Venetian-ness | Venice: I am not making this up

Is it sad? Or is it just meh?

January 14, 2014 8 Comments

The last time I saw the sun shine was January 6. It must have been a special gift from the Befana, one heck of a great stocking stuffer for the whole city. Here is what the morning of Epiphany looked like. Dwell long and lovingly upon it, because evidently we’re not going to see its like again, if the week that followed is any indication.

"Glorious" is not a word I usually think of applying to via Garibaldi, but in this case the street applied it to itself and I just got to watch. — “Glorious” is not a word I usually think of applying to via Garibaldi, but in this case the street applied it to itself and I just got to watch.

Well, that was wonderful. It was like falling in love; I wish it could have gone on forever. But the next morning fog took over and hasn’t left yet –the weather has become as tedious as Sheridan Whiteside, a/k/a “The Man Who Came to Dinner,” but not as amusing.

Because fog, whatever its density, wears out its welcome very fast. That’s just an expression; nobody welcomes fog. Water in the form of acqua alta is one thing; it may come, but you know it won’t be long before it goes. Water in the form of fog, when it’s not too heavy, is like an enormous sheet of grey gauze pulled across the face of the world, and you just have to put up with it until it’s gone, whenever that might be.

The fog was too thick to allow us to go rowing (not that we've never rowed in the fog). But it did provide some beading on the otherwise invisible spiderwebs on the bridge by Sant' Elena. — Jan. 7: The fog was too thick to allow us to go rowing (not that we’ve never rowed in the fog). But it did string some beads on the otherwise invisible spiderwebs on the bridge by Sant’ Elena.

Fog can be dangerous, of course, but it is more commonly inconvenient — it compels the “GiraCitta'” round-the-city motoscafos to go up the Grand Canal instead of their usual routes. But where big fog is brawny, the lesser forms of airborne condensation are as monotonous as the droning of the Indian tanpura.

In Italian, there is nebbia and foschia; fog and mist. In Venice people refer to caligo (kah-EE-go), which I’ve only heard used to describe medium- to heavyweight fog. Caligo derives from caligine, which means “haze” (I discover that Caligo is also a genus of butterfly, but let’s stick to the weather). Technically, caligine is more like smog, which thankfully we don’t have here.

Call it what you will, it’s grey. Dingy grey, drab grey.

Fog lends itself to a particularly useful expression: “filar caligo” (fee-yar kah-EE-go) — to spin fog. If you are worrying about something, worrying in a particularly elaborate way about something you can’t fix — obsessively, silently, baffled, anxious, and so on — you would say (or some exasperated friend might well say) that you were drio a filar caligo. It’s the best expression I’ve ever heard for that particularly futile and gnawing kind of worry that drives everybody crazy. Many people do not reveal that they are in that state of mind precisely because they recognize its futility. But that doesn’t mean they can stop, any more than you can make the fog stop. It just has to go away on its own, usually when the wind changes, or when the thing you dread either comes to pass, or evaporates.

Jan. 9: A morning view of the most beautiful city in the world, etc. etc. It's out there somewhere -- beautiful, undoubtedly. — Jan. 9: A morning view of the most beautiful city in the world, etc. etc. It’s out there somewhere — beautiful, undoubtedly.

Charles Aznavour wrote (with F. Dorin) a song entitled “Que C’est Triste Venise” (Com’e’ Triste Venezia, or “How Sad is Venice”). That was 1964, and versions in Italian, English, Spanish, German and Catalan have come out since then. http://youtu.be/aMQ6GyUs-fc

In my opinion, that gave another push to the general idea that Venice is sad. Maybe it’s where the idea started. But while this song deals only with how sad the city is for the singer because his love is no longer with him, people seem to have concluded that the city itself is sad. Fog helps, of course. Cold and dark, even better.

I realize that if you are bereft of the love of your life because the relationship has ended, evidently against your will, and you had happy moments in Venice, of course you’re going to see your own sadness in the city. It’s natural. But somehow it seems that the received wisdom about Venice is that it has a particular affinity for melancholy. It might go just fine with the fog (and cold and dark). And I suppose Mr. Aznavour could have sung about how sad it is to be in Venice even if he’d been walking down via Garibaldi on Epiphany morning, when the world was coruscating with light, if all he had on his mind was his lapsed love affair.

