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What was your name again?

IMG_9546  baiamonte tiepolo

Walking home the other day, I cast my eye, as usual, on the building corner which Lino refers to as “The Wailing Wall.”  Meaning no disrespect to the original place of that name, our little angle is the perfect spot to tape up death notices.  I’ve mentioned on other occasions that the cost to publish such a notice in the Gazzettino is totally fantastical, so these rectangles of plastic are extremely useful in keeping people up to date on for whom the bell is tolling.

But I don’t usually expect to see names I recognize, mainly because the number of people I know who might be likely to demise is very limited.  And although some surnames are a little unusual, there are very few which hurl one back 700 years into one of the most complicated and desperate conspiracies ever formed to attempt the overthrow of the Venetian Republic.

So I was unprepared to see a new notice stuck on the wall, complete with photo of the deceased, announcing the death of Baiamonte Tiepolo.

This name may not connote much to you, but anyone who has skimmed Venetian history knows it as the name of one of the most audacious revolutionaries who ever tried to scuttle somebody’s government.

It was like seeing a notice for some innocuous little person who just happened to be named Benedict Arnold, or Oliver Cromwell, or Ernesto Guevara, or Gregory Rasputin.

As for someone bearing the name of a renowned Venetian noble family, this isn’t quite so startling.  I interviewed a descendant of doge Jacopo Tiepolo some years ago, and I know that there are Grimanis and Zorzis and Da Mosto’s still roaming the city.  I have also met a young woman carrying forward the storied name of Bragadin.

But it’s one thing to bear the last name; if you were a Bragadin, I think it would be cruel to name your son Marcantonio.  The name is certainly worthy of remembrance, but the boy’s life would be hell.  There are only so many witty remarks you can make to someone whose forebear was flayed alive after an epic siege that lasted almost a year, and the lad would have to hear all of them.

On the same note, the Venice phone book lists two men named Marco Polo.  They must have been doomed to a life of a steady drizzle of really funny remarks.  “Hey, Marco — back so soon?”  “Give my regards to the Khan, next time you see him.”  “Did you really invent pasta?”  And so on.

For the late Baiamonte, the drollery would have had to be more erudite, and I won’t risk any here because life is short, and by the time one (that is, me) has related as much as possible of his ancestor’s spectacular, if also scurrilous, story, the potential for humor would have dried up and blown away in the wind.  But I feel safe in saying that, thanks to his namesake and his cohorts, the year 1310 stands out in Venetian history as much as 1492 or 1776 stands out in the American annals.

Here is the drastically condensed version of his story. The plot was foiled, he was exiled for four years, and his palace was torn down.  He spent those years traveling, visiting Venice’s enemies (Padova, Treviso, Rovigo, and some very powerful families therein) doing everything conceivable to convince them to join him in another conspiracy. He just wouldn’t give up.

Not amused, Venice changed the sentence to perpetual exile.  He wandered around Dalmatia seeking new collaborators.  He was imprisoned.  He escaped.  The Venetian government forbade anybody to have anything to do with him.  Finally, in 1329, the Council of Ten decreed that he had to be eliminated, by any means.

The details of Baiamonte’s death are uncertain, which is not surprising when a person has to be eliminated. (The “Caught a cold and stopped breathing” explanation has often been sufficient.)  As for location, at least one historian states that he was in Croatia, staying with relatives, when his last day came and went.

For the Tiepolos of Lower Castello, maybe it was a point of pride to name their son Baiamonte. It couldn’t have been inadvertent.  I can’t imagine somebody saying “Heavenly days, it never crossed my mind that somebody would think of the old subversive of blackened fame.”

I notice, though, that he named his son Andrea.  Maybe he had had enough.

The great conspirator's palace was razed, and a "column of infamy" detailing his crimes was erected in its place.  Eventually the column was broken up, and this abbreviated summary placed on the pavement: "Location of column of Baiamonte Tiepolo 1310."
The great conspirator’s palace at Campo Sant’ Agostin was razed, and a “column of infamy” detailing his crimes was erected in its place. Eventually the column was broken up, and this abbreviated summary placed on the pavement: “Location of column of Baiamonte Tiepolo 1310.”

