Last Sunday was an unusually entertaining day. It wasn’t as entertaining as the last Sunday of June typically is, coming at the culmination of five days of festivizing at San Pietro di Castello in honor of the church’s namesake. But by the time the day was over there had been more diversion than I’d expected.
Let’s start with the festa for Saint Peter. This year — you know what’s coming — The Virus made it impossible to host the usual large and lively crowds, or execute the expected entertainment and the feeding of at least five thousand. (Yes, bread and fish are always on the menu, among other things.)
This is the way the festival always looks, give or take a colored spotlight or two. Five evenings straight, going full blast until midnight. We can hear the music from our house, and we’re not exactly next door. Depending on the direction of the wind, we can also get wafts of hot greasy things. This year, nothing.A lot of people always came from all around Venice, and maybe the mainland too. So technically you could call them “tourists,” though they generally seemed unforeign. I wish I’d paid more attention to the little boy in the center of the image, who I now see was attempting to climb the large trash-collection bin. I’d like to have known how that came out. I don’t recall any ambulances. Those were great years.
But nobody said we couldn’t have the festal mass, complete with the Patriarch of Venice on his annual visit. Chairs were set up outside in the campo, correctly distanced, and although the usual supporting players were few (a couple of selected Scouts instead of a whole troop, four trumpeters instead of the band from Sant’ Erasmo), or even non-existent (no Cavalieri di San Marco in their sweeping mantles — soooo hot but sooooo well worth it, I’m sure they believe), there was a fine gathering of the faithful.
And may I say that seeing each other without being separated by layers of tourists has been, and continues to be, a noticeably positive aspect of the quarantine and aftermath. More about that another time. But back to the service.
As the Patriarch pointed out in his sermon, the religious aspect is the one essential element of the occasion. He didn’t specifically say “Don’t feel mournful because there were no barbecued ribs and polenta and live music and horsing around for hours with your friends and the mosquitoes,” though I’m sure he knew that’s what people were missing. At least they came for him.
To review: This was the traditional festa:
It’s a bigger campo than most, but I wouldn’t have wanted to be the person responsible for enforcing social distancing on this mob.And this was the setup for mass, the only event of the entire festival. Down to the essentials, indeed.The temporary platform/altar arrangement was very efficient. The backdrop is the Patriarch’s coat of arms, worked by the tireless fingers of the group “Un Filo che Riunisce” (A Thread that Brings Together).Just a refresher: The crossed-key motif symbolizes Saint Peter.Except for a few places in the design that called for more complicated handiwork, the fundamental element appeared to be potholders. Sorry if that seems disrespectful.Last year’s festa was the first exhibition of the handiwork by “Un Filo che Riunisce” was this arrangement of — if not potholders, then squares to compose some titanic afghan. The components were sold for a few euros each to benefit the pediatric department of the Ospedale Civile, or city hospital, in Venice.They struck again last Christmas, with this creation in via Garibaldi. The group, a crocheting class, was formed in January of 2019 at the Salesian convent in calle San Domenico. The idea was to create something big out of many small pieces. I like the metaphor, and it certainly cheered up the December night.The arrival of the Patriarch aboard an elegant balotina is always a great moment (made beautiful as much by the balotina as the passenger, sorry). This year the Remiera Casteo launched the fleet — I’ve never seen that many boats from the club accompanying the guest of honor. The caorlina carried four trumpeters, the ones usually seen blasting from the bow of the bissona at the head of the corteo for the festa de la Sensa. I love the band from Sant’ Erasmo, but these were better, partly because ceremonial fanfares are fabulous in themselves, and because they came under oar-power. I can tell you from experience that following the motor-barge that carries the band means that you spend 45 minutes inhaling diesel exhaust, so it’s basically like rowing the Patriarch behind an 18-wheeler on the interstate. Not very poetic.Behold the brass section. They sounded as good as they look.Here the eye moves from the boat and its passengers to the dock onto which the passengers must alight (if one can use that word for a maneuver coming from so far below the objective). Hmmm….The job description for Patriarch of Venice ought to include “Boats, ability to climb into and out of.” His Eminence Francesco Moraglia has always shown remarkable aplomb in nautical moments that have every potential for disaster. Perhaps being born in Genoa and former bishop of La Spezia, site of an important naval base, has had some effect.Nothing easier. And he’s always quite conscientious about showing appreciation to the crew.A squirt of the semi-obligatory hand sanitizer, then on to greeting the notables, beginning with the woman representing the city government bedecked with the colors of the national flag. As you see, masks are not obligatory because we are all outside. But many people are still taking the safe route.
Assorted greetings follow, in this case to a divisional general of the Guardia di Finanza, as he walks toward the church, where he will add some garb and prepare for the mass.
Four priests administered communion from various positions around the area; they were easy to find by a white umbrella held aloft by a Scout.
