The never-ending Storica

The past few days in the world of the oar have been pretty agitated here.

The Commission of Discipline (no remarks please) has listened to the rowers and the judges involved in the dramatic events of the Regata Storica and has rendered its decision.  An assortment of decisions, really, which amounted to throwing a couple of spare barrels of oil on the waves of accumulated anger.

Angry rowers are nothing new, and a fan that isn’t enraged and offended by something isn’t worthy of the name.  But this time the judges — angry too, which also is no novelty — made the unusual step of revealing their antagonism to the public. This is an alarming sign of how far order in the world of Venetian racing has deteriorated.

And I sense that it’s not over yet, not least because when you throw oil on turbulent waters, you often  get covered in oily spray.  But usually the situation at that point is so perilous that the benefits outweigh the oil.

To review: Ivo Redolfi-Tezzat and Giampaolo D’Este (celeste gondolino) were disqualified in the  throes of the Regata Storica on September 5, the most important and hugely most remunerative race of the year, because they did something(s) to prevent their lifelong rivals, Rudi and Igor Vignotto (canarin gondolino), from accomplishing some maneuver that might have been to their advantage.  In fencing terms, this could be called the celeste parrying the thrust (or probable and/or imminent thrust) of canarin.  Celeste was disqualified, canarin won.

The three leading gondolinos before things went south, an image which illustrates why tempers were incandescent.
The three leading gondolinos before things went south, an image which illustrates why tempers were incandescent. (Photo: Nereo Zane)

The Verdict:  The appeal of Tezzat/D’Este was rejected.  The new regulations stipulate that the judge’s verdict is unassailable, which in some ways ought to make the judges more punctilious.  But that would be true only in an ideal world, and the Grand Canal is beautiful, but not ideal.

First point: Under the new rules, the order of finish is carved in titanium, hence celeste had no hope of being judged the winners in the cool light of the morning after. But that didn’t stop  Tezzat/D’Este  from registering a formal protest, hoping for a severe punishment to be inflicted on canarin.  Hoping is fine, seeing as hope costs nothing.  But their status as disqualifees remains unchanged.

Second point: The Vignottini did not escape completely unscathed, however. They received an official admonition  (“diffida,” or warning) for “unsportsmanlike conduct” during the race.  This is a black mark on their record, but does not comport any material damage.

Observation: I am not the only person who has noticed a certain incongruity between a decision which says that (A) celeste sinned and deserved its punishment but that (B) canarin also sinned but only needs a rap on the knuckles.

Judges at work during the race of the young men on pupparinos.  Nothing went wrong here.  Sheer luck?
Judges at work during the Regata Storica, here the race of the young men on pupparinos. Nothing went wrong. Sheer luck?

Third point: The judges.  The two judges in the first boat, Gianni Tonini and Sandro Fort, were reprimanded for a series of errors which did not help, and perhaps aggravated, the situation during the race.  In the simplest terms, their function (true for most judges) is to anticipate and prevent problems by timely warnings during the race.  A judge, as one of them commented to me, doesn’t show how brilliant he is by the number of punishments he inflicts, but by the number of imminent problems he manages to resolve before punishment becomes inevitable.  That didn’t happen here.

Tonini got an official “richiamo” from the Commission, and Fort got a richiamo because he let the race start even when the starting gun misfired. (As in: didn’t fire at all.  The rules say the judge has to fire again and return all the racers to the starting line.)  There were also a few commands issued to the rowers during the race by both men which are hard to justify even if you don’t care who won. But the important point is that this is the first time a judge has been publicly reprimanded.

Extra surprise: Startling but true, Ernesto Ortis, the coordinating judge, formally and publicly disassociated himself from the actions of Tonini and Fort.  I believe this is a first here; like many groups, the judges have always prefered to present a united front even while they bicker inanely among themselves.  It is no secret that bile has been bubbling for quite a while against the perceived hubris of Fort.

Outcome: The reaction to all these decisions (all of them wrong, of course, in the eyes of everybody except the commission) was to be seen at the regata at Burano last Sunday.

REVENGE AT BURANO

You may recall that the infuriated Tezzat first claimed they weren’t even going to try out for this, the last regata of the official season. But they did. Rowers make all kinds of affirmations that they never act on, usually some variation on “Take a good look at my oar, because it’s the last time you’re ever going to see it.” Next day, there they are.