 

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Details on deceasing

A reader has written to ask for some elucidation on my phrase “death notices taped up around the city” in my post “RIP don Ferruccio.”

There are several ways to announce the decession (it ought to be a word, so now it is) of your loved one.   You have your choice of any or all of them, depending on how much money you feel like spending.  

  • What I called a “death notice”  is a plasticated rectangle the size of an 8 1/2 x 11 sheet of paper with a photograph and some salient details concerning the deceased: Name, age, names of surviving relatives, the name of the funeral home, funeral details, and usually some additional phraseology to express grief, hope, and/or faith.  
    This is a typical design for the notices that are taped up; in this case, don Ferruccio's was tacked to the church door.
    This is a typical design for the notices that are taped up; in this case, don Ferruccio's was tacked to the church door.

    One of the most common ones translates as “No one dies as long as they live in the hearts of those who love them.”   I think that’s painful.   Anyone who has lost someone dear to them knows perfectly well that the person is dead, no matter how much love they may feel.    Makes it sound as if loving the person is practically the same thing as having them there in the flesh.   End of unsolicited opinion.

These notices are taped up around the neighborhood on convenient corners.   There’s  a corner near us which seems to be a common favorite; sometimes there are two or three stuck there.   Lino calls it the “Wailing Wall.”   But it is a very useful way to let people know what’s happened, and often little clumps of people will stop to read it and discuss the person and express feelings or opinions.   Sometimes, to save money, the family will photocopy the notice and tape that up.   I think that’s painful too.

There is hardly a day when at least one notice isn't taped up to the "Wailing Wall."  Perhaps the day-spa whose corner this is doesn't feel very happy about this, or maybe they don't care.  Nothing they can do about it either way.
There is hardly a day when at least one notice isn't taped up to the "Wailing Wall." Perhaps the day-spa whose corner this is doesn't feel very happy about this, or maybe they don't care. Nothing they can do about it either way.

The  cost of these plastic announcements is usually included somewhere in the total cost of the funeral, though the job of sticking them up  on walls  is completely up to one of the family members, or whoever feels like doing it.   I think it’s inexpressibly sad to see, say, the widower taping up the melancholy announcement about his wife on whatever corner seems right to him.   But then again, maybe doing it helps somehow.     What’s really sad is to see someone taking it down after the funeral.

However, you can also order them separately from a funeral home, even if you haven’t engaged them.   In that case, they cost about 5 euros ($7.42) apiece.

  • Your other option is a notice in the Gazzettino.   These are not really obituaries as they don’t say much beyond the barest basics of the situation.   However, the cause of death is never mentioned.   In some cases you can deduce it if the family has included a special thank-you to the doctors, staff and clinic/hospital.   Hard to mistake if the gratitude goes out to the oncology department.

 

A typical page in the "Gazzettino."
A typical page in the "Gazzettino."

Whether to put the news in the paper might be a very easy decision  to make when you   hear the price, which is  generally calculated by the line rather than the word.     In any case, the minimum is 300 euros plus 20 percent tax (360 euros or $534).   If you want to add a photograph, it starts at 150 euros plus tax (180 euros or $266).    

  • If you are not directly involved in the bereaved family, you have economy option: You can  add your name to the published notice to notify the world that you share the family’s sorrow.   For five names (“Laura and Federico with Annamaria”)    is 50 euros plus tax (60 euros or $89).   If you add more names, you spend  more money.

If the person who has gone to glory is sufficiently notable, a small article  will be published.   Presumably this doesn’t cost anyone anything, but I can’t promise that.   You   just never know in this world.

"San Pantalon: The parish priest don Ferruccio Gavagnin has died."  And so on.  Here as elsewhere, the photograph is almost always one taken at least 30 years earlier, or so it seems.
"San Pantalon: The parish priest don Ferruccio Gavagnin has died." And so on. Here as elsewhere, the photograph is almost always one taken at least 30 years earlier, or so it seems.
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Moving forward, backward, in circles?

Too many corners?  This street will take you somewhere.  It might be the “where” you want to be, or maybe not.

I had an interesting dream last night, set in Venice; nothing particular happened but I did awaken with this thought: It’s not the canals that make Venice so particular (special, different, beautiful, strange, etc.), it’s the corners.

