (the legendary creator of the local textile industry and with it, Valdagno) and browse through the tables of yarn, buttons and endless shoes before crossing the road to the clothes section.
The clothes section holds an array of inexpensive more or less fashionable items, quite enough for people not looking for famous trademarks, or with children that grow out of their new pants in a matter of days. The clothes are set conveniently next to the drills, saws and other tools to give a chance for the men to entertain themselves while the women shop for socks. The movement between the tables is slow, giving the people a chance to get a good look at the merchandise, but also passers-by, the weather, their companions, and the like.
The passers-by are indeed something to look at. One can rarely appreciate just how multicultural Valdagno is, but the market is one of these occasions. There are the locals, talking to each other in broad dialect, but then there are the colourful Indian and Bangladeshi women in small groups, dragging their pretty children along from one table to another; the relaxed Ghanese; the serious Russian women chatting in low voices; the Chinese, selling scarves at 3-8 euros apiece.
Moving along from one table to another, buying a little bit of this or that, one arrives to the underwear (finally something frill-free!), the belts and bags of dubious origin, the baby clothes, the carpets. Passing from the Piazza del Comune to the last part of the market, the tone of selling and buying changes completely. It's the food. The atmosphere changes from a multicultural bustle into clearly Italian, and differences between the shopping Italians and others are increasingly visible. The pace of the walkers, so tranquil and dreamy before, goes through an abrupt change. It's not a question of mildly planning to or not to buy something. The routes are clear and habitual - which of the three fruit-stands to go to, how many oranges, how many paprikas, what kind of salad. Olive oil should be extra virgin. The yoghurt should be local. Orders pour out, the saleswomen pick, weigh and pack the vegetables in an instant. Anything else? Hands fill with heavy bags. Finding the wallet and the correct sum becomes increasingly difficult. But we're still missing the cheese.
The cheese! Going to a market can be a ritual, but nothing can compare to the full process of buying a week's cheese. There are two cheese-trucks. In time one learns to prefer certain kinds of cheese from one and others from the other one (because there is a difference). First, approach the cheese stand. It will already have a number of people in front of it, so one can get a good look at everything. But it's always the same. Italians love their stability in food. (The only seasonal change are the fresh malga-cheeses from the dairy houses in the mountains at the end of the summer.) Thus, on a usual Friday, one would order some mozzarella or stracchino - very fresh, almost not even cheese; then something generally light, maybe 200 grams of Asiago latte intero? Or cacciotta... Some of both, then. Asiago is a highlands barely an hour north of Valdagno that produces all levels of Asiago cheese. The maturing process makes all the difference, so it means a true variety. So, for something mid-aged it will be Asiago again, for mezzano dolce is the best. (An adventurous-feeling Valdagnese might try Provolone or something instead, but this would be something rare.) Moving along - how's about something stronger-tasting? Gorgonzola makes a perfect addition to all kinds of cheese-sauces. And most of the pasta dishes don't go anywhere without an addition of grated parmesan. Cheeses as old as this (aged 2 years as a rule) should be ceremonially tasted before decided on. If it goes (and it always goes), the clerk will pry a chunk off the stone-hard cheese wheel with a short knife. By this time the pile of cheese on the counter will be considerable, but usual. Paying will leave a hole in one's budget, but it's worth it.
Gradually the crowd disperses - from half past 12 onwards it's lunch-time. The mothers hurry to cook and the rest of the families hurry to be on time for the food. It takes some time for the market to pack itself neatly into the cars again, but they will soon be on their way, leaving behind only a pile of cardboard boxes. At early afternoon Valdagno is again as sleepy a place as can be: everyone will be at home, quietly digesting their lunch, and the town centre is left empty for a random wanderer observing the shadows on the walls.
Friday is the market day. Indeed, as Veneto is an area of few big cities and many small ones, the market is economically divided between the number of towns in the neighbourhood and travels to a different place every weekday. The market arrives early in the morning - trucks after trucks of clothes, fruit, shoes, cheese, kitchen utensils, carpets, fish. (Even the beggars arrive with the market, always the same ones. Do they hitchhike?) The cars pack out tables, a roof, and an unimaginable number of various articles, and the day can begin. Suddenly each open space in the centre is packed with people eyeing the goods, bumping into each other, seeing everyone they know, trying on sweaters, counting out coins, choosing between various types of oranges. The town is unrecogniseable. Streets around the centre buzz with cars: little old ladies driving their twice-a-week round in their tiny Fiat 500-s; irritable drivers finding the usual streets closed and traffic slowed down by the little old ladies; cargo trucks stopping at all imagineable places to unload; streams of people crossing the road apologetically...
