History | Venice: I am not making this up

Acqua alta: reviewing the basics II

March 9, 2010 No Comments

Here are two elements of high water which aren’t usually — perhaps not ever — mentioned, much less interpreted, in the typical story, the kind that likes using emotional words like “invade.” ( As in, “The water invaded the city.” Stormed the battlements. Conquered the kingdom, wrought havoc, death and destruction, setting towns to the torch and sending everyone into slavery. You know, the usual high-water scenario.) Where was I.

Venice is not sitting at median sea level. That wouldn't make any sense. — Venice is not sitting at mean sea level. That wouldn't make any sense.

One is what the numbers actually mean. Venice does not float like a lily-pad at sea level. The lowest area in the city, the Piazza San Marco, is already 80 cm above the water’s surface when the water is at mean sea-level. Therefore any height that’s reported isn’t as high as it sounds if we were just standing on a street somewhere, measuring upwards from our feet, because the starting number isn’t zero.

Example: 110 cm converts to three and a half feet, which sounds scary. But someone standing in the Piazza San Marco will have water reaching up only 30 cm from their feet, or roughly just below their knees (11 inches). Someone elsewhere in the city might well not have it even that high. Or at all. Because of Point Number Two.

Surf's up near the Rialto Market by the eponymous bridge. Just behind me there's no water on the ground at all, except for some rain puddles.

Point Number Two: Headlines blaring “VENICE IS FLOODED” imply that the entire city, all three square miles of it, is going under for the third time. In fact, a tide up to 110 cm will dampen 14 percent of the city. Not a huge percentage, I think one must admit. Up at 140 cm (the relatively rare Code Red, “exceptional high water”), it covers almost 50 percent of the city, which is more impressive, except that the frequency of a tide this high is fairly low — five times in the ten years between 2000 and 2010. And still, one isn’t referring to every square inch of Venice. Amost half of the city is still high and dry.

For all of Venice to be flooded, the tide would have to rise well beyond 200 cm (the epochal acqua alta of November 4, 1966 reached 194 cm). The city’s tide office doesn’t estimate above 200 cm, at which level 86 percent of the city would be underwater. I don’t say that would be entertaining, but it would be so rare that I’d suggest saving the doomsday vocabulary for it, and not waste the drama on more mundane tidal events.

This is the only example of this extreme solution to acqua alta I've seen so far. What it implies to me is that whoever owns this property isn't expecting to be available to sweep out any water. Or that whatever's inside is so valuable that it probably should be in a vault somewhere. My own experience leads me to wonder if a seal this tight wouldn't potentially force the incoming water up inside through some hitherto unnoticed crevice.

Our little hovel is safe up to the three-tone level. At four tones, it’s time to take the tarps off the lifeboats. We discovered that last December 1 at about 9:15, when the water reached the four-tone level and began to slide under our front door. Then I discovered it was also coming through a fissure in the wall under the kitchen sink, as well as up through a fissure in the stone flooring. That was more exciting than almost anything I can remember. So please don’t suppose that my viewpoint is the result of my not having to worry about water under the bed. I just want to recalibrate the popular perception of this phenomenon. Obnoxious. Not catastrophic.

We have a calendar, on sale at any newsstand, which traces the predicted tide levels each day of the year. But those are only estimates based on what’s normal. For more timely updates, I check the data on the city’s Tide Center website. You can also sign up to be alerted of the rising tide via text message (SMS) on your cell phone.

All these advisories are what make it really hard for me to feel sincerely sorry for anyone who might find that water had caused any damage to goods or appliances. It’s not like it comes like a thief in the night.

I leave you with the key phrase which ought to simplify the whole business if you’re here long enough to need to know it: Hip waders. Just do it.

The fact that the pump is working demonstrates the limitations of the barrier across the door. However, it's clear that without the barrier things would be much worse. I assume he's doing rough calculations of the power of the pump relative to the speed of the rising tide.

History, Nature, Problems, Water

Acqua alta: reviewing the basics I

March 8, 2010 No Comments

Let’s start with the most basic fact of all: Venice is sitting in the middle of a tidal lagoon. This means surrounded by water that rises and falls. I don’t mean to keep harping on this, because I know it sounds really dumb, but not much dumber than all those stories that get published and broadcast that make it sound as if water on the ground here were stranger and more upsetting than four sharks singing “Shine On, Harvest Moon.”

