Well, I waited six months to get a haircut, so I suppose I’m not one to criticize a hedge. But I’m confused. Wouldn’t you think that the so-called most beautiful city in the world would do a little more to keep itself presentable? I know my mother would.
Granted, we all know how you just go along thinking everything is fine… you’ll fix your hair/mop the floor/write that thank-you note just any day now…and then suddenly something snaps and you realize that your hair is a freaking mess, etc. etc. The jig is up.
In the case of this hedge, nobody seems to be responding to the jig. Maybe wild-haired hedges are just the latest trend, or something related to the Biennale which is just through the park ahead. But company’s coming to town (and some is already here — I’ve seen the yachts). Tomorrow is the first day of the Venice Film Festival, and if there were ever a time to trim that hedge, I’d think the time would be now. Actually, yesterday. ACTUALLY, a week ago.
But what, as I often ask myself, do I know? I never trimmed my bangs to suit my mother, so it’s clearly just as well I was never responsible for a hedge.
Oh, did you want to see that statue? Sorry, come back later. No, I don’t know when. Later.It’s clear at the end of this row that somebody with a hedge-clipper, or machete, had made a good start. But they got a day off, or had to take their kid to the dentist, or something broke the momentum (or the tool), and here we are.Or it might have been around the time when the hedge finally realized it was never going to play Hampton Court Palace, or the Redberry Maze, or the Laberinto Katira, and just let everything go.
Yesterday morning around 10:00 AM. This is the bacino of San Marco, looking toward the Grand Canal.
During the past two weeks there has been fog: Some days on, then sunshine, then back the fog rolls again. It’s very poetic and romantic, looked at one way. But it’s highly inconvenient if you need to take the vaporetto to do something unpoetic, because some lines are suspended, and the rest are all sent up and down the Grand Canal. This means that you may well be walking farther to your destination than you had budgeted time and energy for. Maybe you yourself can manage that, but if you’re a very sick and frail old lady — looking at you, Maria from upstairs — who has to get to the hospital for her chemotherapy, the fact that your vaporetto doesn’t exist today means you’re forced to take a taxi to the hospital. That’ll be 50 euros please. Going, and then coming home. Not at all poetic if you’re living on 750 euros a month.
But let’s say you’re on one of the vaporettos, living a routine day. Don’t relax completely. Because even though the battelli (the big fat waterbuses) have radar, and so does the ferryboat trundling up and down the Giudecca Canal between Tronchetto and the Lido, that doesn’t guarantee that the drivers are looking at it, or if they are, are understanding what they are seeing. Radar, much like bras or penicillin, is intended to help you, but only if you actually use it.
Visibility was like this this morning, and also yesterday morning.
I mention this because yesterday the fog was pretty thick. And around 1:00 PM, the #2 that crosses the Giudecca Canal between the Zattere and the Giudecca itself collided with the ferry. At that point the two routes are operating at right angles to each other. Everybody knows this. I mean, one shouldn’t be even minimally surprised to find these two boats out there.
But find each other they did. In the collision nobody was hurt, but one passenger temporarily lost his mind and punched the marinaio, the person who ties up the boat at each stop, in the face. Why the marinaio? Because he was there, I suppose. He certainly wasn’t navigating. Nor was the captain, evidently.
This is roughly the area in which the accident occurred. There would have been very little traffic (this photo was not taken yesterday). Plenty of space to maneuver, if one wanted to.
To translate the phrase in the brief article in La Nuova Venezia, “Probably the incident was caused by the thick fog.” I don’t mean to be pedantic, but “The fog made me do it” doesn’t sound quite right. The fog had been out for hours; it hardly sneaked up on the boats from behind. The pedant further wonders why the fog gets all the blame. It didn’t grab the two boats and push them together, like two hapless hamsters. One might more reasonably say that the incident was caused by two individuals, one per boat, who were not paying attention either to the water ahead or to their radar. Footnote: These vehicles operate on schedules. I’m going to risk saying that one could easily predict when they would be, as they put it here, “in proximity to each other.” If one wanted to.
The ferryboat gives Wagnerian blasts of its warning horn when small boats are in its path. There aren’t foghorns anymore, but the ferry’s klaxon can be heard for miles. If it’s blown. (Il Gazzettino, uncredited)This is one of the ferryboats, though maybe not the one involved yesterday. Clearly David met Goliath, but in this case it was David that took the hit. (photo uncredited ACTV)
But let’s return to the poetry.
