It’s probably just me, but after years of seeing Lino run into people he knows for one reason or event or phase of life over the past eight decades, it strains belief to think that there could be people in Venice who don’t know him. In my opinion, we should probably just rename the most beautiful city in the world LinoLand.
Late one morning we were riding the bus down the Lido toward Malamocco. Lino nabbed a seat near the back — he got the aisle, and a youngish man reading a book was sitting by the window. The bus was crowded, there was the muted tension of people clumped together in the summer heat. The bus pulled up at a stop, the man closed the book and moved to get off. Climbing over Lino on his way out, he said “Ciao, Lino.”
Instant of silence; everyone was wearing masks, so recognition stalled. Then he lowered his mask and it was smiles all round. Not only had Lino collaborated for years with the man’s father on the Committee of the Festa de la Sensa, but yep — Lino taught him (man, not father of) to row when he was a lad.
Change of scene: A few weeks ago we were struggling home on a Sunday evening from the regata at Murano. After the races people literally disappeared because a deluge had struck the city that had evidently swept every other humans either home or out to sea. Lino and I trudged through drenching gusts of rain (umbrella? Of course not!), and climbed aboard the vaporetto heading toward San Pietro di Castello. Cold. Soaking wet. Must mention that this is far from the first time Murano has celebrated its big day with Noye’s Fludde — two years ago it was an apocalyptic hailstorm.
Miserable, waterlogged, we were just stepping ashore on the dock at San Pietro di Castello when the vaporetto pilot pulled down his landward window, leaned halfway out, and called out “Ciao Lino!”
So, yet again, I saw that neither snow, nor rain, nor dead of night, etc., stop people from saying hi to Lino. In this case, the man was not someone Lino had taught to row — astonishing, I know — but instead is a former naval seaman at the Military Naval School F. Morosini where Lino teaches rowing, as all the world knows by now. So of course he would have seen Lino thousands of times. Lino doesn’t remember his name, but names are optional in these encounters.
Speaking of Morosini, we were there one afternoon a few weeks ago, working on some of the boats. The sun was shining, the cadets had gone home for summer vacation, officers were only intermittent. Around the corner came one of the commandants with an older couple and grandon in tow, obviously a prospective student being shown around.
They all stopped for the usual brief introduction (“And yes, we also offer Venetian rowing to the students,” etc. etc.). The grandfather looked at Lino and said, “Wait. I know you. But how?” The briefest checklist of where/who/when revealed that they grew up in the same neighborhood mere streets apart. Lino was a few years older than this person, but not by much. So we all took a break to listen to them riffle through who they knew, who their relatives were, EXACTLY where their houses were located, and so forth. This was one of those rare cases where teaching somebody to row wasn’t the link. It was something better: Family! Childhood! Memories! Neighborhood!
Let’s go back in time — it doesn’t matter how far, because these chance meetings have been going on forever. In fact, LinoLand is everywhere. Take Mogadishu, Somalia, just to pick a place at random. Lino was living there for four months in the mid-Sixties, with a crew from the Aeronavali which was repairing and maintaining airplanes and teaching (I think you might say that was what was happening) local mechanics how to take over when the group went back to Venice.
Lino and his colleagues were billeted at a modest hotel run by a couple from Bologna, the kind of place you’d expect to find flight crews from Alitalia on layover. And yes, one day a young man in Alitalia uniform stopped in the lobby. “Ciao Lino!” Who was he? They’d been in the Boy Scouts together. They didn’t say “So it’s here that we meet again, bwahahaha.” They said some variation on “What the heck are you doing here?” And together they could have replied, “I’m working. What are YOU doing?”
And while we’re ranging far afield, let’s go to Muggia, a village on the east coast of the Adriatic just below Trieste. Lino knows it well, so we decided to take a daytrip one freezing Epiphany a few years ago. The voyage took much of the morning. We get the bus in Trieste. We get off the bus in Muggia. We walk to the small central piazza (Piazza Galileo Galilei, if you’re playing along at home) where the very economically sized duomo sits sideways. Pretty.
“Ciao Lino!” It came from behind this time. Turning around, we see one of our favorite ex-cadets from the Morosini coming toward us. Gad! We’re 176 km (109 miles) from Venice and yet even here there’s SOMEBODY WHO KNOWS LINO. Since we last saw him he’s become a naval officer, has commanded a submarine, and gotten married to a girl from Muggia, which now explains everything. It’s not like people follow Lino around by satellite tracking. It’s just that they seem to be everywhere.