How high the water will rise might vary from the official prediction based on a few factors, but when it’s looking imminent I’ve definitely got at least one eye on the barometer, the wind sock (on the computer) and the moon. Wait, that makes three eyes. Well, you know what I mean.

This shopkeeper near the Piazza San Marco is keeping his high-water records this way.

Data on the tides began to be recorded regularly after an exceptional high water in 1867 (153 cm above average sea level). In 1908 various monitoring stations were installed to more precisely measure the height of the tides, and in 1914 the pertinent data on the barometric pressure and the direction and force of the wind were added.

For events longer ago, historians can only turn to various chronicles and accounts in which the quantities aren’t always easy to assess. As in: “The water rose high enough to ruin the wells.” A flooded well would, in my view, be much more distressing than some water on the floor, seeing as the supply of fresh H2O in Venice was not infinite.

The main high-water factors are the following:

The season. If the acqua is going to be alta, it will usually be between September and April. Articles which refer to its frequency are often misleading because they use aggregate numbers which give the impression that it’s a monthly occurrence all year long. While there might be pesky clusters of high water events in winter (as happened this year), the likelihood plummets to June; it has never been recorded in July and August.

Phase of the moon. The tides are highest and lowest when the moon is full and when it’s new. Actually, the moon is the only component to this phenomenon which isn’t even the tiniest bit likely to swerve from the forecast.

Atmospheric pressure. When it’s low, the water is high. When it’s high, the water is low. If we tap on the barometer and see that it’s gone to the bottom of the scale, there’s no getting around the likelihood that the water will be high. The barometer won’t tell us how high, but we can look out the door and make a guess. A barometer is a great friend to have because it cannot tell a lie.

Wind. If the scirocco is blowing, it will definitely aggravate the situation. The scirocco is also obnoxious because it’s warm and humid (get one blowing in the summer and you’ll wonder if you took the wrong exit and ended up in Amazonia). But as it’s from the southeast, it will blow into the lagoon and — putting it very simplistically — push against the tide and prevent it from going out in a timely and efficient fashion. On the contrary, it seems to work very hard to keep all the water in the lagoon all at once. I try to avoid anthropomorphizing the natural world here, but I have to say that sometimes it seems like the wind just does it on purpose.

When a strong scirocco is blowing, I don’t hear wind so much as I do the heavy surf rolling up in close-order-drill on the Lido’s Adriatic beaches. It’s a deep, rumbling sort of roar off in the distance, impossible to mistake for anything else.

Yes, the water is rising in the Piazza San Marco. But the owner of the cafe clearly is not too concerned, otherwise he wouldn't have bothered setting up all those chairs and tables.

There is a warning system to alert the city that within an hour, water will be rising in the Piazza San Marco (the lowest point in the city) and, by extension, at other various low-lying areas. This information comes from a monitoring system at the mouth of the lagoon at San Nicolo, and at other points in the lagoon.

Until two years ago, the citywide warning system was a few sirens which emitted a sequence of rising wails. The first time I heard them they woke me from a deep sleep in the middle of the night — a sudden violent tone swooping upward, overlapped by another one just following it, and then by a third. Scared the hoo out of me — it was like the Three Weird Sisters in Macbeth going mad.

But what they didn’t tell you back then was how much water was going to come ashore.

Two years ago, the system was refined. Now there is only one siren-swoop, after which comes a steady tone which indicates the maximum predicted height. One tone = 110 centimeters above sea level. Two tones = 120 centimeters. Three tones = 130. And four tones = 140 and above. This is what they sound like. I can tell you they’re very effective. There may not be any way you can ultimately prevent water from coming indoors, but you cannot possibly say you had no warning.

This tide-level notice board at Piazzale Roma gives the height of the tide in real time, indicates whether it is rising or falling, and what time the next maximum (or minimum) will be. And how high or low. Very useful, if you happen to be at Piazzale Roma. — This tide-level notice board at Piazzale Roma gives the height of the tide in real time, indicates whether it is rising or falling, and what time the next maximum (or in this case, minimum) will be. And how high or low. Very useful, if you happen to be at Piazzale Roma.

Events, History, Problems, Tourism

Carnival: mopping up

February 19, 2010 No Comments

You thought Carnival was over with the sprinkling of the ashes on penitential hairdos? Not quite.