And then it was time to take everything down.
Some of these ladies may have cataracts and any other sort of visual problem, but there is at least one who still manages to miss nothing. What is she looking at? She, and nobody else?A batch of balloons has broken free. Up and away… Of course I have no idea where they’re going, but as for me, I’m off to the races this afternoon.
Sunday afternoon it was time to segue from the sublime to the secular. Every year, on the last Sunday in June, the city of Venice organizes two races in honor of Saints Giovanni and Paolo. The reason it isn’t called the race of Saint Peter is because it is held in the water between Murano and the Fondamente Nove, and the finish line is in front of the hospital, which is on the campo SS. Giovanni e Paolo.
The first race involves pairs of men on a boat called a pupparino; the second race is for young men up to age 25, rowing solo on gondolas. Sound simple? Of course it is, as long as everything goes well.
But sometimes it doesn’t…..
For both races, the starting line is in front of Murano; the race then follows the path indicated here, and the finish line is in front of the hospital. Until this year, the gondolas lined up in the canal in front of the campo SS. Giovanni e Paolo for a blessing. Hence the name of the regata is the two saints, and not “race of the City Hospital.” That would always sound sketchy, but these days it would be inconceivable.
The men on pupparinos go first, and go they certainly did. I’m usually watching from the shore, but this time I was able to follow the race on a friend’s motorboat.
The men on pupparinos are off to a fast start, leaving Murano behind to the left and heading west past the cemetery toward Sant’ Alvise and the first turn. All the boats, regardless of type, are painted these colors and yes, the two boats in the lead (orange and green) have made an impressive start. They will pretty much run their own race and finish first and second respectively. The real race is what transpired in the scrum following them.This is what we like to see — the boats strung out in an orderly line. Except there are a few issues lurking in the lineup. Green has left the group and gone left, hoping to find some advantage in the tide (problem: it will soon have to rejoin the group at the first turn). And there is the pink boat, side by side with white. I foresee problems because boats arriving at the turn side by side — especially the boat on the inside — are inevitably going to be facing consequences.The plot is rapidly thickening here as the boats try to get into the best position (as defined by each one) for rounding the first turn, anticlockwise around a piling.It’s enough just to look at the race judge with the loudspeaker to realize that things are not going well. Orange has turned and is clean away; blue has just completed its turn, and green has rejoined the pack in third position. But blue made its turn very close to the piling in order to prevent green from having space to turn (a maneuver that is forbidden for reasons which are already obvious. The judge would have been justified in disqualifying blue right there, but events have gotten out of control). So green is now destined to run into the blue boat — destined also by the decision of its stern rower not to swing wide at the last second, which he could have done. Meanwhile….Why is blue still here? It should already be gone, but its calculations went a little screwy and instead it is now stuck, grappling with green, and white and pink are both coming up at high speed to make the turn with two boats essentially standing still in front of them. Pink was gambling on having room to turn from the inside, even though the rules prohibit putting yourself between the piling and another boat, for reasons which are already obvious. White could have swung wide here, but for some reason decided not to (probably it doesn’t want to lose time), and right about now they both realize that they have no room at all to avoid the pile-up. An expert later explained that blue had probably deliberately made the turn closer to the piling than is permitted in the hope of preventing the following boat to sneak past on the inside (also forbidden). Everybody’s supposed to leave room for at least minimal functioning, but blue decided otherwise. And so, as the expression now goes, here we are.Purple and yellow have cut their losses by swinging wide; they lose some seconds of time but at least they can maneuver. White and pink are still stuck inside, trapped by green and white, and now we have brown coming up on the inside, stuck between the piling and yellow. Blue has managed to disengage itself and accelerated, speeding away and leaving everybody to deal with the effects of its little duel with green. Looking good? There’s still plenty of race to go….Yellow and purple are fleeing, while brown is trying to stop the boat to avoid running into pink; pink is sitting there because white and green can’t move. Everyone’s so close there’s no room to work their oars.The stern rower on pink has actually reached down and is grabbing the metal point on brown’s bow to keep it from colliding. You can understand the instinct, but it is totally forbidden to touch your adversary’s boat. So pink could have been disqualified here, but too much is going on. Blue, bless its heart, probably thinks the day is won and is already envisioning that beautiful white pennant for second place. But the race is far from over.Things are starting to look a little better for everybody except for red, who is now hurtling into the mix. But red manages to make it around without incident, and so everybody’s back on track. Yellow and purple, out of the frame at the moment, are turning around to get back into contention. Orange is so far in the lead by now he must be wondering where everybody went.Well, that was exciting. Now back to normal, here in the back half of the race.Now what? For some reason the blue boat (remember those few seconds when it seemed like it was zooming away? The other boats have caught up) has swerved off its trajectory right into white’s path. The usual term is either “losing” the boat or the boat has “fallen.” You might do it on purpose and pretend it was an accident if you’re willing to sacrifice yourself for the sake of eliminating your rival, but it’s a risk and I’m not saying that happened here because blue had plenty of space to race. It could be that white got too close to blue and ran over blue’s oar (forbidden!!), a contact that renders the victim helpless, as you see here.
