The young women were having the time of their lives. What could be better. To 21-year-old American girls just cruising through Italy in a rented Fiat, with no schedule, no timetables. Going where they wanted. Doing whatever struck their fancy. Shelly and Brunella had just spent the night in Savona, a charming harbor town on the Riviera. Now, they turned their little Italian car north, towards the mountains. Shelly loved mountains. She never knew why. Must be in her physical makeup, she thought. The good friends were having such a wonderful time they didn't notice the needle on the Fiat's fuel gauge was resting on empty.
Brunella pulled the car into a service station just in time. Brunella, in her not-quite-fluent Italian, told him to fill 'er up.
"Where are we?" Shelly said to Brunella, who replied that she had no idea.
"Americani?" asked the attendant.
Brunella: "Yes...uh, si si."
"It's all right," said the attendant. "I speak English."
"Oh," said Brunella, somewhat surprised that a gasoline pumper would be bilingual. "What town is this?"
"Canelli," answsered the attendant. "Provincia Asti."
The girls gave each other puzzling looks. They never heard of this place.
"You're here at the right time," said the attendant. "We're having our festival. Every year we celebrate the seige of our city, the events of 1613. The folks who live here dress as they did back then, and recreate the battle for Canelli. You should go. It's lots of fun."
A festival? Yes, that did sound like fun. They paid the attendant, thanked him for the suggestion and headed toward the middle of the village to take part in the revelry.
Not five minutes after they parked their car, Shelly and Brunella saw a sight that made their eyes almost pop out.
"Oh my God, Shel, look at that," Brunella said, pointing to a set of stocks in the middle of the village square. A black woman in her 20s was being locked into the stocks. Her hands were secured above her head by cuffs connected to holes in the backrest against which her upper body leaned. Her ankles were put into the holes in the board at the end of the contraption. The top part of the board closed on her and the click of a lock let everyone know the lady was trapped. For good measure, a belt was tightened across her knees.
Shelly and Brunella noticed right away the woman was not one of the townspeople. She wore traditional African garb -- a colorful scarf around her nappy hair, a dashiki with a beautiful pattern and strappy leather sandals on her ebony feet. She was smiling as she babbled in French to a man standing next to her, also dressed in modern clothing. As soon as the woman was secured in the stocks, two men who looked to the Americans like members of the Three Musketeers removed the woman's shoes. Shelly and Brunella stared dumbfounded as the local men wrapped laces around the captive woman's big toes and tied them to hooks on top of the board that held her legs, exposing the creamy-beige soles of her feet to the world.
"Oh God, Shel, what are they going to do?" Brunella said, breathlessly. "They are going to torture that poor woman."
"Oh come on, Nell," answered her friend, "they wouldn't do that."
One of the men in 17th century clothing pulled out a long, pointed feather and began rubbing the tip of it across the naked toes of the woman's right foot. Immediately the June air was filled with the sound of hysterical laugter. The woman screamed, wiggled her feet and contorted her upper body. She yelled things in French the two American women couldn't make out. But when the woman began screaming "non, non, non, non, non, non non," no translator was required. Brunella's jaw dropped at the sight of this poor foreign woman having her feet tickled, unable to fight off her tormentors. Shelly watched with little expression on her face.
One of the musketeers dropped the feather and the two of them started spider tickling the African woman's helpless feet. The screams became all the louder, as the woman craned her neck and opened her mouth wide enough to show all the white teeth inside her black mouth. Her companion, a white man about 30 years old, was starting to look a bit worried. His girlfriend, or whatever she was, was obviously too ticklish for this little act of re-creation. After some 10 minutes of sheer agony, the woman's companion said something to the musketeers, a minute or so later, they stopped tickling her feet and let her catch her breath. When the victim was composed, they let her go. She went to her friend and hugged him tightly. They said something to each other in French, then kissed the kind of kiss Americans don't usually see in public, except in travelogues for Paris. The musketeers handed their ex-captive her sandals. She did not put them on, but wrapped her left arm around her man's waist and walked off barefoot through the dusty Canelli streets to the next attraction.
"I can't believe she let those men put her in that thing," Brunella said.