Someone making a proper market round should start at the north end, near the statue of Marzotto (the legendary creator of the local textile industry and with it, Valdagno) and browse through the tables of yarn, buttons and endless shoes before crossing the road to the clothes section.
The clothes section holds an array of inexpensive more or less fashionable items, quite enough for people not looking for famous trademarks, or with children that grow out of their new pants in a matter of days. The clothes are set conveniently next to the drills, saws and other tools to give a chance for the men to entertain themselves while the women shop for socks. The movement between the tables is slow, giving the people a chance to get a good look at the merchandise, but also passers-by, the weather, their companions, and the like.
The passers-by are indeed something to look at. One can rarely appreciate just how multicultural Valdagno is, but the market is one of these occasions. There are the locals, talking to each other in broad dialect, but then there are the colourful Indian and Bangladeshi women in small groups, dragging their pretty children along from one table to another; the relaxed Ghanese; the serious Russian women chatting in low voices; the Chinese, selling scarves at 3-8 euros apiece.
Moving along from one table to another, buying a little bit of this or that, one arrives to the underwear (finally something frill-free!), the belts and bags of dubious origin, the baby clothes, the carpets. Passing from the Piazza del Comune to the last part of the market, the tone of selling and buying changes completely. It's the food. The atmosphere changes from a multicultural bustle into clearly Italian, and differences between the shopping Italians and others are increasingly visible. The pace of the walkers, so tranquil and dreamy before, goes through an abrupt change. It's not a question of mildly planning to or not to buy something. The routes are clear and habitual - which of the three fruit-stands to go to, how many oranges, how many paprikas, what kind of salad. Olive oil should be extra virgin. The yoghurt should be local. Orders pour out, the saleswomen pick, weigh and pack the vegetables in an instant. Anything else? Hands fill with heavy bags. Finding the wallet and the correct sum becomes increasingly difficult. But we're still missing the cheese.The cheese! Going to a market can be a ritual, but nothing can compare to the full process of buying a week's cheese. There are two cheese-trucks. In time one learns to prefer certain kinds of cheese from one and others from the other one (because there is a difference). First, approach the cheese stand. It will already have a number of people in front of it, so one can get a good look at everything. But it's always the same. Italians love their stability in food. (The only seasonal change are the fresh malga-cheeses from the dairy houses in the mountains at the end of the summer.) Thus, on a usual Friday, one would order some mozzarella or stracchino - very fresh, almost not even cheese; then something generally light, maybe 200 grams of Asiago latte intero? Or cacciotta... Some of both, then. Asiago is a highlands barely an hour north of Valdagno that produces all levels of Asiago cheese. The maturing process makes all the difference, so it means a true variety. So, for something mid-aged it will be Asiago again, for mezzano dolce is the best. (An adventurous-feeling Valdagnese might try Provolone or something instead, but this would be something rare.) Moving along - how's about something stronger-tasting? Gorgonzola makes a perfect addition to all kinds of cheese-sauces. And most of the pasta dishes don't go anywhere without an addition of grated parmesan. Cheeses as old as this (aged 2 years as a rule) should be ceremonially tasted before decided on. If it goes (and it always goes), the clerk will pry a chunk off the stone-hard cheese wheel with a short knife. By this time the pile of cheese on the counter will be considerable, but usual. Paying will leave a hole in one's budget, but it's worth it.
Gradually the crowd disperses - from half past 12 onwards it's lunch-time. The mothers hurry to cook and the rest of the families hurry to be on time for the food. It takes some time for the market to pack itself neatly into the cars again, but they will soon be on their way, leaving behind only a pile of cardboard boxes. At early afternoon Valdagno is again as sleepy a place as can be: everyone will be at home, quietly digesting their lunch, and the town centre is left empty for a random wanderer observing the shadows on the walls.
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