Rio di San Giuseppe, Castello.Rio di San Pietro, Castello.Rio de l’Arsenal.Admiring the view.Riva degli Schiavoni.Via Garibaldi. Life goes on, and so does the trash.
Rio de la Ca’ di Dio. The forecast is for more fog tomorrow. If I put on my gray coat, I’ll disappear.
My day got off to a superb start with the discovery of the Boron family. PaceTom Lehrer, I am now hopefully (note rare correct usage) awaiting the appearance of more relatives from the chemical elements clan. You remember them: fermium, mendelevium, einsteinium, nobelium…. But joking to one side, I think the Boron family should be respected. I have received no compensation for this mention, they don’t even know I exist. Also that I do not drink alcohol. But boron isn’t a name you expect to see around, especially if it’s attached to wine. I mean, to people.
While we’re on the subject of food — and when are we not? — here are a few worthy character actors on the great Venetian culinary stage who may have been hidden in the swarm of the stereotypical food cluttering every Venetian menu.
Apples: There seemed to be no surprises left in the winter starting lineup. Here almost all of those seen in Venice come from the great northern valleys of Non and Venosta — Delicious (or Melinda), Royal, Gala, Pink Lady, Fuji. But the other day a newcomer found a place at the end of the bench, so to speak: The annurca/anurka apple, officially known as the Melannurca Campana I.G.P. (Indicazione Geografica Protetta). Luca on the fruit and vegetable barge told us that it is an autochthonous breed, native to the Campania region. Its admirers refer to it as “the queen of the Caudine valley.” I’m sorry to bring up a sensitive subject, but it’s nice to know that that particular area is famous for something other than one of Rome’s most humiliating defeats. Read up on the Battle of the Caudine Forks (321 B.C.) if you want to re-evaluate some of your life choices.The annurca (Malus pumila) is one of the symbols of the Campania region, where it has been cultivated for at least two millennia; it is depicted in frescoes in Herculaneum and mentioned by Pliny the Elder. Why haven’t we seen it here before? (Or more to the point, why are we seeing it now?) This delectable sweet, firm, slightly acidic little fruit represents a mere five percent of the national apple production, and two-thirds of the crop is absorbed by Campania and Lazio, while another 20 percent reaches Lombardy, Piemonte and Tuscany. That leaves precious little for the rest of us, but somehow the Veneto is now on their delivery route, and this trusty little veteran is a wonderful discovery. Or, if it could talk, it might well say “I’ve been around for thousands of years; where have YOU been?”It really is the most agreeable little apple. I’m glad it’s managed to hang on.These gnarly little knobs are not ginger. They are a wintry visitor that usually appears so briefly that you could easily overlook them. This year, for some reason, they have lingered longer. Meet topinambur (toe-pin-am-BOOR), or Helianthus tuberosus. Jerusalem artichoke, Canadian sunflower, sunchoke, sunroot, and/or German turnip. It is a South American plant; its curious name here probably derives from the Tupinamba’, an indigenous people of Brazil. One method of preparing it is to scrape away the surface dirt, saute’ some garlic in extravirgin olive oil, cut the tubers into very thin slices, toss them into the oil and garlic, adding salt and pepper and a little vegetable broth, if needed, to keep them from drying out. They’re very pleasant, something like a potato, or maybe a water chestnut, with a slight flavor of artichoke.This is just sad. How could this celestial espresso machine end up in this condition? Sex? Drugs? Rock and roll? And why is it sitting outside the front door of this restaurant? Isn’t it supposed to be in rehab somewhere?“All hat, no cattle” is a common, if cutting, judgment given as necessary in the American West. It comes to mind in the case of this marvelous –judging by appearances — mollusk. Are you tired of clams? You should be, they’re the prime, and sometimes only, bivalve on Venetian restaurant menus. (Stop right there: Of course there are often mussels on offer, but they don’t fall in the “clam” category of this cadenza.) If you should happen to see “spaghetti con telline,” which has happened to me exactly once, know that you will have a plate that cries out to be photographed. But as for the telline (tell-EE-neh) themselves, you may not even realize you’ve eaten something. They are so tiny and so insipid that you will be happier admiring their shells than consuming their contents. I have never seen them in the fish markets, although they come from the shallow Adriatic shoreline, Lino tells me. So they are local, in one sense. They’re out there somewhere. Bonus points: Skip the first course and just buy a batch of “purple tellin shells” from Etsy. Not made up. Look for the ones called “purple coquina shells.”
