Getting real

Because my blog is centered on Venice, maybe you’re not very interested in news about the rest of Italy.  But I’m going to take a chance, in order to pass on some updates that might help readers outside Europe see how this pandemic is developing.

The development — or not — of the COVID-19 virus depends almost exclusively on individuals and what they do, or decide not to do.  Looking at you, young woman eating her hamburger at the Red Robin saying “And I’m going to take my sweet time about it.  I’m an American.  I can do anything I want.”  There may be individuals in other countries who share her outlook, which is why I’m writing this post.

The Region of Lombardy, for whatever reason(s), is on the rack, and I do not refer to military bunks.  As of 6:30 PM on March 18 (yesterday), the Veneto had the third-highest contagion count in Italy at 3,214.  Second-highest was Emilia-Romagna at 4,525.  Lombardy topped the list at almost four times that number: 17,713.

The city of Bergamo is at the point of collapse, medically speaking.  The cemeteries are now full, and the Army has arrived to take 60 coffins away in their trucks to 12 other regions where they can be cremated and stored (I guess that’s what you’d call it) till all this is over and they can be interred back home.  Fun fact: The crematoria at Bergamo, working 24 hours a day, can perform 25 cremations per day.  Also, the funeral homes aren’t working at full speed because they, too, are beginning to lack healthy employees.  I realize that being infected is not automatically a death sentence, but it’s still not something you want.  Among other things, it may leave you with permanent lung damage (young hamburger woman).

Thursday night in Bergamo.  No more space in the cemeteries meant moving the coffins elsewhere, and that meant calling in the Army.  (Leggo.it)

I’ve already reported that there is a form that each individual who goes out is required to fill out and show to whatever officer stops and asks where they’re going, and why.  The three approved categories are “work, health, necessity” (for example, going to the supermarket or pharmacy, or to help your housebound old mother).

That form has been revised, and now includes the affirmation that you are not contagious, and that you know what the regulations are on maintaining the quarantine and the penalties for pooh-poohing them.  The first part only applies to persons who have been swabbed, logically; persons (like me) who haven’t been swabbed, and therefore don’t know if they’re contagious, don’t risk prison, but are still going to get a fine.

Did I say prison?  The government has had to turn the screw another 360 degrees, because not everyone in Italy is taking this seriously enough.  Some 80,000 persons have been fined so far for being outdoors without any justification other than “I felt like going out.”  Yesterday the Ministry of the Interior hypothesized sentences of up to 12 years in prison for anyone who tests positive being found outside.  They will have been found guilty of a new crime termed “epidemia colposa,” corresponding in legal terms to “omicidio colposo,” or manslaughter.

We’re running low on doctors (and nurses) due to the increase in cases, exacerbated by the thinning of the ranks as the medical personnel become infected. The big commercial-fair center of Bergamo was supposed to be set up today as a field hospital, but that’s unlikely due to lack of doctors.

The weather has been like this all week but this spot, which is about ten minutes by foot from our house if you dawdle, might as well be in Bat Cave, North Carolina.

Happy news, though!  A Chinese medical team of 24 doctors and technicians landed yesterday at Milan, along with 17 tons of medical supplies including 200,000 surgical masks, 200,000 regular masks, 5500 sterile coveralls, 3000 protective screens and 3300 protective glasses.  There was also a batch of machinery, especially 30 ventilators which will be going straight to the ICUs.  All this was donated by several Chinese provinces, particularly the people of Zhenjiang, the home town of many Chinese who are living in Italy.  Most of this material is destined to stay in Lombardy, given that it needs the most help in stopping the advance of the contagion.  The team is scheduled to stay here two weeks.

And more doctors are coming up in the fast lane.  The medical schools have now been authorized to award a special diploma to their nearly-graduated medical students to put them to work now.  That should amount to some 10,000 additional doctors.

Still, the shrinking hospital space is perilous.  Beds are disappearing, even in the holding area of the Emergency Room.  Doing their best, doctors in Milan sent a patient to a hospital in Lecce, down at the other end of Italy in the heel of the boot.  That would be like sending a patient from Washington, DC to Atlanta just because there was a bed available.  And there was a couple that was put into two separate hospitals (maybe not even in the same town; I’m beginning to lose track).

It may be that I’m going to miss spring this year. Good thing I’ve got all these photos.

My impression for a while was that a large number of Italians are sticking with the program, and I think that’s true.  But there are still way too many people who just can’t shed that “You mean me?” mentality. Today the news said that there have been 80,000 people reported for busting the confines of the three permitted categories. That’s 80,000 bright sparks too many.  People outside, swanning around, without any approved justification for it.  Riding bikes, running… “I have to feed the pigeons…” (not made up).