But why should Venice have to be the world’s favorite sad city? You could just as credibly sing “How sad is Paducah.” “How sad is Agbogbloshie.” “How sad is Sanary-sur-Mer.” If you’ve lost your love, anywhere is going to feel like Venice in the fog.

There you’d be, wandering aimlessly around downtown Platte City, or wherever, repeating the song’s phrases which admittedly sound much better in French: “How sad is (fill in your town here), in the time of dead loves, how sad is (name here) when one doesn’t love anymore…And how one thinks of irony, in the moonlight, to try to forget what one didn’t say….Farewell, Bridge of Sighs (Susitna River Bridge, Sarah Mildred Long Bridge, Sixth Street Viaduct), Farewell, lost dreams.”

Jan. 12: It wasn't blue, it was grey. — Jan. 12: It wasn’t blue, it was grey.

So I’m going to risk saying something radical: Venice isn’t sad, and it doesn’t make people sad. Venice is just a city, like you and me and everybody who lives here and in Smederevo and Panther Burn and Poggibonsi, trying to figure out how to get from today to tomorrow without leaving too many dents and dings on the surface of life.

I’d like Mr. Aznavour to go find another city in which to remember his lost love. And I’d also like the fog to go somewhere else. One of my wishes is going to be fulfilled, eventually.

Jan. 13: Wherever you look, you see fuzz. Sometimes more, sometimes less. This weather doesn't make me remember my lost love(s), it makes me wish I had a fireplace and a mug of cocoa. — Jan. 13: Wherever you look, you see fuzz. Sometimes more, sometimes less. This weather doesn’t make me remember my lost love(s), it makes me wish I’d been better to my mother.

Venetian-ness

“Ciao Umberto”

January 9, 2014 3 Comments

Umberto Da Preda (image from an album cover via YouTube, uncredited).

“Journalism,” said G.K. Chesterton, “is telling the public that Lord X is dead when the public didn’t know that Lord X had ever been alive.”

The case of the recently departed Umberto Da Preda might be a case in point.

Those who knew him, or at least had heard of him, were saddened to read on December 27 that he had died the day before, after a month-long illness in the hospital. The first article announcing this event was fairly long, partly in tribute and partly to refresh the memories or succor the ignorance of the day’s readers. Because while many people in his native sestiere of Cannaregio were genuinely grieved– though not taken entirely by surprise — Lino is convinced that there are plenty of Venetians who learned of his existence for the first time in the obituary.

Da Preda was “The ‘voice’ of the Venetian song,” as the Gazzettino termed it. Another report headlined: “Death of Da Preda, the most beautiful voice of the Venice which is no more.”

If such standards as “La biondina in gondoleta” or “El gondolier” are now widely known, it’s thanks to his innumerable performances and abundant recordings. The two respective links are: http://youtu.be/A0I0m6IPHtU and http://youtu.be/THinSRIRek0

The Gazzettino continues: “Umberto Da Preda leaves … a vast musical repertoire, 90 per cent of which is made up of traditional themes which even now represent the classics of the gondoliers during the serenades, and to which he gave a completely personal imprint.” (Note: Gondoliers almost never sing; the warbling comes from a singer hired to entertain his clients.)

Da Preda’s mainstays, some of which began to be composed in the 18th century, are generically termed “canzoni da batelo,” boat-songs, intended to be sung to the passengers out on the water enjoying a nocturnal summer fresco, (literally, “cool”). Many are anonymous pieces, passed along between generations. Like many of his vintage, Lino learned most of the approximately 8,319 songs he knows from his father, or from other Venetians. But Da Preda delved into deep cultural troves to bring forward an extraordinary assortment of songs, some of which were created by noteworthy poets and composers. They’re not all little ditties about wanting to take Ninetta out in the lagoon when the sun goes down.

Da Preda was on the way to an international career; he performed, with his guitar, in the Bahamas, in Russia, in Israel, in the US, and in England, where he sang for Queen Elizabeth II. But he loved Venice and preferred staying here, close to home, singing at the Danieli and Cipriani hotels, or in private palaces at what seems to have been a steady stream of fetes, entertainments, and soirees.

“What did he die of?” we asked a friend of his the next day.