Blue is now trying to get moving again as white speeds away. Blue’s race seems to not be following whatever wonderful plan was implied at the fateful turn. So blue decides to chance its arm by abandoning this flight path, to so speak, and heads across the channel to the right to seek some better current (or fewer adversaries).As you see, blue has disappeared, and now we have a delightfully orderly line of boats. This is refreshing, we haven’t seen this for quite a while. Think I’ll look back at what’s happening with the last boats.Excuse me? Yellow has completely stopped because his partner in the bow has collapsed.And he’s staying collapsed, too. Meanwhile, the show — I mean race — must go on. I would never presume to know what goes through racers’ minds, but I’d be willing to bet that after “Holy yikes!” some version of “One less boat!” has flitted through their brains. No real worries, because the judges’ boat is right there.There is always an ambulance nearby — the race can’t be held without one. So help is at hand (and the man was resuscitated, though they didn’t finish the race).So that’s taken care of. How are things going with the race up ahead? The last three boats have peeled off to the right, seeking some advantage with the tide that will put them ahead of the rest of the boats along the line of pilings to the left. I see blue in the lead, followed by purple and red.But wait! Why is purple suddenly heading toward the embankment — or more precisely, toward the red boat?Purple has lost control, has run into red, and they’re both heading straight toward the ponderous white vaporetto moored at the dock. (Ignore the blue motorboat — it’s not dangerously close.)It’s every man for himself. Red swerved right to avoid hitting the white vaporetto, purple managed somehow to swerve left (hidden by the vaporetto), and blue continued on its merry way.But never say die, they’re still in the race.We didn’t follow the race beyond this point, but waited near the finish line. The judge’s dock, with the blue awning and gonfalone of San Marco, is moored to the fondamenta on the right.The anarchy of the after-race half-hour is almost as entertaining as the anarchy of everything else. The mix of boats, people, relatives, and racers in various states of anger or joy is pretty entertaining. Center stage here is a pupparino from the rowing club of the DLF, or Dopolavoro Ferroviario, the after-work sports club of railway workers. Coming to see a race is just as good an excuse for amateur rowers to come out on a sunny Sunday afternoon as it is for the families in motorboats.Speaking of families (or people, anyway) in motorboats, you get used to the fact that everybody in a motorboat is a fan of rowing. I know. Crazy.The rule — not always observed — is that motorboats aren’t allowed to get out ahead of the race and create waves that would disturb the first boats in the race. The second through ninth boats have to deal with whatever waves come their way. Yes, I freely recognize that I too am in a motorboat.If it floats and has a motor, you’ll probably find it at the races. Here we have a better-than-usual assortment of spectator boats.This is the quintessential summer-Sunday-in-lagoon boat: A classic wooden sampierota (could be rowed, or even sailed with the right rigging), with a tiny motor and lightly toasted family and friends of various shapes and ages. There’s a cooler (extra points) but no baby or dog (points subtracted). You could easily see all this on a shiny plastic motorboat, but it wouldn’t be this beautiful.
If anyone is interested, here are the results of the race of the men on pupparinos, from first to last: Orange, green, pink, white, brown, blue, purple, red. (Yellow withdrew, obviously.)
As for the race of the young men on gondolas, I have no strength left to report on it or anything else. Happily, there is nothing noteworthy to report. It seems that the day’s double-ration of drama was expended completely on the first race.
An incredibly detailed and well photographed report. You have a great future as a sports reporter (I assume this would qualify as a sport), Erla. I really have been impressed with your photography. Great seeing!
Phew! Cliff hanger after cliff hanger! What an experience that must have been for everyone there. I was on the edge of my swivel-chair as I read through, and really almost felt that we were there with you in that motor-boat! Thank you yet again.
5 Comments
Early, I love your posts. I just wish I could be there with you and Leno. Lets hope things open up this summer so I can come and visit. Cindy
An incredibly detailed and well photographed report. You have a great future as a sports reporter (I assume this would qualify as a sport), Erla. I really have been impressed with your photography. Great seeing!
Phew! Cliff hanger after cliff hanger! What an experience that must have been for everyone there. I was on the edge of my swivel-chair as I read through, and really almost felt that we were there with you in that motor-boat! Thank you yet again.
Erla: this was so well done by you—-photography and dialogue. Felt like I was there!! Looking at pics over and over. Thank you sooo much. Hugs
What a wonderful eye and sense of humor you have…
Thanks for the ride along!