The border separating Italy from Slovenia goes straight through a town; on the Italian side, it’s Gorizia, and on the Slovenian side it’s Nova Gorica.  The thirsty Goriziani have taken to bypassing the barriers that the Slovenian government installed at the border in order to get to the bars that have no inconvenient hours, nor do they impose any limits on the size of groups.  The closest bar to Gorizia is at the former train station, a mere 30 meters (100 feet) from the border, and it is crammed with Italian people drinking literally elbow to elbow.  There are groups of Italians who’ve gone skiing in France because the Italian slopes have closed for the season.  In Reggio Calabria, 70 fines have been imposed in just two days.  The gorgeous spring weather hasn’t been helping.

It continues to be repeated: Every person who is outside is either vulnerable to being infected, or able to infect someone else. You can’t stop the virus if you don’t stop the people.  Especially GROUPS OF PEOPLE.

Do not even think of doing this with anybody except your immediate family — I mean the family that’s living with you in your house, not the relatives who are coming from ten miles away. (Photo: Ataberk Guler on Unsplash)

And yet yesterday, in the lovely town of Cassino, a group of 30 friends and neighbors in one apartment building decided to have a cookout on the roof terrace.  Fire up the barbie and crack those brewskis, let’s party down.  Except that someone in a nearby building detected the sounds and aromas of a large outdoor gathering and called the police.

Within minutes, the Polizia di Stato, the Carabinieri, and the Guardia di Finanza were all on the scene.  Those minutes, though, were enough to allow some 20 revelers to flee to their own apartments and bolt the door, so when the officers of the law got to the roof, only ten people remained to be flattened by the hammer of justice.  They were fined for having violated the government’s decrees on “not leaving your home for any reason other than work, health, or necessity.”  I suppose somebody might have argued that the building was their home, but that argument wouldn’t have gotten them very far.

When the police left, the 10 victims went inside and got to work, rousting out their 20 perfidious friends. Fists and feet were flying.  The police did not return.

Yesterday, the mayor of Delia, a town in Sicily, snapped.  That will be the next post.  It’s a doozy.

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Vogalonga 2020 canceled

A boat from Cremona at the beginning of the Vogalonga, May 20, 2018. Like the song says, Those were the days, my friend.

This is a public service announcement to any of my rowing readers (or their rowing friends): The Vogalonga, scheduled for May 31, 2020, has been canceled.  I don’t suppose this comes as a huge surprise.

So far the official website does not reflect that decision, so in case anyone was still holding out hope, you can put the hope back in its box, and stow it in the tool shed behind the garage.

I’m taking the liberty of writing this because some people have contacted me to ask what the status of the event might be.  It’s also in the box in the tool shed.

I’m sad too.
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Wrapping Carnival

Today is Martedi’ Grasso (Mardi Gras) and Carnival is wrapping up.  It wrapped up a few days ago in via Garibaldi, not with a bang, not with anything. On Giovedi’ Grasso, the stage, inflatable slide and trampolines were going full tilt, overrun by swarms of unchained children.  The day after, nothing.  Everything was just … gone.

There are still frittelle and galani on sale and the streets are still speckled with confetti, yet the revelers are nowhere to be seen.  I think whoever’s still around has migrated to the Piazza San Marco, where the big closing events take place.  I won’t be there.  I’ll be sitting at home in the dark, like some addict, secretly eating the last of the galani.