So Tezzat and D’Este did the eliminations (What?  Aren’t you supposed to be in Queen Maud Land?) and qualified for the race.

The Vignottini warming up.  Red, my favorite color.  Just like blood.
The Vignottini warming up. Red, my favorite color. Just like blood.

They showed up at Burano on Sunday on the green gondola.  It was time for the race.  All the gondolas were at the starting line, each poppiere (person rowing astern) clinging to the rope and struggling to keep his boat straight in the face of an annoying headwind and contrary tide.

But where’s green?

At the last minute, Tezzat and D’Este rowed, not to the starting line, but to the judge’s stand (all you racers just wait there till we’re done….).  There they handed a piece of paper to the race announcer, who read it over the loudspeaker to the officials grouped on the dock, and to the suspenseful, murmuring hordes crushed along the water’s edge.

Tezzat (astern) and D'Este approaching the judges' stand to deliver their screed.  Notice all the other races lined up back there, waiting to do the race.  Isn't that why we're here?
Tezzat (astern) and D'Este approaching the judges' stand to deliver their screed. Notice all the other racers lined up back there, waiting to do the race. Isn't that why we're here?

This document announced to the world, in the loftiest terms and the purest tones of innocent, persecuted victims, that Tezzat and D’Este would not only skip the race that was waiting to start, but won’t be racing again until All This gets cleared up once and for all.  It was a sort of “J’accuse” aimed at the judges, collectively and individually (corrupt, incompetent, superannuated, cretinous) and at the Comune, represented by its execrable functionaries.

Their declaration did not use the exact terms employed by Emile Zola in his immortal denunciation (“…a great blow to all truth, all justice…”…”It is a crime to poison the small and the humble…”…all the revulsion of an honest man…”…”And these people sleep at night, and they have women and children whom they love!”).  But I think they would have used those terms if they’d thought of it.

D'Este hands over the document.
D'Este hands over the document.

They then consigned a pair of symbolic oars to the new Counciler for Tourism, Roberto Panciera, and rowed back to the boathouse.  I was on the dock and didn’t see anything oar-like changing hands, but maybe they were coffee spoons modified to look like oars.

This pantomime was not followed by stunned silence, it was followed by every shape and size of bellowed protest of passionate partisanship.  There was one woman who yelled rolling phrases of excoriation in a voice of doom that could carry to the mainland and possibly farther. She was amazing.  Just think, she could have summarized everything in the simple phrase “String ’em up,” but she clearly had quite a lot on her mind which had been pent up too long.  If you’ve ever wondered what the vox populi might sound like, she was it.

While Tezzat assumes his "Here I stand, I can do no other" pose.
While Tezzat assumes his "Here I stand, I can do no other" pose.

Then the race proceeded and the Vignottini won.  No surprise there, naturally.  God, how it rankled the public!  I’ve never heard so many people so rankled.  This was one situation where the daily habit of everybody talking at once turned out to be useful, because except for the Voice of Doom, you couldn’t understand anything anybody was saying.  I thought about cheering for the Vignottini just to see what would happen, but the fans were like a mob of maenads, and I didn’t feel like being dismembered and devoured raw. Maybe some other time.

What next? I have no idea.  There is already a sub-theme being promoted which demands the immediate dismissal of all the judges (why not — let’s just kill them all) and the installation of an entirely new cadre of judges, a new Commission of Discipline, a new everybody.

And then they row away.  Feel free to cheer.
And then they row away. Feel free to cheer.

Only problem is, every time the Comune invites people to apply to become judges, nobody responds.  Nobody wants to spend summer Sundays in all kinds of weather dealing with the racers, their relatives, and their fans who are howling that the judge’s dead relatives are dogs.  Judges are likely to lose all their friends, too, who would suddenly regard them as unspeakable traitors.  I know judges whose friends look the other way when they walk past on the street. I know: So they’re not real friends.  But still.  All this for 40 euros ($52) a race, and now there’s the chance to be publicly chastised as well? How could anybody turn that down?

The only option left to Tezzat for reclaiming his symbolic oar is to appeal to the mayor.  The Vignottini resorted to this a few years ago, back before Igor threw his pennant into the canal in front of the mayor and their relationship turned to stone.  But now there’s a different mayor, and let us not forget: Tezzat and D’Este are innocent.