Somebody loves pasta. Somebody is selling pasta. This sculpture was in the window of the Pastificio Serenissima some while back. The can is not leaning on the shelf; it is being held aloft by the column of stuck-together bowties (or what they call butterflies here) and some nubbin I can’t identify. This photo is here for fun, not for erudition.Nothing to do with food, but I just can’t keep it to myself. Wandering around, I came across these clarion phrases. An anonymous door on the street is talking to YOU. The first sign in heavy black letters in equally heavy Venetian dialect translates as “And until I come back nobody can come in!” That clearly wasn’t enough, because a second notice is taped above it, saying “I repeat until I come back nobody is allowed to come in. And he that can has my number.” So nobody except somebody is permitted to enter. From behind the door came loud noises of a chainsaw and the tiny gleam of a lightbulb. Conclusion: The proprietor is not far away on a cruise to the North Cape, but slaving away at something. Building a replica of the Kon-Tiki? Whatever it is, nobody is permitted to see it until he comes back, and only if you know the guy who has his number. Update: I went by today, and the two signs have been removed, leaving the bit you can barely see is already taped beneath. That bit carries one word: “Chiuso.” Closed. You can’t quibble with that, it’s final.This is not a comestible. It is merely a cat so remarkable he/she/it looks as if it were designed. Even the nose is part of the scheme. The eyes, though, give me the strange sensation of being weighed in the balance and found wanting. If a person looks at you like that you can try to do something. But cats don’t care.
“BUONGIORNO BELL’ANIMA!!” Good morning, beautiful spirit! This ebullient greeting been up for several years, and it always gives me a boost, although I’ll never know how this relationship developed. The two persons involved know who they are. I do hope they’re happy.
There are 20,000 entries under “Venice” on amazon.com. (I’d have thought there were more, actually.) But that’s only the English-language site. Amazon Japan lists “over 6,000.” In any case, whatever your language, Venice is going to be there somehow. Histories, novels, travel guides, poetry, cookbooks, memoirs and, for all I know, limericks and postcards and old flight boarding cards.
Add to that mighty flood the tributary streams of academic studies and research and theses, the reports from national and international committees, the torrents of daily news and opinion pieces and blogs. Anyone during the past millennium with a brain and a pencil seems to have written something about Venice and there is no end in sight. It would appear that you cannot be a warm-blooded, live-young-bearing creature that is alive who has not written something about Venice.
But within this Humboldt Current of ideas and facts and fantasies there are plenty of other thoughts and feelings that flow through daily life here. Letters to the editor are fine, but it’s much simpler (and cheaper) for the vox populi to make itself heard through signs. These come in all sorts of ways, but they’re everywhere.
There are the personal messages from the heart. The heart above is in wonderful shape, but there are many that aren’t.
“Unhappy with a lamentable smile.” I wonder if the smile is easily identifiable as lamentable, or if it’s a cheerful smile hiding a broken heart (thus qualifying as even more lamentable). Cue the music: “Take a good look at my face, you see my smile is out of place, if you look closer it’s easy to trace the tracks of my tears…” Thank you, Smokey Robinson. It would be hard to get all that on a wall, so we’ll hope this person’s smile has improved.On a much less poetic note comes this rage-graffito that has been on this wall for a few years now. “Drug-addicted lesbian slut infected with nymphomania.” I wonder if it made him feel better. I can only hope so. Wow.
Neighborhoods bubble with exasperated reminders of some basic rules of civility, in varying degrees of sharpness. One eternal theme is dog poop.