Galani, the last batch. They are doomed and so am I.
Frittelle veneziane are somewhat difficult to find; lately everybody seems to want them filled with pastry cream or zabaglione. I stick with the traditional solid balls of fried dough.  I bought this one not because I’m so crazy about frittelle, but because I couldn’t resist the chance to break off all those little stick-out bits.  I’m so easy to entertain.
“Today there are mammaluchi.”  Readers may remember that the Pasticceria Targa near the Rialto market is the only place I’ve found that offers a special Carnival sweet called “mammaluchi.”  Not the knightly military caste drawn from the ranks of slave warriors (thanks, Wikipedia), but an equally dangerous pastry.
The Mamluks had a special sword, but I think this could have be just as effective in your average skirmish. It would just take a little longer for your adversary to collapse.  The filling is dough, but of a moisture and density that make you take them seriously.  Two is actually too many, but I didn’t let that stop me.
I receive absolutely no compensation for this mention, they don’t even know who I am. Just that wild-eyed foreigner who comes in every year asking if the mammaluchi are ready yet.
I didn’t go on a hunt for costumes to photograph, mainly because so many of them are so trite. I don’t judge, I know the people concealed within are having a wonderful time. I just feel embarrassed taking pictures that everybody else is taking, especially of something so unimaginative.  Here, a group of massive costumes was disembarking from the #1 vaporetto.
I kind of liked these dudes, even if they had rented the garb. I was fascinated by the fact that all of them had 12 white dots. I have no idea how you play a game of dominos if all the tiles have the same number of dots, but at least they were being whimsical.  I award points for whimsy.
And speaking of whimsy, this was the scene in via Garibaldi on Fat Thursday. The munchkins from the local nursery school are dressed up as either little pigs (the girls) or wolves (boys). The masks were handmade of the ever-reliable construction paper.
The pigs were especially adorable, not only because they were scarfing up frittelle and fruit juice but because they had to move their masks aside to make way for the food. The mask itself is a small masterpiece, held on by a circlet of pink construction paper.
This was an exceptional minimalist costume. The mask was a small cardboard carton just sitting on his shoulders, and he must have had fun making a sword that wants to be a Mamluk bread knife.
Seen at the Rialto market: A couple wearing chef’s toques, the father carrying their little girl on his back, disguised as a ….
…lobster. That’s what I always say, never leave home without a clean handkerchief and a lobster.
Yes, I know you want to stay out past dark, but it’s time to go home. Pack it up till next year.
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Carnival we go again

The waves of confetti are the forerunners of the festivizing. You don’t need to see who tossed these handfuls to know that the game is on.
Next stage: Complaints. Sunday morning’s newsstand lists the usual problems: (L to R) “Carnival for 80,000 Today the turnstiles go into operation.   Strike at La Fenice Opening night canceled.”  “Carnival and nightlife It’s chaos Protests.”  “Turnstiles at the openings (on streets) The first time at the Piazza San Marco.”
Sunday morning: The waterfront is lined with the big tourist launches which, after they unload their revelers, wait back here along the Fondamenta Sette Martiri for the return trip to everywhere.
And on up the Riva degli Schiavoni toward San Marco.  They’re even double-parking.

Last Saturday (Feb. 23) was the semi-official opening of Carnival, which means tremendous hubbub in deepest Castello.  The frittelle and galani are already making inroads on everybody’s glucose levels, and by the look of the calli, confetti appears to be strewing itself.

The centerpiece of Saturday’s inaugural celebrations was the procession of the 12 “Marias” from San Pietro di Castello to the Piazza San Marco.  Weather cold but sunny, not much wind — perfect for everybody, especially the Marias who, if the morning bora had lasted, would each have needed a can of hair spray to keep her tresses under control.  Perfection comes at a price, and in this case it would either have been a week’s worth of washing with Packer’s Pine Tar shampoo or a visit to the Navy barber for a cut measured in millimeters.  People love looking at the girls, but I worry about their hair.  It probably comes with age.

These are the Marias from 2017; I didn’t fight my way through the mass of people to chronicle this year’s batch. The dresses change each year, but the hair is eternal. I keep meaning to ask one of them how (or if) if they manage to sleep during this week. I’m imagining those Chinese headrests.

Sunday (Feb. 24) at 11:00 AM was the true official opening of the annual scrum, with the “Volo del Angelo” (flight of the angel) enacted by a lovely girl in magnificent garb who slides down a wire from the campanile of San Marco to terra firma at the stage below.  She was followed by another, because why stop at one?  In this case I don’t worry about their hair, I worry about their lives.  As does everyone.  All went well.

The most important innovation was the installation of turnstiles at the entrance to the Piazza; for the first time, the number of festivizers permitted in the Piazza was limited to a modest 23,000, with corridors arranged for easy entry and exit.  Modern, intelligent, efficient — it can be done! I don’t know where the rest of the 110,000 people that were counted in the city went, but my tricorn hat with the veil is off to the organizers and the enforcers, all 700 of them: 420 vigili, or municipal police (100 more than last year, between Venice and the mainland), 60 firemen, 120 workers from Vela (transport), 40 of Suem and Croce Verde (ambulances) e 40 of Civil Protection (general assistance and crisis management).

La Nuova Venezia reported that there were many more people than last year.  “In spite of some suffocating stretches, some calli transformed into a Stations of the Cross (you can intuit this means slow and extreme suffering), and some campi, such as Santa Maria Formosa, full to overflowing, there weren’t any complications.”  They are referring to quantity, not quality, because…..

