Bless Summer Series: 9 On Stage {Look Around}

Medea by Frederick Sandys

Vengeful Medea was to be our guide in the small village of Roca, just along the Salento coast. The village looks serenely onto the sea, but is also doomed by the costal road - the only one - that cuts right through it and takes part of its charm away. Travelers tend to follow the road and not to stop into the village.

I am one of them: for years, I just passed by, headed north or south, but never to Roca itself. Not looking to the portion of village to the right or to the left of the dividing road.

It took a cruel Greek wife and her evil plot to make me stop and open my eyes: Medea was to stage her ravenous passion and anger in the old square of the village. Greek tragedy was to unveil to us the mysterious charm of old stones and locals, while underlining once more the historic ties between Apulia and Greece. While thanking Euripides for the opportunity, on we drove and - for once - we stopped in Roca. 

The only problem was: we did not know where to stop. Where is the square ("la piazza"), the agora that still hosts a few silhouettes and debates? A lovely couple, all dressed up for the play to be staged, kindly showed us the way. We followed them in eager cultural anticipation, while pondering on the absence of a crowd - the crowd you would expect on play night.

Instead, the square is home to a few olive trees safely grouped and sparse buildings with no charm other than that of the local, easily workable limestone, the "pietra leccese"; to the left, the land sinks into the silent and dark sea; on the stoops, the carved silhouettes of elderly people stand out - most of them are wearing plain black dresses or loose trousers and shirts. This is no cliché; this is their life. And as we drive very slowly by, their heads turn, their eyes are riveted on us and show no expression. 

The play and its actors are nowhere to be seen. There is no stage, no lighting. No tragedy.

We ask a couple of elderly ladies crossing the piazza: one of them mentions that the village next door is celebrating its patron, so obviously Roca is not up for any challenging event like a play. We meet again and exchange a few polite words with the first couple we had met just earlier; they seem disappointed.

I am not: the play and its actors are everywhere to be seen. Roca is their stage, the moon their lighting. 

This is their comedy as they watch us getting lost, looking for Medea and reading on a sheet of paper taped to a lamppost: the actress who was to play the princess part has had an accident. 

Credits: here (painting by Frederick Sandys)