Why is that?  Because there are so incredibly many of them, and when you turn one, or two, or more, you either move ahead or you somehow find yourself pretty much back where you started.

That’s my new metaphor for Venice.  As far as I can tell, after the enormous difficulties and turmoil caused by two years of Covid, somehow it seems that we’re back where we started.  You might think that could be a good thing (“Back to normal!”) except that it’s not (“Back to normal!”).  Things keep happening, but almost nothing really changes.  Names change occasionally, but the headlines seem to be set on “replay.”

There are now fewer than 50,000 Venetians living in the historic center of Venice.  (In 2021, there were 50,434).  This is a threshold many people dreaded crossing, but it has been crossed nonetheless.  I have no idea what this means in real life, because supermarkets continue to open.  Who are their customers?

This place was a furniture and upholstery shop when we moved here. Then it became a bar/cafe/slot machine parlor. Then the “acqua granda” decimated it in 2019 and it has remained this way till now.
Then, just a week or so ago, suddenly there was activity.
It’s going to be a very large supermarket dedicated to shampoo, detergent, cosmetics, also potato chips and beer.  Just what we few who live here were needing?  We already have two supermarkets and a shampoo/detergent shop.  Stand by for the struggle for survival of the smaller, family-run detergent emporium and this megalodon.
This store is already separating itself from the family-run shop several doors down: It will be open continually (no mid-day closing for lunch or a nap or anything like that), and it will be open on Sunday, when the family is at home taking a break like normal people.  I am not happy.
Here’s a wonderful sight, though: Imagine my delight at seeing a truly useful shop open up. A barber named Mohammed took over the space of the defunct laundromat, victim of the acqua granda. The space sat empty for two years, then suddenly the classic rotating barber-pole appeared. I really hope Mohammed makes it. There must be at least one tourist who’ll need a haircut between spritzes.

When the mayor uses the term “Venice,” he is referring to the general metropolitan entity, the preponderance of which is on the mainland.  Everybody knows he really only cares about the mainland: “The future of Venice,” he said openly, “is Mestre.”  Take that, Venice-lovers!  The future of Milwaukee may well be Sheboygan, but to someone who thinks of the Piazza San Marco when he/she hears “Venice,” Mestre is a bit much.  Still, this is how it’s going.  Eight of the ten city councilors are from the mainland.  The ninth is in Venice itself, the tenth lives on the Lido.  And of course the mayor too is from the mainland, where he has business interests.  So voices speaking up for the dwindling historic center are faint and few.

Meanwhile, daily life is made up of stores closing, stores opening.  Unpredictable transit strikes and all-too-predictable wailing by ACTV, we have no money we have no money.  Tourists:  We want them, but they’re making us crazy.  The sudden drought of Russian tourists has torn a new hole in the city’s financial fabric.

Cruises: Big ships are banished from the Bacino of San Marco. The cruise ships will enter the lagoon at Malamocco, toiling like container ships up to the raggedy docks in the commercial port zone of Marghera.

The MSC “Sinfonia” opened the season by docking at Marghera on April 9, the first of the 200 cruises scheduled for this year.  Sound good?  Not when you compare it to the 565 cruises that stopped (or started) in Venice in 2019.  But those days are gone.

MOSE: There will never be anything new to say about this.  Work stopped, problems found, money gone, problems found, money arrives, work starts again, problems found, date of completion always on the horizon.

The thing is that headlines blurt out news that any Venetian already knew years ago.  Example: Barnacles.  Lino mentioned the inevitability of barnacle encrustation to me back in 1994.  It would be impossible to astonish anybody who has kept a boat in the water here.  This is as much a fact as that water is wet.

Still, somebody finally noticed the problem.  In 2018, an article announced the discovery by an underwater drone that the MOSE barriers were rusting and encrusted with barnacles.  Time passes, nothing is done.  In 2022, another headline:  Barnacles!!  Or to be even more precise: Mussels.

The Guardia di Finanza disseminated a brief video showing this little voyage of discovery a few days ago.  I can’t estimate how many tons of mollusks have attached themselves to the gates, but I can tell you that their weight is going to have a very serious effect on the gates’ functioning.

Turns out that the gates that have been lying in their assigned position underwater awaiting the call to block the tide have not been receiving the required and agreed-upon maintenance.  The money for maintenance was allotted some time back, but it seems to have not been spent on maintenance.  If the crud was predictable, so was the fate of the maintenance money.