Turista barbaricus is back! Two young foreigners were nabbed at 10:00 AM on Sunday in the Piazzetta dei Leoncini urinating against the basilica of San Marco.  Hey!  A wall!  Just what we needed!  Nabbed by the police, each has been given a fine of 3,330 euros ($3,782).  That will certainly make for an interesting conversation when they get home.  Just think: For the price of a coffee (1.10 euros) they could have used the bar’s bathroom.  Or hey — the canals are free! I realize that Carnival was created for breaking rules, flouting convention, freeing oneself of all those rigid rules that so strangle happiness and frivolity.  I even wrote about it.  Except that even the Venetian Republic didn’t need much time to recognize that there is a limit to everything, including fun, and to start passing decrees and ordinances to keep total chaos at bay.

Because I don’t venture as far as San Marco — and not even as far as the Arsenale — my view of Carnival is limited to our little lobe of the city, and that’s fine with me.

“To confetti” — evidently it can be a verb. Just ask the dog.

The story of the “Marias”:  From the 9th century it was the custom in Venice, on the Feast of the Purification of Mary (Feb. 2, or “Candelora”), to bless all the couples who were planning to marry that year.  For the ceremony, which was held in the bishop’s palace, the 12 poorest damsels were dressed in splendid garments and jewels lent by the main churches of the city.  They didn’t have to be beautiful (as required by today’s pageant), they just had to be poverty-stricken.

In 973 (or maybe 948), the ceremony was interrupted by the arrival of a band of wild Slavic pirates from the Croatian coast, who stole the girls and, of course, their expensive garb and jewelry.  Doge Pietro Candiani III organized a posse, caught up with them at Caorle, slew the pirates and brought the girls and their stuff home safe and — one hopes — still sound.  To thank the Madonna for her intercession in this happy outcome, the Feast of the Marias was instituted.

But something had changed.  Instead of choosing merely the 12 poorest girls, now they had to be the most beautiful of the poorest.  Each girl was assigned to a wealthy family which donated clothes, jewels, and a dowry to help her marriage chances.

Wikipedia (in Italian, translated by me) tells us that “In the following days there was a series of civil and religious ceremonies that culminated in a boat procession on the Grand Canal, during which the “Marias” displayed their beauty and their jewels.  The ceremonies were accompanied by balls, banquets and other extravagances; furthermore, to see the Marias was considered a sign of good luck, beyond being a festival for the eyes of the masculine public.  And so the festivities extended over many days (even two weeks) and attracted many people from other countries.”

Sound good?  Not really.  Because now there were 12 poor — literally and figuratively — girls involved in what amounted to a struggle to the death among 12 patrician families.  “The feast of the Marias created not a few problems; it often happened that the girls who were about to be married were courted, and in the worst cases violated, by the men who went to see them.  Furthermore, the competition of the Marias caused bitter conflicts between the families, those that were poor (who, in the case of losing, protested the lost victory) as much as those who were rich (who didn’t want to take on the costs involved).

“So the flesh-and-blood girls were gradually replaced by statues of wood, called Marione or Marie de tola (wooden Marias).  These were dressed and bedecked with jewels, but unlike their human counterparts weren’t furnished with dowries, and at the end of the feast the trappings were returned to their legitimate owners.  But this new version of the festa lost a lot of its original sense, and along with it the favor of the Venetians, who reacted with anger and scorn, even going so far as to attempt to sabotage the festa.

This is the current version of the “wooden Marias.” Even the jewels are gone.

“In 1349 the Republic of Venice had to pass a law stating that anybody who threw vegetables at the procession of the wooden Marias would be sent to the galleys; this, though, only made the festa lose even more of its prestige, and only 30 years later it was definitively suppressed.”

Fun fact: “It seems that the term “marionette” is derived from the Marione.  And even today it’s common to hear Venetians call a woman who is particularly dull and inexpressive a Maria de tola.”  Even though I’ve never heard Lino use this expression, he confirms that it’s a common saying.  Maybe we just don’t know any women who answer to that description.

The procession goes up via Garibaldi (something of a comedown from the Grand Canal of yore), but the girls are wonderful to look at.

On to San Marco, alive or wooden!
Leave us behind, we’re happier in the background.  She’s part of a strolling musical troupe from Switzerland, which also included a tuba and a glockenspiel.  Nice hat.
Somebody just invented the wheel. Didn’t figure on finding bridges when he got that great flash of genius, but he persevered.
You don’t need much to get the Carnival look. This appears to be the newest variation of face painting.
Jugglers and makers of balloon animals are all the littlest Castello denizens need to feel Carnival.
There are also four trampolines, one inflated slide in the shape of the “Titanic” going down (two orange smokestacks in the background), and also a cotton-candy maker. All the best to revelers in the Piazza San Marco, but I’m perfectly happy here.
Good night, via Garibaldi. Keep the confetti warm till tomorrow.

 

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