As I noted in my last post, the poet/philosopher/Viking raider/diamond cutter/prima ballerina assoluta (who knows if it’s a woman?) “Anon” mentioned the three sublime elements that have remained to us from paradise. The second is flowers.
If anyone were to imagine that Venice is made only of stone, brick and water, I’d like to correct that notion. Here is a very limited assortment of flowers I’ve seen in or near Venice over the years and seasons. Does it seem like a lot? I could have done more. They say that when “War and Peace” was on the verge of being published, Tolstoy suddenly cried out “A yacht race! I left out a yacht race!” In this case, I have left out the magnolia and plum and pomegranate and daisies…. I had to stop somewhere, as Tolstoy must also have regretfully realized.
Winter flowers sounds like a contradiction (experts know it’s not) but I was astonished one freezing winter day years ago to find myself walking through a cloud of perfume. That was my introduction to what Lino calls calycanthus — I discovered later that it is “Chinese winter bloom” (Chimonanthus praecox). This is not that particular tree; the one I discovered was almost completely hidden behind a different wall which only made the moment even more magical. If the fragrance wafts past you some frigid night, it verges on celestial. I read that this essential oil is used in some “quality perfumes.” It’s sheer quality all by itself.It begins to bloom in December. Break off a little low-hanging branch, and in the few brief days before the flowers start dropping off your house will smell divine. No, I’m not exaggerating.Lino knew a few places where the shrubs were easy to reach, so he would bring me a few twigs.
The violets make their first appearance lurking among the spring shadows.Then everybody wants to get into the act.Late February and early March bring mimosa.
Moving toward Easter (which also moves every year, try to keep up), the peach blossoms arrive, often from Sicily, or even from somewhere in the Veneto. It must depend on the weather. I only see them at the Rialto market.
Then the wisteria steps into the spotlight. It seems to be everywhere but I count on seeing it in the little campo behind us.The Ristorante in Paradiso in the Giardini facing the lagoon never disappoints where its wisteria is concerned. I don’t know about the food.
On April 25, San Marco’s feast day, Venetian men go for the rose — the “bocolo” of a rose — and the longer the stem and redder the petals, the better. Your lady-love has to have one. Or else. One year we decided to take mine for a ride.An abandoned bocolo does not bode well,either for the couple or for the rose.Toward the end of April the forsythia takes center stage. This is an approximate date, of course; it comes out when it’s good and ready to come out.May: Poppies on Sant’ Erasmo.Poppies are everywhere for too brief a time.Yes, artichokes are flowers. These are a few castraure (cahs-trah-OO-reh) of the renowned Violet Artichoke of Sant’ Erasmo. Each is the very first bud that appears at the apex of the artichoke plant. People await their appearance sometime between April and May as if a special esoteric treasure is about to be bestowed. Because they now have reached a sort of cult status, it’s truly amazing how many castraure somehow show up in the market. After all, just one per plant … There are various recipes for them, of course, but considering that their primary attribute is their tender youth, they are especially delectable raw, sliced extremely fine and enhanced simply by salt, pepper and the best olive oil you can find. The supply only lasts a mere two weeks or so, then the botoi (BOH-toe-ee) move in.Botoi are the flowers that bloom after the castraura has been removed. They are more flavorful, but they have no PR agent to rhapsodize about them so nobody makes a fuss about botoi the way they do about castraure. Also, there are many more botoi than there are castraure, so they don’t seem quite so exceptional. More than one expert prefers them to castraure, but to each his own mania.To review: The upper crate contains castraure, the lower crate has botoi. They are both delectable.Before we move on, let me alert you to the fact that Italy is rife with artichokes. You will find these on sale in Venice: Castraure from Tuscany. At a very reasonable price, too — another hint that you might have left the Sant’ Erasmo sector. (Castraure from that island, at least the first few days, can cost as much as 2 euros each.)Accompanied by their botoi, noted as coming from Livorno (Tuscany). They actually look just the same to me. But the whole point of this interval is that artichokes are flowers.Tamarisks love salty soil. Besides being lovely they are also very useful; on Sant’ Erasmo they serve as windbreaks around the asparagus and peas and other spring treats.
