The Battle of the Oranges
Words Supplied
Images Alessandro Avondo
The Battle of the Oranges
Words Supplied
Images Alessandro Avondo
When life gives you lemons, they say make lemonade.
But what do you do when life hurls oranges at you with the force of a cannonball?
If you're in Ivrea, Italy, for the annual Battle of the Oranges, the answer is duck, weave, and retaliate with the fury of a thousand citrus-scented warriors.
I arrived in Ivrea, a charming little town in northern Italy, brimming with romantic medieval vibes and a palpable undercurrent of chaos. Every February, this quaint place transforms into a battlefield for one of the world’s most bizarre festivals.
The streets become rivers of squished oranges, and locals don Renaissance-era garb, preparing to pummel each other in an epic, sticky showdown. I had no idea what I was getting into, but the promise of vitamin-C-infused carnage was too tempting to pass up.
The beginning of Italy's juiciest showdown.
The Battle of the Oranges has its roots in rebellion—because, let’s face it, Italians never do anything halfway. Legend has it that back in the Middle Ages, a feisty miller’s daughter refused to submit to a local tyrant's lecherous “prima nocta” (Google it, I’ll wait).
The Battle of the Oranges isn’t just a festival; it’s a full-contact celebration of freedom, rebellion, and the sheer joy of making a mess.
Instead of compliance, she delivered his head on a platter. Naturally, the townsfolk, inspired by her audacity, rose up and kicked the tyrant’s goons to the curb.
To commemorate the uprising, Ivrea decided to recreate the battle… with oranges. Why oranges? No one knows exactly, but it’s Italy, and they make anything look good—even chucking fruit.
The festival kicked off with a procession, a riot of colorful costumes and drumming that vibrated through my chest. The miller’s daughter, known as the “Mugnaia,” led the parade, radiant and fearless in her white gown, tossing flowers to the crowd like a benevolent queen. For a brief moment, I thought this was going to be a quaint, cultural experience. Rookie mistake.
When life gives you oranges, you throw 'em... hard.
It’s all fun and games until someone takes an orange to the face.
I soon found myself drafted into one of nine “orange-throwing teams,” each representing different neighborhoods in Ivrea. My team was called the Scorpions, which felt ominously appropriate given their reputation for ruthless accuracy. They handed me a red cap—the universal signal for “Don’t pelt this person; they’re not part of the tyranny.” I tied it on with a mix of relief and disappointment. No one told me that being a spectator didn’t mean I’d stay clean, though. Or safe.
"A particularly burly guy on the tyrants’ cart locked eyes with me, grinned, and lobbed an orange straight at my chest. I yelped and stumbled backward, the impact leaving a juicy Rorschach blot on my jacket. So much for the red cap."
When the battle began, all hell broke loose. Horse-drawn carts, carrying helmet-clad “tyrants” armed with mountains of oranges, clattered into the piazza. They were met with a barrage of citrus fury from the ground teams, including my Scorpion comrades. The air was thick with flying oranges, and the sound of splattering fruit was punctuated by war cries and laughter. It was like a medieval food fight on steroids.
Dodging incoming oranges was a full-body workout. I’d barely duck one projectile before another whizzed past my ear, leaving a trail of sticky juice in its wake. Some people hurled with wild abandon, while others aimed with sniper-like precision. A particularly burly guy on the tyrants’ cart locked eyes with me, grinned, and lobbed an orange straight at my chest. I yelped and stumbled backward, the impact leaving a juicy Rorschach blot on my jacket. So much for the red cap.
Juice cleanses are lookin' real different these days.
By mid-afternoon, the streets were carpeted in orange pulp, and I was drenched in citrus juice from head to toe. The scent was overwhelming, like someone had detonated a giant bottle of Fanta. My shoes squelched with every step, and my arms ached from my half-hearted attempts at throwing oranges back. Meanwhile, the locals carried on like seasoned gladiators, their faces smeared with juice, their spirits unbreakable.
Orange you glad you did this?
When the battle began, all hell broke loose... it was like a medieval food fight on steroids.
This is what we like to call 'citrus warfare'.
Despite the chaos, there was an undeniable sense of camaraderie. Strangers laughed and high-fived between volleys, and kids darted through the carnage, collecting unblemished oranges like trophies. At one point, a grandmotherly woman handed me a fresh orange and gestured for me to aim at an approaching cart. I wound up, threw with all my might… and missed spectacularly. She patted my arm sympathetically and muttered something in Italian that I’m pretty sure translated to “Bless your heart.”
The juicy aftermath.
As the sun set, the battle wound down, leaving the streets looking like a crime scene from a fruit mafia movie. Exhausted but exhilarated, I joined the crowd at a nearby trattoria, where we swapped war stories over steaming plates of pasta and glasses of Barbera wine. My face hurt from smiling, my body ached from dodging, and I was fairly certain I’d never get the smell of oranges out of my clothes. But I’d never felt more alive.
The juice has been spilt.
The Battle of the Oranges isn’t just a festival; it’s a full-contact celebration of freedom, rebellion, and the sheer joy of making a mess. It’s ridiculous, chaotic, and utterly glorious. Sure, I left Ivrea with a few bruises and a newfound respect for the power of citrus, but I also gained a story I’ll be telling for years.
Would I do it again? In a heartbeat. But next time, I’m bringing goggles. And maybe a shield.
get in the know In Italy, cats are considered to be a 'bio-cultural heritage', meaning anyone convicted of hurting a cat (their own or a stray) can cop a $10k fine and face up to 3 years in prison. A country after our own hearts.
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