The offended party has put this where everybody walking north (or, briefly, east) is sure to see it.“The campiello is not your dogs’ toilet. Be ashamed.” A common complaint, always heartfelt, always futile.Same problem expressed a little more elegantly here.“Do you love your dog? Take his crap home. We didn’t throw our kids’ used diapers on the street but we took them home. Think about it.” It seems odd to equate love for your dog with basic politeness to humans; the dog certainly doesn’t equate love and poop. But the emotion is the point and yes, it’s true, it would be just as bad to dispose of diapers in a similar way. But, unhappily, here public spaces don’t belong to everybody, they belong to nobody, so the good times keep rolling. Note also that this neatly printed message has been inserted into a sort of thick plastic envelope that has been nailed to the wall. Not for this person a few strips of tape — this reprimand is intended to last.The notice-leaver has made an equally eloquent point by creating and installing this wedge of wood. It needs no sign to get its message across: “This surface is no longer flat because if it were it would immediately become a mini-garbage heap.” I can promise you that if it were available, it would be stacked with abandoned Coke bottles, gelato-cups, crumpled napkins, half-empty cans of beer, maybe some squashed juiceboxes, a couple of candy wrappers, and whatever else could be made to fit until it fell over. The guardian of this space isn’t appealing to your better angels here, he/she/they are just getting the job done.It just never ends. “It was beautiful but unfortunately it lasted only a little while,” the notice begins. Evidently the previous appeal had some effect, but not for long. “To the owners of dogs … You are prayed” (literally — it’s like “prithee”) “to continue to collect the turds of your dogs. The streets also of Castello will be more dignified! Doing this will bring respect to your beloved dogs because you care for them even outside your house and you also respect the people who lived along your route. Thank you.” And just when you thought that defecation was the dog’s only transgression, just wait.The ladies who have taken our previous doctor’s space for their studio/workshop are also not amused by canine functions. And their approach leaves the homespun “Be ashamed” far behind as they prepare to throw the book at the guilty: “This is not a toilet for dogs!!! To permit your dog to piss on the walls of buildings could qualify as the crime of soiling (public walls) that is punishable under Article 639 of the Penal Code.” That’s quite a cannonball to fire at a dog-owner. The crime referred to here is the one usually committed by hooligans with spray-cans of paint, so yes, one could conceivably draw a certain parallel. But I have to stick up for the dogs here. Where are they supposed to go? I can understand owners needing to carry away their dog’s poop, but must they race to get their pooch to the nearest tree? The normal resolution of the dirty-wall situation is a bucket of soapy water, reinforced with bleach, if you want. I think the Penal Code has bigger problems to solve. Get a life, ladies. And a bucket, like everybody else.
On to the hazards of maintaining a small earthly garden in the street.
Did you know that plants can also create problems? Or rather, the people around the plants. It has not been a good day at the oasis.“Wreck the plants, tear off the flowers, leave the dog crap on purpose outside this door, I feel sorry for your sad life. (If you’re frustrated, I advise you to see a psychologist.”) Too bad the crap had to remain on the list of infractions, but there’s just no getting away from it, even in a dismembered conservatory.These little doorway groves have, not to put too fine a point on it, broken several ordinances, but “live and let live” has been the operating philosophy here for quite a while. Until one day, it wasn’t. Somebody didn’t want to let live.“For the thief (feminine or masculine forms of the word, just to be comprehensive) that steals the plants and flowers outside my house: The flowers can be replaced, but dignity NO! (You are) persons whose spirits are poor” (as in threadbare). I regret the flowers, but at least this time dogs aren’t involved.
On a happier note, there is a little old man named Valerio who continued to work in his carpentry shop for decades, or perhaps eons, considering how extremely old he looks. But he kept at it until one day…
A telltale blue ribbon appeared on his door, next to his workshop. A baby boy!It simply says “Great-grandfather Valerio Vittorio is born.”
Not many days later, a sign appeared on the workshop door:
“Carpenter Valerio is no longer working. PLEASE (literally, “one prays”) do not disturb. Thank you.” Yes, Vittorio was the signal that it was time to clean out the workshop and put away the tools. And Valerio has been doing just that. Great-grandfathering is a full-time job.
Tourists do not pass unobserved.
Not far from the train station is this remark, followed by two rejoinders. It’s probably a political statement of some kind. I can tell you that no one with a hotel, bar, cafe, restaurant, or shop selling anything would be likely to express this thought, especially after the months of pandemic lockdown. But free speech is thriving.If the tourist doesn’t know not to sit on a bridge to eat, this shop will make it clear. “No Pic Nic Area.”The fundamental problem is that there is are too few places except the 436 bridges on which to sit to munch your slice of cold pizza or assorted carry-out comestibles from the supermarket. It is true that many (not all) campos have at least a few benches, though it is also true that bridges are the ideal perching places. But you’re blocking the traffic, for one thing, and for the other, you look like vagrants, huddled on the steps wrestling with prosciutto slices and bags of potato chips.