I’ll see you on the barricades.

The race got off to a predictably exciting start, though the Vignottini on red are already pulling away.  The basilica and campanile on Torcello look on impassively; after a thousand years, summer and winter, it's hard to get excited about any of this.
The race got off to a predictably exciting start, though the Vignottini on red are already pulling away. The basilica and campanile on Torcello look on impassively; after a thousand years, summer and winter, it's hard to get excited about any of this.
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Ready on the firing line

IMG_1180 hunting comp

Walking home yesterday afternoon, I noticed this boat.  And I instantly deduced that hunting season is about to open in the Venetian lagoon.  It isn’t just the camouflaging reeds that give the game away, it’s the fact that they are freshly cut.

Actually,  a glance at the Veneto Region’s official calendar of hunting season shows that it had already begun (September 1, and a few scattered dates thereafter) for a small group of winged creatures that keep to the shore, such as turtledoves, blackbirds, jays, magpies, and crows.

The Northern pochard.  (Photo: Gary Houston)
The Northern pochard. (Photo: Gary Houston)

The Veneto has the highest density of hunters in Italy. However, the total number of hunters in Italy has fallen from 1.4 million in 2000 to about 800,000 today.  I can’t usefully interpret either one of those facts but there they are.

Bird hunting — I don’t mean pheasant and duck and other famous flying comestibles, but lesser-known sort-of comestibles such as song thrushes and skylarks — is a topic that could easily lead us into unpleasant political and environmentalist territory (the island of Ponza, for example, is essentially a seasonal killing field for any avian who enters its air space), so I’ll just stick to the basics.

In the Veneto, from September 19 till January 31, a person sitting in a blind freezing in the dark in the middle of the water is permitted to attempt to slay mallards, coots, common moorhens, common teals, shovelers, pochards, gadwalls, water rails, wigeons, Northern pintails, garganeys, tufted ducks, common snipes, Jack snipes, and lapwings.

Their landbound confreres gazing skyward will also be freezing and waiting for partridge, red-legged partridge, pheasant, ruff, skylark, woodcock, fieldfare, song thrush, redwing, common wood pigeon, and quail.

Male and female tufted duck.  (Photo: Andreas Trepte)
Male and female tufted duck. (Photo: Andreas Trepte)

The catbird isn’t found in Europe, but all these hunters will be sitting in its proverbial seat starting tomorrow, because the Venetian lagoon is situated on one of the most important flyways in Europe.  At certain times of year there can be as many as 200,000 birds here, nesting or resting or spending the winter diving, dabbling, or digging through the mudflats at low tide.

When UNESCO designated Venice as a World Heritage Site in 1987, it specifically included the Venetian lagoon.  You wouldn’t have guessed that by the antics that go on in it, but let’s move on for now.  The lagoon covers an area of some 212 square miles, and is one of the few coastal wetlands left in Europe, a region which has lost 2/3 of its wetlands in the past 100 years.

In other words, the lagoon is one of the best places in Europe to be a bird, except in the winter.  Depending on your species, a hunter is allowed to bag from 35 to 50 of your relatives in a season.

The days designated for this divertissement are Wednesday and Saturday in the Southern Lagoon, and Thursday and Sunday in the Northern and the Caorle Lagoon (where Hemingway used to love to hunt).

When you have shot one bird flying you have shot all birds flying,” Ernest Hemingway wrote. “They are all different and they fly in different ways but the sensation is the same and the last one is as good as the first.” You can’t say that about everything, or even most things, in this life, so I’ll let him have the last word on the subject.

I’m glad I mentioned hunting, though, because it constitutes a direct link to the Great Days of the Venetian Republic.

The male mallard, which the old Venetians described as the "wild duck with the red feet," was the original ducal gift.  (Photo: Greg S. Garrett)
The male mallard, which the old Venetians described as the "wild duck with the red feet," was the original ducal gift. (Photo: Greg S. Garrett)

From farthest antiquity, the doge was expected to give a specific Christmas present to all the noble families, who formed the Great Council (there were 1,200 such families for a long period, then the number began to increase).