No sooner had she gotten that sentence out of her then the Americans watched as a 40ish woman with dark hair, possibly Italian, sat in the seat formerly occupied by the gorgeous young African lady. Again, the girls looked with amazement as the woman's shoes were pulled off her feet and her toes were lashed to the hooks on top of the board that secured her ankles.
Shelly and Brunella assumed the black woman didn't know what was coming. This woman, however, had been standing there watching as the Canelli men tortured the African gal. She knew exactly what fate was in store for her. Shelly and Brunella gawked as, once again, one of the tormentors pulled out his feather and brought it down close to the woman's helpless bare feet.
"I want to try that," Shelly said as the new captive began laughing like a maniac. Brunella was stunned
Brunella: "What?"
Shelly: "I want to try that."
Brunella: "That's not funny, Shel."
Shelly: "I'm not being funny. I want to try that."
Brunella: "EEEWWWW."
The dark-haired woman was giggling like mad, shouting things in either Italian or Spanish between fits of laughter. She didn't seem as ticklish as the African woman, but she bucked and twisted in vain attempts to free herself from the local men's tickling fingers. She twitched her feet madly as her bare soles and toes suffered the cruelty that no doubt so many unwilling women of Canelli suffered 350 years earlier during the seige.
Shelly: "You don't have to do it if you're chicken, but I want to do it. OK?"
Brunella: "No. Not OK. You're crazy. What, are you not ticklish or something?"
Shelly: "I'm very, verrrrrrry ticklish. I had this boyfriend in junior high, and we were at the beach and he and his friends pinned me down and he tickled my feet and my sto..."
Brunella: "Look, Shel, I'm a primative cultures major. I know that in primative societies tickling is used as torture."
Shelly: "Well, obviuously, it was used that way here once upon a time. Why not try it?"
Brunella: "Shelly, you don't want to do this."
Shelly looked at Brunella, who could see in Shelly's big blue eyes and the way the corners of her mouth turned up that her best friend was as serious as a snakebite. This was the girl who made out in the back seat of a car in the parking lot of a Negro night club with a boy she didn't know from Adam and Eve. Frank, or whatever his name was, knew Shelly was ticklish, though he tickled her on a part of her body the Italian guys in the crazy outfits were not going to touch. She DID want to do this.
NEXT: Sometimes contributing to the local color isn't so pretty.
Brunella pulled the car into a service station just in time. Brunella, in her not-quite-fluent Italian, told him to fill 'er up.
"Where are we?" Shelly said to Brunella, who replied that she had no idea.
"Americani?" asked the attendant.
Brunella: "Yes...uh, si si."
"It's all right," said the attendant. "I speak English."
"Oh," said Brunella, somewhat surprised that a gasoline pumper would be bilingual. "What town is this?"
"Canelli," answsered the attendant. "Provincia Asti."
The girls gave each other puzzling looks. They never heard of this place.
"You're here at the right time," said the attendant. "We're having our festival. Every year we celebrate the seige of our city, the events of 1613. The folks who live here dress as they did back then, and recreate the battle for Canelli. You should go. It's lots of fun."
A festival? Yes, that did sound like fun. They paid the attendant, thanked him for the suggestion and headed toward the middle of the village to take part in the revelry.
Not five minutes after they parked their car, Shelly and Brunella saw a sight that made their eyes almost pop out.
"Oh my God, Shel, look at that," Brunella said, pointing to a set of stocks in the middle of the village square. A black woman in her 20s was being locked into the stocks. Her hands were secured above her head by cuffs connected to holes in the backrest against which her upper body leaned. Her ankles were put into the holes in the board at the end of the contraption. The top part of the board closed on her and the click of a lock let everyone know the lady was trapped. For good measure, a belt was tightened across her knees.
Shelly and Brunella noticed right away the woman was not one of the townspeople. She wore traditional African garb -- a colorful scarf around her nappy hair, a dashiki with a beautiful pattern and strappy leather sandals on her ebony feet. She was smiling as she babbled in French to a man standing next to her, also dressed in modern clothing. As soon as the woman was secured in the stocks, two men who looked to the Americans like members of the Three Musketeers removed the woman's shoes. Shelly and Brunella stared dumbfounded as the local men wrapped laces around the captive woman's big toes and tied them to hooks on top of the board that held her legs, exposing the creamy-beige soles of her feet to the world.