At just the right moment, the artichokes, poppies and tamarisks (here they are not pink, as you see) are all out together. Tamarisks also manage a faint perfume, which is charming.Going to be figs when they grow up. I put this picture in just because I think it’s so cool, but then my rudimentary research reveals that figs have flowers, but are to be found inside the fruit. That seems grotesque but it obviously works so never mind.This luxuriant sweep of shrubbery at the Giardini is Pittosporum tobira. My source says it is “native to eastern Asia and is widely grown as an ornamental plant in Mediterranean climates. The plant produces small, inconspicuous greenish or whitish flowers that grow in clusters in the leaf axils.” Until late May its only virtue is being green. But then the flowers begin to open up and become conspicuous. My source says the flowers are known for their “intense fragrance,” and that is an understatement.Aren’t those little buds lovely? And their first aroma, after the long winter, makes you want to open your arms and invite them to your home and bring them cool drinks and expensive snacks and ask them if they’re happy and insist that they tell you if they need or want anything. That’s the first week or so. But like “The Man Who Came to Dinner,” they settle in, become obnoxiously comfortable, and decide they don’t ever want to leave. As the late spring days pass, they lose their early charm and frankly they don’t care.Time passes, and as the buds mature in the sunshine the fragrance becomes denser, heavier, more aggressive. The perfume that once was so ingratiating begins to evolve into a sort of murmured menace. No longer delightful, the odor verges on nauseating. And that’s not the point at which they fade and die. No, they remain at that stage until they get bored revolting you, and then they stay for a while longer. This extraordinary plant travels the world under various aliases: Australian laurel, Japanese pittosporum, mock orange and Japanese cheesewood. Call it what you will, let it pass by. Turn off the porch light, lower the blinds, pretend you’ve had to leave unexpectedly for Kiribati. Or at least stop using the Giardini vaporetto stop and just walk to wherever you’re going.Roses in the Giardini.Honeysuckle (Lonicera tatarica) at Sant’ Elena.
Oleander (Nerium oleander). I hope they leave it alone, it’s perfect just the way it is.Limonium narbonense comes out in mid-August. Various relatives are called sea-lavender, statice, caspia, or marsh-rosemary.
Late summer brings out the Erica; I do not know which of the hundreds of species this one may be. These are generally called “heath” or “heather.” That’s all I can tell you, apart from the fact that they are protected and you really should resist taking any home.This flowering shrub on the Vignole may be fleeceflower, or it may be silver lace vine. I hope some knowledgeable reader will settle this for me. Meanwhile it’s beautiful, and it lasts for weeks. Too bad it’s probably invasive, but we all know people like that. You take the fluffy with the bad.
“Three things remain to us from paradise: Stars, flowers, and children.”
This enchanting statement is often attributed to Dante Alighieri; I regret to say that no evidence supports this. So rather than waste time grappling amongst a thousand footnotes for the truth let’s agree that the very talented Anon. wrote it.
It came to mind because of Sophie’s arrival across the canal from us on January 4. I don’t know her; I haven’t seen (and, strange to say, haven’t even heard) her. I only know that she’s a new neighbor and she has brought joy with her.
So in the spirit of Anon.’s poetic observation, here are a few glimpses over the years of these particular remnants of paradise scattered around here. Flowers and stars will follow.
CHILDREN
What a lovely thing to see when one looks out the front door.
I’m always on the lookout for the welcome ribbons. Pink for girls, blue for boys, as you know. They always make me feel a bounce of hope.
Twins!More twins! That was certainly a lively Christmas at their house.
Sant’ Erasmo welcomes Federico.
I think her name is Roberta, but the big message is strung over the street. “E’ nata!” She’s born!
INTERLUDE: A summer stroll around Pellestrina, August 7, 2022. I was there on a typically sweltering summer Sunday to watch the annual local Venetian rowing races. With at least two hours to spare, I had plenty of time to lollygag. This was not at all my first time to this lagoon outpost of some 3,000 souls, so I wasn’t expecting surprises.
