As I have undoubtedly mentioned at some point, there are many moments throughout the year which I await with all the focus of a hunter watching for the tiniest tracks of his prey. Or something like that.
This morning, to my astonishment, I heard the first blackbird of the year. This is great news, because the few months in which blackbirds sing the sun up are a very big deal to me. Not because of the sun, because of the birds.
The freezingest days of January/February (which have yet to log in, though they’re apparently en route from Siberia) are known as the “giorni della merla” (days of the female blackbird), so considering the curiously mild weather, it does seem a bit early.
No matter. I heard one distant cadenza this morning. It was brief, it was beautiful, and it was the first. I’m happy.
I see that more time than usual has passed since I posted anything about the most-beautiful-city-in-the-world, and I apologize.
I suppose I could just stop there, but if I had a note from my mother to present to the teacher it would say:
“Please excuse Erla from not writing anything on her blog. She and all of Italy have been suffering from an extreme heat wave which has destroyed her will to live, which flickered out only slightly before her will to write. The heat wave comes from North Africa and is called ‘Charon’ (“Caronte,” in Italian), the name of the mythological man who ferried the deceased across the rivers Styx and Acheron to the world of the dead. Unfortunately, he seems very happy in Italy, what with the pasta and gelato and art and all, so he’s showing no signs of wanting to go elsewhere. I don’t know what he’s done with the dead people. She’ll be back as soon as she escapes.”
I would gladly send a post from Lapland, or Baffin Bay, or Queen Maud Land. But I’m stuck here.
A tornado crossed part of the lagoon yesterday morning, and part of Sant’ Elena was in its way, And all of our boat club.
The office is gone, the two buildings and sheds where our boats were kept are gone. And the boats are pretty much gone, too. I don’t mean “gone” as in lifted to heaven in the rapture, I mean it in the sense of smashed to various bits. Because we were in a phase of demolishing the old clubhouse in anticipation of a new facility and all our 34 boats were outside.
The man who operates the winch to put the boats in and out of the water was in the metal container that served as his temporary shelter at the water’s edge. The tornado rolled it over a couple of times with him in it, and two men managed to get him out. He was rushed to the emergency room with a gash in his head and two broken ribs, but at least the container wasn’t tornado’d into the water with him in it.
Trees snapped and uprooted, but no further victims, as far as I know, unlike the previous tornado in 1970.
When the tornado struck, we were at the Rialto market where our attention was mostly dedicated to the price of cherries. It rained, but we had not even the slightest hint that devastation was being wrought just over the way. We had a blast of rain, but there wasn’t anything about it that made you think of anything worse than your wet feet.
We got the news from a friend who was at San Marco, and who had seen it. Then the phone calls began to spread the word. At that point I was on Murano with a friend, so I wasn’t able to go help with the first load of work, But Lino was there all afternoon, along with almost every club member who was available.
I’m still trying to get a grip on all this. Because this morning has dawned cool, clear, and dazzling with cloudless sunshine. Translation: The perfect day to go out in a boat.
The website of the Remiera Casteo has photographs and film of what the tornado left behind.
YouTube has a number of clips of this event but here is one of the best. If the video isn’t shown, here is the link: http://youtu.be/KFCaI_L_K4s
Anyone who knows that last Sunday was the 38th Vogalonga (I was there, rowing on the six-oar balotina, as last year) might be surprised to hear that that event is not filed under “Big day” in Erla’s Cosmic File Cabinet.
My big day was day before yesterday, hereinafter referred to as the Apparition of the First Magnolia Blossom.
This is not a trick: There is a single white blossom in there -- admittedly easier to see in real life than here. Check the upper right quarter of the central tree. Trust me.
My mother had the habit (obsession) of remaining on the lookout for little signals throughout the year — animal, vegetable, mineral, comestible, aural, but especially vegetable. The way she watched for them made them seem important. And evidently a random twist of the old DNA has passed this persistent little practice on to me. The first seppia. The first frog-song. It’s such a part of how I see the world that I find it odd that everybody doesn’t do it.
I used to watch for the very first leaves coming out on the small weeping willow on the canal near our first dwelling. First leaves are celestial, filmy, diaphanous. Complete, full-grown, ready-to-use, batteries-included leaves are not. And don’t tell me that the anticipation was more meaningful/pleasurable/important than detecting the nascent foliage itself. You might convince me that the voyage matters more than the destination, but anticipation with no fulfillment is dumb.
So I have been keeping the huge magnolia tree near the Giardini vaporetto stop under close surveillance. Tell me why the first blossom could possibly matter. No wait — don’t tell me. It matters.
Now I have seen it and I feel happy. I’m not sure what I’m going to be tracking next, but there will definitely be something. Followed by something else. Until December 31, and then I start over.
That famous Next Big Thing everybody's waiting for? I'm waiting for the Next Little Thing.