"Oh God, Shel, what are they going to do?" Brunella said, breathlessly. "They are going to torture that poor woman."
"Oh come on, Nell," answered her friend, "they wouldn't do that."
One of the men in 17th century clothing pulled out a long, pointed feather and began rubbing the tip of it across the naked toes of the woman's right foot. Immediately the June air was filled with the sound of hysterical laugter. The woman screamed, wiggled her feet and contorted her upper body. She yelled things in French the two American women couldn't make out. But when the woman began screaming "non, non, non, non, non, non non," no translator was required. Brunella's jaw dropped at the sight of this poor foreign woman having her feet tickled, unable to fight off her tormentors. Shelly watched with little expression on her face.
One of the musketeers dropped the feather and the two of them started spider tickling the African woman's helpless feet. The screams became all the louder, as the woman craned her neck and opened her mouth wide enough to show all the white teeth inside her black mouth. Her companion, a white man about 30 years old, was starting to look a bit worried. His girlfriend, or whatever she was, was obviously too ticklish for this little act of re-creation. After some 10 minutes of sheer agony, the woman's companion said something to the musketeers, a minute or so later, they stopped tickling her feet and let her catch her breath. When the victim was composed, they let her go. She went to her friend and hugged him tightly. They said something to each other in French, then kissed the kind of kiss Americans don't usually see in public, except in travelogues for Paris. The musketeers handed their ex-captive her sandals. She did not put them on, but wrapped her left arm around her man's waist and walked off barefoot through the dusty Canelli streets to the next attraction.
"I can't believe she let those men put her in that thing," Brunella said.
No sooner had she gotten that sentence out of her then the Americans watched as a 40ish woman with dark hair, possibly Italian, sat in the seat formerly occupied by the gorgeous young African lady. Again, the girls looked with amazement as the woman's shoes were pulled off her feet and her toes were lashed to the hooks on top of the board that secured her ankles.
Shelly and Brunella assumed the black woman didn't know what was coming. This woman, however, had been standing there watching as the Canelli men tortured the African gal. She knew exactly what fate was in store for her. Shelly and Brunella gawked as, once again, one of the tormentors pulled out his feather and brought it down close to the woman's helpless bare feet.
"I want to try that," Shelly said as the new captive began laughing like a maniac. Brunella was stunned
Brunella: "What?"
Shelly: "I want to try that."
Brunella: "That's not funny, Shel."
Shelly: "I'm not being funny. I want to try that."
Brunella: "EEEWWWW."
The dark-haired woman was giggling like mad, shouting things in either Italian or Spanish between fits of laughter. She didn't seem as ticklish as the African woman, but she bucked and twisted in vain attempts to free herself from the local men's tickling fingers. She twitched her feet madly as her bare soles and toes suffered the cruelty that no doubt so many unwilling women of Canelli suffered 350 years earlier during the seige.
Shelly: "You don't have to do it if you're chicken, but I want to do it. OK?"
Brunella: "No. Not OK. You're crazy. What, are you not ticklish or something?"
Shelly: "I'm very, verrrrrrry ticklish. I had this boyfriend in junior high, and we were at the beach and he and his friends pinned me down and he tickled my feet and my sto..."
Brunella: "Look, Shel, I'm a primative cultures major. I know that in primative societies tickling is used as torture."
Shelly: "Well, obviuously, it was used that way here once upon a time. Why not try it?"
Brunella: "Shelly, you don't want to do this."
Shelly looked at Brunella, who could see in Shelly's big blue eyes and the way the corners of her mouth turned up that her best friend was as serious as a snakebite. This was the girl who made out in the back seat of a car in the parking lot of a Negro night club with a boy she didn't know from Adam and Eve. Frank, or whatever his name was, knew Shelly was ticklish, though he tickled her on a part of her body the Italian guys in the crazy outfits were not going to touch. She DID want to do this.
NEXT: Sometimes contributing to the local color isn't so pretty.
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