That present was five mallards per family, which comes to 6,000 ducks a year. Eventually this number dropped to two, but finally there were so few birds that on June 28, 1521, the Council decreed that instead of the ducks, the doge would give each patrician a coin specially minted for the occasion, worth one-quarter of a ducat.  This coin was known as an osella, Venetian for bird.”

The osella of Doge Pietro Grimani (1751).  (Photo: Classical Numismatic Group, Inc.)
The osella of Doge Pietro Grimani (1751). (Photo: Classical Numismatic Group, Inc.)

With the exception of two extremely short-lived gentlemen, every doge from Antonio Grimani (1521) to Ludovico Manin (1797) minted an osella each year.  One side bore a generic image of him kneeling before San Marco, and the obverse a particular design highlighting an important event or aspect of the past year.

The poster for the exhibition of the oselle owned by the Banca Popolare di Vicenza.
The poster for the exhibition of the oselle owned by the Banca Popolare di Vicenza.

The Banca Popolare di Vicenza (People’s Bank of Vicenza) happens to own the most complete collection of oselle in the world visible to the public, which comprises 275 coins.  After the middle of the 17th century, the oselle were minted in gold.  The Bank of Vicenza collection was on display here for a short while last spring, and even though I know next to nothing about numismatics, they were spectacular.
Just think: Even when they start with ducks they end up with money.  I love this town.

One of who knows how many duck blinds left behind when the season ends.
One of who knows how many duck blinds left behind when the season ends.

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a)selvaggina stanziale: 2 capi giornalieri con un massimo di 35 capi stagionali; per la lepre, 1 capo
giornaliero con un massimo di 5 capi stagionali;
b)selvaggina migratoria: 25 capi giornalieri (di cui non più di 10 codoni, 10 canapiglie, 5 morette e
5 combattenti) con un massimo di 425 capi stagionali (di cui non più di 50 codoni, 50 canapiglie, 15
morette e 15 combattenti); per la beccaccia 3 capi giornalieri con un massimo di 20 capi stagionali
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Storica: Missing detail located

A sharp-eyed reader has already zapped me a note to alert me to the fact that in my account of the kerfuffle surrounding the Regata Storica, I neglected to mention who won.

Strange how one can miss the most obvious things, but it does show me, yet again, that I mustn’t be writing at midnight.

The winners were the Vignottini (canarin/yellow).

Second place: Bertoldini/Vianello (viola/purple).  Third place: Luca Quintavalle/Gaetano Bregantin (rosso/red).  Fourth place: Franco dei Rossi “Strigheta”/Luca Ballarin (arancio/orange).

These are the “bandierati,” or winners of their respective bandiere, or pennants, and glory and praise, and money. If you finish from fifth to ninth place, you get a manly shake of the hand, and money.  If you’re the reserve, or last-minute-substitute boat, you just get money.

More details will be forthcoming about the deeper nature of the skirmish between Tezzat-d’Este and the Vignottini.  The more I think about it, though, the more these races resemble high-stakes horse racing.  In some ways it’s not what you do or don’t do, it’s mainly what you can manage to get away with.  If I have misinterpreted anything about horses, I apologize.

Based on past races, I have no doubt that the Vignottini were not, nor have ever been, what they call “farina da far ostie,” or “flour for making Communion wafers.” I’m not taking sides, I’m just pointing it out.  But why the hammer fell on Tezzat this time is indeed a convoluted tale, which I will try to relate as soon as I can manage to organize the particulars, the context, and the history.  And understand it enough to explain it.

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Another day, another Storica

The "bissone," the large decorative boats brought out for serious ceremony, are the centerpiece of the boat procession, and look just the way you want fancy  boats to look in Venice.
The "bissone," the large decorative boats brought out for serious ceremony, are the centerpiece of the boat procession, and look just the way you want fancy boats to look in Venice.

Day before yesterday (Sunday, September 5, for the record) was the day of what is arguably the most important — certainly most spectacular — race of the Venetian rowing season: the Regata Storica, or “historic regatta.”  Or, as I also think of it, the Race that Launched a Thousand Postcards — which depict, not the race(s) themselves, but the decorated boats loaded with rowers in costume.  If you skrinch your eyes and don’t think, you could imagine you were seeing something from centuries ago.  Sort of.