Years ago, the cost of annual maintenance was forecast to be some 15 million euros.  Then estimates of maintenance costs rose to 80 million euros, and now they’re projected to be 200 million euros per year.  Where do these numbers come from?  Are they breeding in dark corners, like wire hangers?  In any case, vast amounts of money can’t ever sit still long enough to be spent on what they’re supposed to be spent on.  When you actually need the money, somehow it’s just not there anymore.

There’s no need to read headlines, this has been going on for generations now.  The big hold-back-the-tide project began in 1973, when the Special Law for Venice allotted money for a competition for designs (held in 1975).  When the first stone was laid in 2003, the end was promised for 2010.  We were all so young, so innocent… Then the 2014 deadline came and went, then the middle of 2018, then the beginning of 2019.  The “acqua granda” of November 2019 broke several financial logjams, and work picked up with the promise of concluding in 2021.  Sorry, I meant 2023.  Endless years pass of “We’ll get there!  Give us more money!”  Lack of funds closed the works for the entire year of 2021.  Rome sends millions, then more millions.  And yet, somehow there is never enough.

Tourism: They’re baaaaack.  Intermittently, and more often on weekends, still more often just during the day.  There were a few Carnival crush-fests in the San Marco area, but nothing noteworthy.  I suppose it just wouldn’t be Venice without 100,000 or more visitors in a day.  And just now, on the cusp of the Easter weekend, we are back under siege again.

This is supposed to be good (even as we see the interminable lines at the vaporetto stops for boats to Murano and Burano).  Venice has got to get back in the game, seeing as it’s the only game there is.

Venice isn’t the only Italian city to take a major hit from the pandemic, but I am not seeking comparisons. There were 8,800,000 visits in 2019; 2,500,000 in 2020, and a little more than 3,200,000 in 2021.  Between May and August of 2021 (peak summer season) the arrivals were 54 percent fewer than in 2019.
Last January I glimpsed that a return to normal tourist business was imminent when I passed the dry cleaning shop and saw piles of hotel-room drapes.
Now vaporettos are back to being jammed with people and luggage.  True, this is a holiday weekend, but the crush has become more noticeable over the past two months.
Fancy bags from fancy stores show that some of the tourists with money are returning. Too bad the Russians are gone; they’d been increasing over the years to be among the top spenders in the tourist cavalcade (fourth after Japanese, Chinese, and Canadians), spending an average of 145 euros per person per day in 2018.  And they loved the many-starred hotels; almost 40 per cent of Russians stayed in the fancy hostelries.
Italian tourists are forecast to increase by 35 percent over last year, and foreign tourists will be up 43 percent.  If they all went to Dior, how great would that be.
Maybe these bottles were prepared for the now-missing Russians?  Stunned by a wine that costs 900 euros ($972), I discover that Solaia is produced in the Chianti Classico area and is considered “among the most influential wines in the history of Italian viticulture.”  The other two bottles suddenly seem so much more approachable.  Yet if there is one thing — or three — that say “tourist,” it has to be these.  Have them delivered to my yacht.
And speaking of bottles, there are these little containers of unknown substances.  Of course there ought to be something on sale for everybody, but the city is promising to clamp down on the shops selling the cheap tchotchkes aimed at the average yobbo.  I doubt that this item will make it onto their radar, though.  They’re on the lookout for cheap masks and little bobbing battery-run gondolas for your bookshelf.
Gondoliers are back at work.
So are taxi drivers.
Suddenly the now-reopening businesses and hotels are scrambling to find staff. The Bar Torino in Campo San Luca is looking for a woman or man to work the bar — experience required.
Waiters!!  “We are seeking personnel for the (dining) room.  Send your CV via email….or leave it inside!  Age between 20 and 30 years old.”  Evidently age requirements aren’t forbidden by law; if they were, I don’t suppose the proprietor would be so upfront about how much he prefers people in their 20s.
“Lacking chambermaids, war breaks out between hotels.”  I say “chambermaid,” though maybe there are men who also clean and set up hotel rooms.  But 70 percent of workers associated with tourism are women.
Unloading bags of flour at the bread bakery is another sign of the touristic return. People buy bread, sure, but restaurants and bars buy more.