He shrugged. “The sand in the hourglass ran out,” he said. “And he drank a Mississippi in his life.” Evidently Da Preda kept a bottle of whiskey close at hand on the many evenings he performed in assorted boites and restaurants. Singing is thirsty work, and I think in those days the sparkling-water-with-lemon-slice hadn’t been discovered. Not that he would have wanted it. I drink it and I don’t want it.

In any case, the friend continued, Da Preda didn’t take seriously any warnings about hard living he might have gotten from his nearest and dearest. “He said once, ‘I’ve eaten, I’ve drunk, I’ve done what I wanted in my life,'” the friend told us. “‘When it’s time for me to go, I’ll just head on out'” (vado in zo, which is the most casual leave-taking phrase there is in Venetian).

I went to his funeral on January 2 — a week ago today — a dreary, raw day. I admit I was curious to see what sort of farewell would be given. Naturally I can’t judge what emotions the 150 or so mourners were feeling, which may have been deep and intense, but if so they kept them well under control. It was a subdued ceremony, distinguished mainly by two things.

The first was the playing, as the casket was being taken out of the church, of Da Preda singing one of his best-known songs, “Ciao Venezia.” The second was the alzaremi, or oar-raising in salute, by rowers from the Settemari and Querini rowing clubs. The presence of any Venetian boats is always a beautiful thing, and although he wasn’t particularly prominent in the boating world, he was 100 percent Venetian, and this calls for some special acknowledgment, in my opinion.

He lived his life just the way he wanted to and if he had any regrets, he kept them to himself. That’s what I’m going to remember. Here’s the link: http://youtu.be/D8zmgatPh-w

The basilica of SS. Giovanni e Paolo is so big that even a large crowd is manageable. — The basilica of SS. Giovanni e Paolo is so big that even a large crowd seems modest.

The priest pauses to pronounce the last phrases, more or less audible beneath the strains of "Ciao Venezia." — The priest pauses to pronounce the last phrases, more or less audible beneath the strains of “Ciao Venezia.”

Accompanying the casket to the riva where the funeral motorboat is waiting.

The gondolier bringing his clients back to shore removed his hat.

As the casket is placed onto the fancy platform, the rowers from the Settemari club execute an "alzaremi." In 1979 Da Preda was voted "Venetian of the Year," an annual recognition bestowed by the club. The commemorative plaque was placed on the casket during the service. — As the casket is placed onto the fancy “we-don’t-have-to-sweat-anymore” platform, the rowers from the Settemari club execute an “alzaremi.” In 1979 Da Preda was voted “Venetian of the Year,” an annual recognition bestowed by the club. The commemorative plaque was placed on the casket during the service.

The funeral boat, carrying the departed and his family, heads for the cemetery, followed by the "diesona" of the Settemari, and a gondola from the Querini. — The funeral boat, carrying the departed and his family, heads for the cemetery, followed by the “diesona” of the Settemari, and a gondola from the Querini. The people ashore applaud as their last farewell.

It's not far to the cemetery island of San Michele; the two boats are going to arrive only a few minutes after the motorboat, visible in the canal ahead of them (and just ahead of the vaporetto). — It’s not far to the cemetery island of San Michele; the two boats are going to arrive only a few minutes after the motorboat, visible in the canal ahead of them (and just ahead of the vaporetto).

Venetian-ness

Drink up

November 13, 2013 5 Comments

Sunset falls on the Piazza San Marco, the end of another glorious day of feeding pigeons and plucking tourists. — Sunset falls on the Piazza San Marco, the end of another glorious day of feeding pigeons and plucking tourists, not to mention Venetians.

I like to call them “Venetian moments” — those instants of recognition, typically when you run into somebody you only met yesterday, in some unexpected place.

Today we experienced a tiny but less blithesome Venetian moment. Its Venetianness was based on money.

Experience, and occasional articles in the newspaper, have shown that there are sometimes two price scales here: one for tourists (high) and one for Venetians (low. Or less high, anyway).

We haven’t had much experience with this, except for one strange moment on the Lido some years back. I wasn’t there, but I can picture it. Lino was with someone he has now forgotten, and they stopped in a slightly fancy bar/cafe on the main street to have a spritz. After they’d drained their glasses, Lino, on a sprightly impulse, said to the barista in English, “How much?”