But surprised I was, to discover that the Stork had been working overtime. The number of ribbons I found tied to so many houses seemed almost like some sort of game. I won’t hazard any theories as to why a regiment of births had marched through this modest municipality in early August, though I’d like to know what had happened during the preceding November. Massive power outage — no TV but lots of candles? A village-wide festival of wine or grappa that got out of hand? Did a whole cohort make some crazy bet? Is it a cult? Articles continually come out lamenting Italy’s falling birth rate. Maybe they should come to Pellestrina and test the water?
This certainly cuts off the question “What are you going to name him?” Enea (eh-NAY-uh) is the Italian version of Aeneas, the Trojan warrior for whom The Aeneid is titled. A lot to live up to. I couldn’t even live up to this gate.I notice that white ribbons from a wedding are also attached to the gate. Probably just coincidence.One single bow seems a little sad somehow, compared to the extravagance of the other families. But wait! Another white bow? Has Pellestrina — or maybe the parish priest — gone mad?
Statistics reveal that typically more boys are born than girls, but Pellestrina appears to be taking the situation far too seriously.You don’t even have to write a book — the whole story is right out in the open here. It looks like the set of a comic opera when the curtain rises. Those two babies are doomed (by their mothers, obviously) to marry. Either that or one of them escapes destiny by fleeing to the South Seas to become a pirate.
Years ago I read a little report in the Gazzettino. The parish priest of Pellestrina — I’m pretty sure that’s where he was — had just happily celebrated the baptism of a new arrival. And he asked, “Why do we ring the church bells only when someone dies? We ought to ring them too when a baby is born.”
Who knew that three small cans could be a social experiment?
The young man in the Coop supermarket yesterday was either a new kind of tourist, or a new kind of young man, or some prototype of either that I earnestly hope doesn’t move to the production phase.
It was simple, brief, insignificant encounter. Now that I think of it, the moment could have made a moderately useful sketch for first-year acting students.
But we weren’t acting, we (including him) were just living our own banal little lives, stuck in the narrow, crowded aisle amid bottles of olive oil, cans of tuna, and containers of tomatoes in almost every form (the tomatoes, I mean) — tubes of dense concentrate, bottles of thick liquid passata, or puree; cans of tomatoes peeled or pulped. Strange, now that I think of it, that tomato juice was missing.
Anyway, it’s always a challenge to shop in peak tourist season, and going late Saturday afternoon is just asking for trouble. Not only does everybody suddenly realize they have to get yogurt or potato chips or a bag of lemons or 8 six-packs of beer or whatever right then, but it being winter, everybody is taking up twice their space thanks to their bulky down jackets. Especially that tall, strapping young man with his back turned to me.
There was only one package left of three small cans of polpa, and it was far back on the top shelf. Bonus points because at that spot there is a small ramp and I was halfway down the incline, so I had no chance of reaching it myself. But I came for the polpa and I intended to get it.
Cue the tall, strapping young man! Destiny calls! You haven’t reached this height and weight just to waste time training for the varsity clean and jerk. Fate has placed you between a high shelf and a small woman and if you mess with fate you’re doomed to live the last act of “The Flying Dutchman” forever. I guess that’s a little redundant.
Did I mention he was German? Nothing against Germans, honestly, but somehow it matters. It went like this:
Me (one tap on very high shoulder).
He turns around. So far, so normal.
“Puoi tirare giu’ quello?” (pointing to distant object).
“I don’t speak Italian.” English, German accent.
“Could you pull that down for me?” In most of the civilized world — I use the term loosely — that’s generally regarded as a rhetorical question. But here I get a sublimely literal answer.
“Why? I don’t work here.” Completely serious. I already knew that he didn’t work here — it’s the “Why?” that haunts me. I will always regret not having thought to say “Neither do I.” Instead I just said “Do me a favor?” I’m so lame.
He reached up and pulled it down. Turned away. Moved on.
I started to laugh, it was so ridiculous. I hope he heard me.