Last year sometime there was a brief quiver of excitement over the resurrected idea of installing turnstiles to control the flow of tourists entering the city at certain points.  That idea has been mothballed.  I think we don’t want to slow them down.  The eternal subject of the selling a ticket to enter Venice has also been put aside.  But these ideas will be back.  They’re like the swallows going to Capistrano.

One huge drawback to the renting of apartments to tourists is their garbage. Many owners leave instructions about when to leave it out for collection (on our street, the trashmen come by between 8:10 and 8:25 AM). But if for some reason you put it out much earlier, even the night before, this is what greets the dawn. Seagulls can smell your pizza box and coffee grounds and they will rip the plastic bag to shreds.
Pigeons are also fans but they don’t get a chance till the seagulls have finished.
There are two tourist-rental apartments on our tiny stretch of street. I understand that if you have a flight that leaves at 6:30 AM, you’re going to put it out when you go. Then again, there are people who put it out at 9:00 because they want to sleep late. The trashmen are not amused but they can’t leave it there.

Biennale: Yes, it is opening this year — April 23 to November 27 — and the vibrations are palpable.  The small park on the Riva dei Sette Martiri tends to host more light-hearted works.  I’ll just call them “works,” because I can’t bring myself to say “art.”  I honestly don’t know what they are.

No, THIS is art.

So here we are, caught in the endless cycle of everything.  Maybe there will be something new around the next corner (or ten), but I’m not counting on it.

My vision of a perfect world: Nothing fancy, everybody getting along, nobody trying to get anywhere.
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Water on the floor, and the day after

This is the view out our front door as the situation was reaching the problematic stage. In this case, though, it wasn’t so much the water that we were looking at as the height our boat was reaching. This was the point at we put on our hip waders and went to tie the boat to the barely-visible metal railing. The reason: The boat was in imminent danger of rising so high it would slip off the pilings it’s tied to and float away with the wind and the current. It happened to more than one person.

On October 29, 2018, there was water on plenty of floors.  The tide wouldn’t have been all that high if the waning moon had been in charge of the weather, but the wind took over, reaching gusts of some 70 km/h (45 mph).  The scirocco, or southeast wind, was what really brought the water home.

The media was flooded (sorry) with dramatic images of not one, but two “exceptional” high tides.  “Exceptional” is the official term for any height over 140 cm above mean sea level (we got 156 cm at about 3:00 PM, 148 cm at about 11:00 PM).  And, as Lino and I know from our experience ten years ago, 150 cm is the limit of the top step leading into our apartment.  Therefore we had already gotten busy preparing our humble dwelling for this uninvited guest.

So the water came in but, in the time-honored way of the tide, it also went out.  And I — along with everybody in the city at street level — can tell you that while “water on the ground” (as the common phrase here expresses it when the quantities of water are more modest) provides dramatic photos, water on the floor is tiring.  Everybody’s next day was dedicated to cleaning up.  Which is also tiring.

Because many friends have so kindly asked how we are (or, by this time, how we were), here is a little chronicle of the event as we lived it.  There aren’t many pictures of the water outside our house because, as you’ll see, we had plenty to take care of inside.

It wasn’t fun, and of course it created major problems for vaporettos, ambulances, and other necessary boats which wouldn’t have been able to pass under the bridges.  But the water here wasn’t anything like the monstrous flooding of the rivers devastating the Veneto region, where epic rain had filled some rivers, such as the Piave, up to 30 feet above their normal height.  Bridges overwhelmed, roads completely impassable, houses drowned up to their second-story windows.  Unlike high tide, flooding rivers kill people, so no wailing from us.  Our water meant I had to dust and wash things I certainly had no interest in dusting or washing, but everything is back to normal for us.  Out in the countryside, they can’t even see “normal” on the horizon yet.