And in conclusion…What was probably the first of these numberless experiences was the day in Lino’s early adulthood during the five-year period when he worked at Ciampino Airport in Rome, repairing and maintaining planes.
He was riding on a bus somewhere in the central area of the city. The bus was crammed full of people, naturally. All of a sudden from the back of the bus comes the ebullient voice of a woman in the broadest possible Venetian accent: “OH VARRRRRREMENGO, VARDA CHI CHE GHE XE!” (“Good Lord have mercy” — a hopelessly bad translation but I’m trying to convey the intensity of the amazement because va a remengo is the absolute maximum Venetian exclamation.) “LOOK WHO IT IS!” These were the days before “Ciao Lino” took over.
Everybody turns to look at Lino, who has instantly gone tomato-paste red with embarrassment. She didn’t stop. “XE EL FRADELO DE LA VANDA!” (“It’s Wanda’s brother!”)
“TI SA CHI GHE SO MI?” she cheerfully demands. (“You know who I am?”)
Tiny embarrassed voice responds: “La Gegia.” The lady’s name was Teresa, but the nickname in Venetian is Gegia (JE-ja.)
That’s where the story ends; I guess he got off at the next stop, whether it was his or not. He doesn’t remember further details, but that voice has been incised in his brain. Little did he know normal all this was going to become for him. Now he just turns to me and either tells me who it is, or asks me. Me? You think I know? As they say here, I just got here tomorrow.
23 Comments
I so love your posts and your Venice guide is still the best. Also, glad to know that Venetians are repopulating their city.
I really appreciate your writing to let me know that you like my scribbles (and also the guidebook). But I’m baffled as to what I might have written that gave you the impression that Venetians are repopulating the city. They most definitely are not. The population is continuing to drop, at the rate of about three per day. The number of deaths far outweighs the births, and very few people are moving into the city to compensate. The effect of this can be seen by the lack of neighborhood shops, as I wrote about in a recent post. I regret having to ruin the positive picture you received in some way because the reality is very clearly not trending toward repopulation.
Oh Erla, such balm for the soul while we are languishing in Michigan with my mother…this post brought me right back to reality! Only four more weeks to go til we can traverse the lagoon! thank you as ALWAYS for your impeccable eye, pen and thoughts. (Oh yeah, and thank Lino too for his lifetime of stories…) (not to mention for the historic rowing lessons he once gave you…)
Glad to know that my mission was accomplished — providing a batch of Venice to my farflung Venetianites. Hurry back already!
Wonderful stories….ciao Lino!
Lino says “Ciao Pietro!” Next time you’re in Venice we’ll move on to the next chapter: Recalling Strangers’ Names.
As others say, thank you very much for your “Think-parcels” from Venice. There’s always something in them to make one think. I’ve been musing, today exactly how this “Instant” banning of the largest cruise liners will be squared with the wishes of their passengers to “See Venice”? Will they be decanted into smaller vessels elsewhere, and trundled in in convoys? Judging by the very cross reaction demonstrated by someone I know, when her Cruise’s scheduled visit (Half day?) to see Venice, was cancelled, passengers will be up in arms, and liner firms will find some way around it all.
Like the thought of being a “Far flung Venitianite” – ‘tho it sounds as if it may be a bit bruising at times!
The only way to bring people from an offshore mooring to Venice would be in tenders, taxis, big tourist launches, whatever. Lots of them making lots of waves. This has been brought up many times whenever the offshore proposal came up. I won’t add an opinion except to say that a good solution to a problem is one that doesn’t create new problems. Ironically, now the suggestion has been made, following the designation of the Bacino of San Marco as a national monument, that the entire lagoon ought to fall under the same so-called protection. Hard to see how you can avoid damaging a monument when there’s no other way to move people ashore. Of course the cruise companies will find a way to get their clients to San Marco.
Thanks once again Erla. I have an Italian friend who has lived in England for seventy years and still doesn’t really feel like she belongs. Not that you have been in Venice for seventy years but other than that is that your experience too?