Carnival doesn’t slink away under cover of darkness when the marangon, the basso profundo bell in the campanile of San Marco, tolls midnight on Martedi Grasso. Two things have to happen for it to really be over — in my opinion, that is. Two things which are more predictable than the swallows returning to Capistrano.

One of the regular car ferries is engaged for the carnival trucks.

The first is the pulling apart and hauling away of the traveling amusement park (what they generically call a “Luna Park” here) which has been gracing the Riva dei Sette Martiri since — I believe — early December.

These people (as in much of the world) are almost exclusively families which have dedicated many generations to the setting up, operating, pulling down, and rolling on to the next location of their ride or concession stand.

After three months, I’m going to miss the smell of the hot-doughnut-frying-oil and the screeching of the children. It was fun strolling along the waterfront late every afternoon to mingle and kibitz. And I am convinced that as long as there is at least one small child walking home carrying a small plastic bag containing water and a goldfish, the world will not come to an end.

All this concentrated traffic is a lot to ask of a stretch of walkway which is made of small stones atop packed damp sand.

Anyway, the men start work early on Ash Wednesday morning, and by Thursday morning the funfair is gone. The only sign they’ve ever been here are the patches of new cement filling the holes in the pavement where their big rigs (or something) went astray.

Speaking of itinerant carnies, I went to the small town of Bergantino a few years ago when I was working on a story about the Po River (National Geographic, May, 2002). This former farming town has, since the Twenties and much more since the Sixties, become dedicated to the design, construction, and (eventually) operation of carnival rides — merry-go-rounds, bumper cars, etc. Despite the town’s modest size — it’s really just a village of some 2,000 people, when they’re all there, I mean, and not out on the road — they’ve carved away a heavy slice of this international industry for Italy. One of the major markets for their inventions is the USA.

Well, wherever they’ve gone, I’m already missing them.

The second element of the end of Carnival is the orgy of articles, editorials, and letters in the Gazzettino reviewing, celebrating, and vilifying the festivities just concluded. I can tell you without even having opened the paper that there will have been too many people for this fragile city to support; that the managing of this predictable overload will have shown inexcusable organizational flaws and failures to resolve the most elementary large-event necessities (toilets, in a word); that the money taken in doesn’t justify the stress and expense to the city; that it will have lacked originality and creative genius, and that for the residents and shopkeepers of Campo Santa Margherita, the ten days just concluded have been nothing less than at least six of the nine rings of hell.

And every year, the apex of all the claims and counter-claims: That this event would be (or ought to have been, or next year definitely will be) the “Carnival of the Venetians.” I saw Venetians having a fine time carnivalizing in their own modest way in various neighborhoods of the city, but not in the Piazza San Marco. I’d have given you a cash prize if you’d found any Venetians besides Lino in the Piazza San Marco.

Going-home time near San Marco. I count eight launches ready to load up and head back to the mainland, and this picture is only one third of the traffic panorama. This traffic is not composed of Venetians.

So when this wish to involve Venetians is mentioned, as if it were obviously a good thing, I ask myself if the speaker believes that a “Carnival of the Venetians” would have the slightest probability of pouring the millions of euros into the municipal strongboxes that all those tourists do. After all, Venetians don’t spend money on hotel rooms, restaurant meals, fancy masks, or whatever else makes Carnival matter. So frankly, what would be the point of spending money to organize a ten-day carnival for the few remaining locals? Just wondering.

Let’s go to the videotape (so to speak). Here is a smattering of the Gazzettino’s overview of Carnival 2010, as published yesterday:

The organizers claim that 150,000 people came the first Sunday; 250,000 the second Sunday (let that sink in…) and 40,000 on Martedi Grasso. Altogether, they say a total of 800,000 people came to Venice during Carnival. Perhaps not much compared to Rio, but for a city that covers a mere three square miles, not bad.

They estimate that each visitor spent 50 euros, for an exciting total income of 40 million euros. Not sure where this number came from; a professor of the Economics of Tourism at the University of Venice says that the “bite and run” day-trippers spend an average of 30 euros each day, while the more solid tourist spends 150. In any case, let’s not quibble over a million more or a million less. Restaurants and hotels certainly made money, not to mention the ACTV and their spectacularly expensive vaporetto tickets.