So much for signs for tourists. For locals, almost no details are necessary for communication:
A few years ago this was posted at the door of the church of San Francesco de Paula. “Finished (or almost) the repair/restoration work. Monday 12 September the patronato reopens at the usual time.” That’s right: The usual time. If you don’t know when that is I guess you don’t belong there. Note: The patronato is what you might call the parish hall/playground/sports area of the parish. Every church has one, and scores of activities take place there for the children of the congregation. Not to have the patronato available after school is a major problem, so this is good news.
On a similar neighborhoodly note:
“On Sunday 30 morning we’re closed. You’ll find that Antonella is open.” There is no sign outside her tobacco shop that says “Antonella.” You just have to know.
Moving into the realm of city government, or lack thereof, the Venetians in our neighborhood (and others, I can assure you) have plenty to say. The comments tend to run along the following lines (and I’m not referring to clotheslines):
I have seen a man wearing a few of these; I am assuming he also made them. All hung out to dry together, they make quite a screed. Written in Venetian (L to R): “After the barbarians came to Venice the politicians arrived to destroy her.” “Long live motondoso thank you mayor.” “Topo Gigio Brigade.” You may recall the little puppet named Topo Gigio who appeared several times on the Ed Sullivan variety TV show. Gigio is the nickname for Luigi, which also happens to be the name of the current mayor, Luigi Brugnaro. He has no fans in Venice, let me just put it that way.Being compared to either a rat or a children’s toy is not what most mayors aspire to, I’m pretty sure.
Continuing with the runic messages delivered by T-shirt: “Venice is an embroidered bedspread.” This one is complicated and I have no hope of clarifying its evidently metaphorical significance. I do know that there is a song that begins “Il cielo e’ una coperta ricamata” — the sky is an embroidered cover, which is lovely. Is the intention to say that Venice is as beautiful as an embroidered cover? I think there is some irony here, but it eludes me. Maybe I’ll run into this person again (I saw him at the fruit-vendor one afternoon) and I can just ask him. Meanwhile, on we go.
“Venice is a casin thanks politicians.” A casin (kah-ZEEN) is a brothel, where gambling also went on, and sooner or later tumult ensued. And not tumult of any polite, Marquess of Queensberry sort. It’s now the usual word for any situation that entails chaos, perhaps danger, racket and rudeness. It appears to many that Venice is speeding downhill with no brakes (again, motondoso comes to mind) and nobody at the wheel. Some people also refer to the city as “no-man’s land.” Literally everybody is doing whatever they want, and the result is pure casin.
Lastly, “Venezia is dead Thanks politicians and Gigio.”
While we’re talking about citizens’ discontent….
A group calling itself C 16 A (abbreviation of Coordinamento 16 Aprile) was formed to condense the general consensus of thoughts regarding the problems of the city. This was in preparation for a vast gathering planned for 16 April this year on the occasion of the 50th anniversary of the Special Law for Venice. The common goal was identifying the myriad ways in which the city has wasted its opportunities since then. “AAA cercasi” is the customary code for when you want to place a notice seeking something or someone at the top of an alphabetical list. These notices are looking for: “A mayor of Venice who lives in Venice.” (Luigi Brugnaro lives in Spinea, on the mainland.) “Businessmen who don’t behave like predators.” “Landlords with their hand on their heart and not only on their wallet.”
And this handwritten cri de coeur summarizing the profound crisis in the public health system. The people of lower Castello are persevering in their apparently hopeless struggle to obtain a reasonable supply of doctors:
Residents in Castello: “9354 and only 4 doctors. Age groups over 65 years old. (Note that there are 215 residents who are 90 or older.) People over 65 years old have chronic pathologies, are not self-sufficient, suffer from social isolation, economic distress, lack of family members, defective social services.” There are not enough “basic doctors.” The basic doctor is assigned to you by the public health service and is paid by it. Many doctors are retiring, so a huge hole is opening up in the near future. Let me say that there is a reasonable number of doctors, but the number of those that want to practice for the public health system is too small. A doctor with 1,500 patients assigned to him/her (it’s the case with our doctor) earns roughly 52,500 euros ($56,000) per year. They also usually have private practices, but still. One can see the lack of incentive. Meanwhile, the aging population needs more care than it’s getting. The city is trying to encourage doctors, I don’t know how, to stay on even after they turn 70 years old.
There are also signs without words that hint at approaching events or persons.