The little cash-register receipt was produced and Lino glanced at the total. “What’s all this?” he asked the barista. “You charged me double the price for a spritz? I’m Venetian!”

To which the hapless young man responded, “Well, you could have told me you were Venetian.”

But an even stranger moment occurred today.

We were walking toward the Piazza San Marco around 9:30 this morning. Lino was thirsty, so we stopped in a bar/cafe on a corner. For the record, it’s called Snack Bar da Piero. (Sounds like a TripAdvisor warning.)

There was no one in the bar except for the dark-haired young woman behind the counter. Lino said, “May I have a glass of water with bubbles?” Sounds better in Italian: frizzante.

She pulled out one of those little half-liter bottles of water, opened it, and poured half of it into a glass. “That’ll be one euro,” she said.

Lino and I stared at each other, and at her.

“One euro, for that glass of water?” Lino asked? (Note: I would have expected 50 euro-cents.)

“Yes.”

“What? We’re not Americans!” Translation: Do you think we’re rich and dumb?

“No,” she replied. “I give the Americans the whole bottle.”

Lino said, “Excuse me? You charge the Americans one euro for the whole bottle, but you’re charging me one euro for half a bottle?”

She just looked at him.

“You can keep the water,” he said, and turned to leave.

“Suit yourself,” was her answer, or some equivalent thereof.

So we walked out, leaving her with an open bottle and full glass which — one can hope — she won’t be able to sell to anyone else.

Lino was a mixture of stunned, offended, and just plain mad. I could hear another nail being driven into the proverbial Venetian coffin, the coffin which contains the few precious fragments of genuine Venetian-ness blown there by the winds of avarice across the vast Kalahari desert which is touristic Venice.

We walked over the next bridge into the Piazza San Marco. At the corner was a small gelateria, and an older gentleman — clearly the owner — was standing just outside it. Lino said to him, “Could I have a glass of tap water? I need to take a pill.”

The man said, “Sure thing.”

I asked Lino, “Was he Venetian?”

“Yes.”

“And the girl?”

“No.”

I can’t explain it, I can only describe it. But by the way, a euro for a half-liter bottle is still too much, no matter who’s paying. I can get six of them in the supermarket for 1.20.

Venetian-ness

The past sitting right in front of me

November 12, 2013 2 Comments

By which I do not mean palaces and churches.

I mean the white-haired lady facing me on the vaporetto Sunday evening.

We were sitting on the two seats facing backward. A pair of older ladies occupied the two seats facing forward. Our knees were not touching because we’re all too polite for that.

These ladies might have been somewhere in their seventies, though the one directly before me seemed slightly younger. They were both dressed as any reasonably well-to-do Venetian women dress — clothes of normal value and subdued colors.

I sometimes let myself glance at the lady in front of me because she had a lovely silk scarf draping her neck. It was a soft white with an even softer pink border, with some sort of little figures scattered across it (butterflies? flowers?). I reflected on how flattering pink can be, if it’s just the right shade.

The ladies clearly knew each other, though they exchanged only a few words occasionally; otherwise they looked tranquilly at nowhere as we rumbled along across the dark water.

At the Zattere stop, both women stood up and got off together.

Lino said: “Did you notice the woman in front of you?”

I nodded.

“She used to live in my neighborhood — her son was in class with Marco (Lino’s son).” This would have been about 40 years ago.

So far, so not very remarkable. Lino is always seeing people he used to know, and sometimes still does.

“Her son had one leg shorter than the other,” Lino continued. “But really shorter” — he indicated a distance of six inches, which I hope was an exaggeration. “He had to wear a big heavy shoe.

“One day her son went on a camping trip with some other boys; he was around ten or 12 years old then. One of the bigger boys tried to sodomize him (“spaccare il culo“). He fought back, and so the boy killed him.”

Silence.

“How?” I asked.

“Stabbed him to death.”

Silence.

“She took such good care of him,” Lino said. “When he was really little, she’d carry him to school.”

“Did she recognize you?” I asked.

“Of course,” Lino replied. “The woman with her is her sister-in-law.”

The conversation ended there, and so does this post. There is nothing I can say that deserves to be written here, so I won’t.