The commandant of the Morosini Naval School, Enrico Pacioni, and his wife are transported to the reviewing stand aboard an exact replica of the 18th-century gondola seen in paintings by Canaletto.
The commandant of the Morosini Naval School, Enrico Pacioni, and his wife are carried to the reviewing stand aboard an exact replica of the 18th-century gondola seen in paintings by Canaletto.

We were there, as usual: Lino in a boat (one of the red launches used by the judges, though which one depended on which race he drew), and me also in a boat (this year in the six-oar balotina, “Katia,” of the Remiera Casteo).  Lino’s role was to administer justice; my role was to participate in the corteo, or boat procession, preceding the races, then to tie up somewhere convenient in a spot where we could get a good view of the races, then to scream our lungs out, if and when the spirit moved us.  (It did.)

The balotina is essentially a largish gondola, but looks very fine from any angle.
The balotina is essentially a largish gondola, but looks very fine from any angle.

Every year, obviously, is different, though there are equally obvious similarities.  Boats of all types and persuasions, from tiny one-person s’ciopons to honking big motorized barges carrying entire clans and enough food and drink to support them till Christmas.

And of course there were the spectators — official estimates said 90,000 — massed together at certain key points: sitting on the steps in front of the church of the Salute, in temporary bleachers just beyond San Toma’, and in rows of chairs at the Rialto market.  Maybe somewhere else further on that I didn’t discover.  I’m not very clear on how 90,000 people fit into those very limited spaces, but I imagine the estimate includes all of us in the boats lining the Grand Canal, and the relatively few, those happy few, partying on the balconies of the palaces.  In any case, there we all were. however many thousand we might have been.

IMG_0741 stor comp
I like the less grandiose boats better, like this mascareta belonging to the firemen.

I suppose it’s exciting to watch from the shore, wherever you find a space, but if you were ever to be in Venice on the first Sunday in September, I’d strongly urge you to smash the old piggybank and hire a gondola for two or three hours and watch it from the water.  Don’t suppose you can just imagine how it would be.  It’s not just the fact that you’re floating, it’s the fact that being in a boat makes you a participant in a way you can’t be if you’re merely pasted along the sidelines, waving.

Two things distinguished this year’s edition.  One was the unexpected anarchy  (I think it was unexpected, though murmurings a few days earlier may have been a sort of warning) that overwhelmed the corteo near the Rialto Bridge.

Or this pair, who I presume are father and son.
Or this pair, who I presume are father and son.

The Master Plan, as devised by tradition and the Comune (not always the same thing), was for the corteo to splash along all the way up to the train station, then return to the vicinity of the finish line at the “volta de Canal,” or “bend of the canal,” by Ca’ Foscari.

The first few years I engaged in the corteo, that’s what we did.  Then the Comune, responding to the pressing programming needs of the RAI television wallahs, and who knows what other dark urges, decreed that we all stop on the return leg at the entrance to the Cannaregio canal to let the first one and a half races pass by.  It was like shuffling a deck of cards, to get the corteo and the races organized in such a way as to leave not a second of the dreaded dead-air time in which people could, God forbid, get bored or something.

This was the mob in front of the church of the Salute.  I'd have taken more pictures, but I had to pay attention to my rowing responsibilities.
This was the mob in front of the church of the Salute. I'd have taken more pictures, but I had to pay attention to my rowing responsibilities.

So we did this for a few years, then increasing numbers of boats began to turn around and head back downstream before they got to the station.  Then they began turning around even earlier, and so on, till we reached last Sunday, when suddenly it seemed as if  some animal instinct urged the migrating boats to virtually all begin turning around just after the Rialto Bridge (which is where the last serious group of spectators are clustered, after which it’s just scattered random boats and who really cares who’s hanging around in front of the train station?).  Or turning, as in our case, before the bridge, because the mass of confused retreating boats made forging ahead difficult, as well as pointless.  The general atmosphere amid the boats could be summed up in the rude Venetian phrase, “Si ciava” (see CHA-vah, or “screw this/them/it”).

So that was entertaining.  I’ve spent years here listening to rants from certain elements among the organizers about how it’s the Venetians’ festival and we should do it the way we want to, not how They tell us to, but this was the first time I’ve ever seen what “Take Back the Night” would look like in real life.  It was kind of cool, actually.  For anybody, of whatever race or clime, who is annoyed by being treated as a spear-carrier in somebody else’s drama, it was highly invigorating.