In a word: Carnival. It started early last year by the eager tiny hand of a tiny person.Did you know that Christmas is coming? These men know it, because this morning they began to string the holiday lights in via Garibaldi and environs. Exactly two months in advance seems like a lot of time, but if there are only four men assigned to it, better get going early. (If you don’t make them out, the strings of lights are being drawn down the surface of the stone gatepost in a triangular Christmas-tree pattern.)The strings of lights are another reason for the early start. You thought the tangled mass that lives in your basement or attic is an irritating start to the holiday season? These men have quite the little assignment facing them.
An approaching event I never thought I’d see. The city’s greatest housewares/hardware store having its final sale before closing. They tried to keep going after Covid. They stayed open all day (as opposed to closing in the early afternoon, like every reasonable store used to do). Then they stayed open all week. Unheard-of. It wasn’t enough. I can’t tell you how bad this is. I haven’t gone by recently to see what’s taking its physical place; not much can replace something so great. It used to be that useful stores (butcher shop, fruit and vegetables, etc.) would suddenly begin to sell masks or Murano glass. Now they will be either a restaurant or bar/cafe’. That’s my bet for the once-great Ratti.
“Selling everything! Discounts!” They make it sound like something wonderful. It was more wonderful without the “closing” posters. I have been informed by sharp-eyed readers that Ratti has reopened in not one, but two locations not far from the Rialto Bridge. This is news of a goodness one doesn’t receive every day, so I am really glad to know they have found a way to keep going. And yes, I should make a point of buying something there, otherwise all my glad words aren’tt worth the electrons they’re written with.The bar/cafe’ “Magna e Tasi” in Campo SS. Filippo e Giacomo near San Marco used to draw these lines on the wall with a Sharpie. They decided to make these indications of acqua-alta calamity more legible, and elegant. And waterproof.
The arrival of certain foods are reliable harbingers of seasons or events, though seeing clementines for sale in October is not normal. But this is absolutely the moment for torboin (tor-bo-EEN).
This is Venetian for “The torbolino has arrived white and red.” In Italian it would be “E’ arrivato il torbolino.” This is a sign of the progress of autumn, as demijohns arrive from Sant’ Erasmo loaded with the first drawing-off of the new wine (otherwise known as “must”). One expert explains that “It is usually from white grapes, not completely fermented, turbid, lightly sparkling and amiable.” It is the classic accompaniment to roasted chestnuts. So it’s good news!One of my all-time favorites was this sign in a window of a bread bakery in Campo Santa Margherita. The owner is making this retort in Venetian to his cranky customers who annoy him with complaints that he (like many merchants) had begun to charge a pittance for the once-free plastic shopping bag for carrying their purchase. “Notice to my clients: “The shopping bags are terrible-as-the-plague expensive and don’t hold up worth a dry fig. So if you put in your purse a shopping bag that lasts a lifetime, 10 cents here and 15 cents there at the end of the month you’ve saved (money). THANK YOU.”
In a class by itself is this astoundingly inappropriate offer of a room with perhaps an undesirable view.
“A 50-year-old man will share with a girl or working woman a sunlit apartment near the Santa Marta vaporetto stop, a single bed in a small room. The place is made up of a liveable kitchen” (meaning large enough to eat in), “a little living room and two bedrooms of which one is already occupied. Contact Francesco…”. Cringe! Unless you’re a student and really, really need to be near the University of Architecture, which may be what Francesco is counting on. Someone has added the word “porco” — pig. Went without saying but it’s still good to see. I wonder if he just forgot to mention a bathroom, or if it’s down the hall. Of the building next door.
Above the chorus of voices on the walls there come a few magical notes from mysterious poetic souls.
“I dreamt I could say something with words,” wrote someone who either is from England or was taught by someone speaking the King’s English. The answer is strangely poignant. “Yes.” I love this person as much for having to squeeze in the last-minute “g” as I do for the response. One sometimes wonders why certain places are chosen for these messages. Behind a fountain at the Rialto Market doesn’t immediately suggest poetry, but fish and mushrooms don’t seem to clash.“I love you for all of my life.” Dez and Ruez plighted their troth near the Rialto Bridge and while graffiti aren’t to be encouraged, this is really nice. Far better than the “Bomb the multinationals” sort of thing that students like to spread around.On a wall near the church of San Isepo. Not quite this faint in real life, but pretty near. And to the right of the design you can barely make out an important three-word message.“Gioia per tutti.” Joy for everyone.
So by all means stroll through Venice looking at palaces and canals. Just don’t forget the walls.