The view inside was dramatic in a different way.  Everything was either up on blocks, so to speak, or on the bed (which I won’t show because all the stuff piled up is just too appalling.  And dusty. It’s been ten years since the last time this happened, and I had no idea how much dust there was under there).
I usually watch the top step at the front door to gauge the height of the water, but Lino showed me an entertaining new way to keep track: The tiny triangular brick in the wall across the street. That brick is exactly at 150 cm. So I watched the brick. Not much else to do, all the chairs were up on the table.
We opened the door, not because we’re so hospitable, but because the water would have come in under it anyway. On the right side of the doorway is the metal frame which was installed to hold the well-known panel intended to keep the water out. You notice there is no panel (it’s up on the sofa at the moment). The first time we used it — which was also the last time — the water didn’t come under the door, it came through the wall under the kitchen sink, and up through a fissure in the floor. This time it didn’t come through the wall, so we learned our lesson.
Meanwhile, as the water is spreading across almost our entire apartment floor, one can only wait for the tide to turn.  There’s a difference between resignation and acceptance. When you’ve reached acceptance, having a coffee is the rational thing to do while waiting to be able to get back to normal.

The next morning, I had some errands to do on via Garibaldi.  As I expected, what I saw wasn’t a scene of destruction and lamentation but universal enforced housecleaning.  The Venetian bucket brigade, with mops.

While his son was busy with the water vacuum, Gianni at CityMedia got busy with the mop and a bottle of alcohol, which he said made the floor dry faster.  Neat trick, wish I’d known that earlier.  But I guess there will be a next time.
The Coop supermarket was kind enough to clarify the situation for any early customers who couldn’t interpret the significance of what the employees were doing.  The Italian version on the right-hand side politely added that they would be opening as soon as they could.  Please do without your bag of potato chips and bottle of beer for a little while longer.
At the pharmacy: Bucket and mop, check. Things up on plastic boxes, check. Soggy dirty mat at entrance, check. This would be the perfect moment to ask for lip filler, or to bring your little girl (or boy) to have a jolly ear-piercing.
The video-rental and various photo-tasks store. When the machinery is okay, everything is okay. They almost certainly will have installed the electrical outlets up high.  If not, they may be well planning to do it as soon as some electrician answers the phone.
At the drygoods store, she wasn’t only wiping up the floor, but also washing the windows. I forgot to mention that for a brief, exciting interlude the ferocious wind brought a deluge of rain. It sounded like things were breaking outside.  But this is her only, if toilsome, task; in the mountains there are still villages, isolated by masses of fallen trees and mudslides, which still have no electricity. They would love to be in Venice with only acqua alta.
I like her spirit; she must be new around here. In fact, she is; this bar/cafe (which has no visible name) has been open only a little while.
KirumaKata, another new shop, offers jewelry made of glass and also various ceramic objects.  They’re very lovely.  When I saw the barrier she had installed in front of the door (here we see only the frames), I thought, “Well, I hope that works out for her.”  In fact, she told me that the panel keeps out water as high as 140 cm or so.  After that — as our experience showed ten years ago — the water comes in however and wherever it wants to.
Three days later (Nov. 1) is a holiday, so the banks are closed. Here on the Riva dei Sette Martiri, the Cassa di Risparmio left the front door unbarricaded, even though acqua alta is forecast for today. This shows either extreme tranquillity in the face of imminent inundation, or they’ve already organized everything inside really well.
Towing a tree from somewhere to somewhere.  Floating debris is a serious hazard to navigation, and there was plenty of it around after the high winds plus tide.  Don’t think this is just somebody wanting to save on toothpicks.
Needs no explanation.
Nor this. The flat area is often used as an impromptu trash bin (seeing that there isn’t one as far as the eye can see, even if you use a telescope). In this case the border just floated on the surface of the water, and when the tide went down it left all this behind. Including the little bag of dog poop, because otherwise this wouldn’t be Venice.
For the curious about the sanitation system here, I offer a rarely-mentioned note on acqua alta, at least at street- or canal-level. When the water is this high — which isn’t anything particularly threatening…..
….the pressure of the tide makes it almost impossible for our toilet to do its work efficiently. After flushing, only a few teaspoons of water are left in the bowl, after a series of struggling, strangling, sucking noises from the plumbing. I add this information for anyone who might be on the ground floor someday during acqua alta and hears a noise that sounds like a hydraulic wrestling match. Also, I don’t use the washing machine till the tide goes down — I can only imagine it not draining at all and flooding the kitchen.  Which would already be wet anyway, true, but I haven’t reached the point of WANTING water on the floor.
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