It has not been my experience, even though there are plenty of people I have nothing in common with. Several thoughts occur on this subject. Perhaps it is (slightly) easier for an Anglo-Saxon to come to a Latin country than vice versa. Probably the US is the only country where a foreign person could conceivably feel that they eventually belong. I don’t know how much your friend has tried to adapt herself to the English way of life — maybe she’s so sensitive to the differences that she hasn’t found a way to be comfortable with them.
I also think women need to “belong” in a way that possibly men don’t, so they feel the lack more.
On the other hand, a friend of mine from New York lived in Texas for a few years, and when he came back to New York he said “They’re all really friendly and nice, but after two years I didn’t feel I knew any of them any better than I did on the first day.” So, he never belonged there even if it was in his own country. (Apologies to Texans who dispute their relationship to the United States.)
I think part of belonging has to do with finding a part of the culture or place that you can join, groups or activities in which everyone is interested in the same thing. I belong here because I’m part of the Venetian rowing world. I wouldn’t doubt that foreigners could similarly begin to belong in other slices of Venice (art? music? etc.). If your friend belonged to an amateur chorus or gardening club or bird-watching or needlework group, that could well have given her more of a way to feel that she belongs.
In the end, only the individual knows what he/she needs in order to feel that they belong. It may be that in her heart of hearts, the English way of living is just oil to her water and will always be that way.
Thanks for that lovely long reply, Erla. It was a very interesting insight into various cultures. Considering that my friend has been married for over 50 years to an Englishman and has children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren here, I think that oil and water thing probably does apply.
I am intrigued by the phrase “di la’ dell’acqua”. Have they literally gone to the mainland, or is that a way of saying died, there?
It means they died. More specifically, I was told that the original reference was to being relocated to the cemetery island, San Michele, which is across the water from Venice. I prefer the more poetic image of some ethereal celestial body of water, but the prosaic but practical often wins out here. This is a place where, when it gets unbearably hot, people say it was so hot that pigeons were falling out of the sky cooked (“casca colombi coti”).
San Michele, of course! I love the one about the pigeons. Thanks, Erla
Erlamou: Cockles of my heart? Warmed. As usual.
And I think you may have something with Linoland. Sounds
at least as good as Legoland, but without the crass
commercialism.
Hi, Erla! I imagine that you have, some time in the past, told the story of HOW and WHERE you met the famous Lino. Could you repost it, please? I think there are many of us out here who are now more curious than ever after this fascinating post! Would we be allowed to view a photo of him, too? I know he must be shy, sort of. Certainly you recognize how much fun it is for those of us who will probably never travel to Venice to read your posts. ( Oof, that is an awkward sentence.)That is exactly how I plan to continue traveling the World, only from my armchair. Sometimes if one loves a place, one must not go there.
Exactly: I really cannot see this working, with the financial and other pressures. We will all have to wait and – unfortunately – see!
Don’t tell Lino this: when I saw the title of this post, my mind said Linoland as though the first 2 syllables were a type of floor covering, not the correct way it is pronounced. It took a few seconds to scrub that from my neurons.
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Marvelous story. Thank you!
Delightful as always. Wish I could say Ciao Lino! in person!
xoxoxmagda
Hi, I’m enjoying your writings almost as much as I’m missing Venice – which is a lot!
I know it’s a long shot, but is this the same Lino that Roger Ebert wrote about? That Lino was at Trattoria alla Rivetta.
The Lino that was at the Rivetta went di la’ dell’acqua (beyond the water) several years ago; his son is now running the trattoria. My Lino is still going strong.
Hi Erla,
Thanks for anoher wonderful excursion to Linoland. Sometimes I miss that feeling that I had in my home village were everyone knew everybody and their grandparents. Your toughts about belonging really hit the spot, I say. To find a place to belong is something that I’d wish for everyone. Be it family, rowing-clubs, church or the bridge-club is not so important.
This summer I was able to take my daughter home to my parents for a week and one day we went swimming at a small lake nearby. Sophia started playing with some other girls and I briefly greeted the woman accompaning them. After a while she came over and stated, not asked, that I was Signar’s son and I could not but admit to the fact. Then she said that the girls were related. She was the girls’ grandmother and her father-in-law and my grandfather were cousins so the girls had common ancestors, 5 generations back, born around 1850. Beeing a geneology-geek I found it fun and Sophia was baffled when I drew the family tree connecting her with her new playmates.
Cheers from Solna!
I can see why you feel at home in Venice, which as I’ve often said is basically a small town, with palaces.