One new comment is by the businesspeople (especiallythose of restaurants and cafes) in the Piazza San Marco — they don’t want a maxi-stage there anymore. I’m not sure why, but I imagine it’s because it takes up too much space which needs to be available for them to put out their tables and chairs.

I could go on, but it’s probably not that interesting. These few days following Carnival are mainly spent in a sort of emotional and mental scrubbing and disinfecting.

The summary is fairly concise. Apart from numbers, claims, and counter-claims as to success or failure, as one reporter wrote, “Now the Venetians can give a deep sigh of relief and put their hands on their foreheads and say, “‘Once again we’ve lived through it.'”

Events, History, Tourism, Venetian-ness

Carnival farrago, part 2

February 15, 2010 No Comments

During Carnival nowadays, anybody who normally sells anything lays on a batch of souvenirs -- masks, capes and other stuff. — During Carnival nowadays, anybody who normally sells anything lays on a batch of souvenirs — masks, capes and other stuff.

Here are a few more morsels of lore about Carnival back in the Old Days:

Laws: I realize that the Carnival motto is “anything goes,” which makes the idea of laws somewhat incongruous. But “anything” could — and did — lead to enough dangerous and unstable behavior over time that the adults supposedly supervising this city-wide party were forced to set some ground rules. Their significance is pretty obvious. For example:

It was forbidden in 1703 to wear the bauta in the ridotti, or gambling houses. The government was apparently the last to realize (after centuries of Carnival) that being completely disguised was a great way to hide from your creditors. So, no hiding behind masks and capes for any nefarious purpose, because they were also …

… a great way to conceal your identity as you lurked around stealing things and killing people. On February 11, 1720, the government decreed that the capo, or head, of each neighborhood was to patrol his territory with eight men every night of Carnival; there had to be some effort made to limit, if not completely prevent, the mayhem and murder that seemed to be the natural consequence of fun and frolic. It must have been a great time to settle scores.
It was forbidden to wear masks during a plague.
It was forbidden to carry weapons if you were masked. Duh.
It was forbidden to dress up as a priest and it was most especially forbidden for men to dress up as nuns. If they did either of these things, it was just too easy for them to enter convents or churches and debauch the sisters. Not that the nuns cared, especially; a large percentage of them didn’t want to be Brides of Christ in the first place, and plenty of them absolutely made the most of Carnival anonymity. I’m presuming that women had also been making the most of voluminous Carnival coverings to visit the monasteries.

Just to make sure there was a stop to this particular bit of chicanery, on January 24, 1458 it was decreed that nobody wearing a mask would be permitted to enter a church, convent, or any other sacred place. Period.

One you really get into the Carnival groove, you start to look at everybody differently. Like these two individuals. Who are they really? And what an amazing costume they've put together -- they look just like two little old ladies from the neighborhood. — Once you really get into the Carnival groove, you start to look at everybody differently. Like these two individuals. Who are they really? And what an amazing costume they’ve put together — they look just like two little old ladies from the neighborhood.

The Carnival Calendar:

You couldn’t wear masks just any time you felt like it. It was like hunting season, with fairly specific dates:

It started in October, when everybody came back from summer vacation in their country villas, and the theatres began to open. At its height, Venice had 17 theatres, an extraordinary number for a city in those days. And Carnival continued, with a brief interruption for Christmas, until Ash Wednesday ushered in Lent.

Masks were also allowed to be worn during the two weeks of the feast of the Ascension and its phenomenal market, which filled the Piazza San Marco with vendors from all over the Mediterranean basin and beyond.

You know it's Carnival when there's confetti (sorry -- coriandoli) literally everywhere — You know it’s Carnival when there’s confetti (sorry — coriandoli) literally everywhere

And then there was the convenient clause of “and whenever appropriate” (as I think of it). Masks could be permitted by special decree for very special occasions. For example, masks were allowed during the celebrations of the victory of the Battle of Lepanto (1571). Among the countless public festivities was a parade of allegorical floats: “Christianity” was represented in the act of crushing a chained dragon; “Victory” vaunted itself over the vanquished; and “Death” was triumphant, complete with sickle. It was all party, all the time for several weeks, and that could only mean break out the masks.

In any case, in good times or bad, one unassailable rule was that Carnival could not be interrupted. When doge Paolo Renier died on February 13, 1789, they didn’t report the death until March 2.

Party on!!