This dude had one of the best seats in the house, all by himself and his two oars. All that seems to be missing is a case of beer.
This dude had one of the best seats in the house, all by himself and his two oars. All that seems to be missing is a case of beer.

Not sure what the Comune has to say about it, though, because the Gazzettino was awash yesterday in the floods of rancor and glee from the four men contending for first place in the race of the gondolinos.  Which brings me to the second thing that distinguished this year’s edition.

These “four men” would be cousins Igor and Rudi Vignotto, on the yellow (canarin) gondolino, and Ivo Redolfi-Tezzat and Giampaolo d’Este on the blue (celeste). To give you some perspective on this rivalry, the “Vignottini” have been rowing against d’Este and Tezzat since 2002, and against d’Este with other partners since 1995.  And that’s just the big races; they all started this as kids. Speaking of  being able to imagine things, I myself can’t imagine what fifteen years of battling in seven races each year adds up to when the crunch is on in the Grand Canal.  But it could not, as the saying goes, be pretty.

Thirst, hunger, or loneliness were not problems facing the extended family on the barge behind us
Thirst, hunger, or loneliness were not problems facing the extended family on the barge behind us, who color-coded their loyalties.

So what happened was that the eternal triad (including the purple, or viola, gondolino of Andrea Bertoldini and Martino Vianello), entered the Grand Canal in a virtual dead heat, and remained so until the Rialto Bridge: celeste, canarin, and viola.  And it’s not merely that they accomplished this feat, it’s that they did it for two miles (3.2 km).  At top speed, or about 7 mph (12 km/h).

“When I saw those three entering the Grand Canal side by side like that,” Lino told me later, “I got a lump in my throat.  It gave me goose bumps.”  He and the judges in the other boats following the race literally could not hear each other through their walkie-talkies, even yelling, because however many thousands there were who could see the boats were all screaming their brains out.  It was thrilling.

IMG_0802 stor comp
The three first gondolinos pass -- any ordinary mortals would long since have begun to fade, but not these titans.
This is a view of the race course.  It's further than it looks, and all that twisting and turning means you've got all sorts of different tidal conditions to deal with, going and coming back.
This is a view of the race course. It's further than it looks, and all that twisting and turning means you've got all sorts of different tidal conditions to deal with, going and coming back.

Then, as usual, Something Happened. Last year it was Tezzat falling overboard and taking d’Este with him as their boat (celeste, as it happens — coincidence???) capsized.  This year it was Something up toward the temporary piling in front of the station which marks the turnaround point.

The details are still coming out, and of course they’re as dissonant as a quartet by Charles Ives.  The judges warned Tezzat more than once to alter something he was doing to the detriment of the “Vignottini,” which Tezzat evidently ignored.  (I’m not taking sides here, I’m just trying to give the outline.)

There are palazzo parties....
There are palazzo parties....

When a racer does not obey the judge, after a certain number of calls the racer is disqualified.  And that’s what happened.  Three-quarters of the way through the race, suddenly one of its biggest stars was off the field, never to be seen again.  At least not that day.

While down at the waterline, folks are chilling in their own special way.
While down at the waterline, folks are chilling in their own special way.

One of the boys from the children's race consoles himself for losing at the last minute by eating several pieces of cake.  It helps, at least for a while.
One of the boys from the children's race consoles himself for losing at the last minute by eating several pieces of cake. It helps, at least for a while.

The next day the Rage of Tezzat reverberated through the pages of the Gazzettino; if this matter isn’t resolved (the “matter” being the injustice and infamy of the judge’s action), he says he’s going to hang up his oar, as they say, and quit racing.  He won’t even show up to try for the final race of the year at Burano in two weeks.

To which one might reasonably reply, “Knock yourself out.”  (“Fa di manco,” would be the closest Venetian equivalent, or “So don’t bother.”)

If there are any developments worth wasting electrons to report, I will do so.

Otherwise, I want to leave you with the joy of the bellowing, shrieking, hysterical crowds who got to see, if only briefly, one of the most dazzling moments in big-time racing anyone has witnessed for quite some time. That’s what I’m going to remember.

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