And so now I dream of Germany, where life is beautiful all the time, you obey the law, follow the rules, stay in your lane, where life is constructed entirely of square pegs and round holes which always fit in their correct and corresponding spaces. This young man must feel like he’s come to a madhouse, here in Italy.
Still, he did leave me a present. “Why? I don’t work here” now sits in a very pretty little crystal box in my mind where I can admire it whenever I need a little boost.
Good thing I didn’t ask him to reach me down one of these.
“Merry Christmas” in pure gold leaf beaten by Marino Menegazzo, the last man in Europe who beat gold entirely by hand. Stefania Dei Rossi’s shop “Oro e Disegni” has plenty of beautiful golden things but the sentiment here is 24 karat.
Naturally I intended to get this out before Christmas, but Christmas itself tangled me up. (Pretty bold move to blame an entire holiday for my own lapses.) Still, I wanted to squeak this into the calendar before 2025 reaches its expiration date.
Just a few glimpses of what I saw as I wandered around. Seems like the holiday was composed mainly of scraps, but they were good scraps.
Heartfelt best wishes to everyone for a peaceful, healthy, safe, nutritionally balanced, philosophically harmonious 2026.
Rio di Sant’Anna looking toward via Garibaldi. The fog helps.Paolo Brandolisio’s forcola workshop has taken a frivolous twist. The forcola now looks like a duck but he gets extra points for making it work.Speaking of frivolity, I bet you’ll wish your house had a Nativity scene arranged inside a monster pasta shell. Someone at the Rizzo shop at San Giovanni Grisostomo deserves admiration and probably also a raise.The fish market at Rialto makes the most of its fishing traps at Christmas.Some bright spark at the Coop supermarket had some spare time, some spare paint and the real Christmas spirit.While we’re on the classic color scheme, let me offer this unidentifiable fruit in a decoction known as mostarda. Nobody cares what it looks like, what people (like me) love is the way its white-mustard-laced syrup is lying in wait to attack your mouth and throat and sinuses. The tiniest bite of this innocuous-looking candied fruit sets off a pyroclastic flow from your throat to your brain. They say it’s intended to aid digestion, but what happens on the way there is what matters. You have sinus trouble? Take a bite of this and you won’t have them to worry about anymore, they’ll be gone.And while we’re on the subject of digestion… These bags, which need no introduction, have been sold in Christmas colors. I have no idea who put these here (of course they’re not supposed to be left on the street), but whoever it may have been has a real sense of humor.I get my boxes of tissues at the Coop, and their Christmas version is very nice. But why did they only put this out on the shelves AFTER Christmas? Lino says they’re trying to clear out the holiday stuff and of course I get that. I just don’t understand why this holiday stuff was never seen before Christmas. So many questions…..One of the prettiest window sills ever. And the person who created this scene has more faith in humanity than, honestly, I ever will.At the Rialto market this sign on the door explained why the Osteria I Compari was closed.“Running off … Maria is born!!! Closed because of happiness.” Nothing to do with Christmas but everything to do with gladness of heart and I want everybody to bask in this.The Arsenale entrance — minimal but basically tells the whole story.Instead of leaves there are lights in front of Nevodi. I like it a lot.Via Garibaldi in holiday mode. Even the women’s bags are red and green. Fun fact: People in the center are walking on a filled-in canal — the edges of which are marked by the white strips along the sides.I don’t know which are lovelier — the lights inside or out. I’m going to say “inside,” but they do work well together.Last year there were lots of little angels fluttering above the creche in front of the church of San Francesco di Paola. This year there are flags. The story here pretty much tells itself.Until a few days ago the cakes in the window at Melita, Mario the pastry-maker’s shop, were about Christmas. All at once (and the countdown has begun) they’re all about New Year. “Buon Anno 2026.” Chocolate huts with chocolate chimneys are absolutely what this world needs more of.There is also a small but aggressive assortment of cakes that have abandoned the innocent greeting in favor of apocalyptic Lord-of-the-Rings shards of Theobroma cacao. Not sure if you’re supposed to eat it or vanquish it.The moon didn’t want to set that morning in early December. It hung on till nearly 8:00, then the clouds crept over it and ordered it to go shine on someone else.
