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.
I’m about to shimmer away for a few days in Frankfurt for a big boating event on the river Main, so I won’t be posting till next week.
Here are a few of the things I saw today, just to keep you in the mood.
The morning started with this not-unusual news: (Left) CAR TURNS OVER ON THE PONTE DELLA LIBERTA’ (the only bridge connecting Venice to the rest of the world) TRAFFIC STOPPED FOR TWO HOURS. This is repeated by its neighbor newspaper on the right: PONTE DELLA LIBERTA’ TRAFFIC PARALYZED. May I note that whenever this happens, I wonder why the city doesn’t concentrate more on making an improvement which would help everybody all the time — unlike a certain acqua-alta project I could mention — by constructing a breakdown lane on the freaking bridge already. When the bridge is blocked, everything stops — sometimes trains, too. As a bonus, we see on the left: TRAIN STATION: A PICKPOCKET LIFTS 35,000 EUROS FROM A JAPANESE WOMAN. And she was carrying that much cash because………?? All I can say is, the person who stole that much money must be an instant legend among his friends and family. All Lino can say is, “It was probably a put-up job.”This little sylph was already so beguiling in her summer garb, up to the color-coordinated hairband with bow,that the ice cream seems almost de trop. But not to her. She has evidently discovered some flaw that requires closer analysis, and perhaps immediate correction via her nearby father.I suppose if the world is divided between cat and dog people, it must also be divided between sunrise and sunset people. I personally go for both. This is the latter, but it looks just as good at dawn.But I have to say that I do sleep better knowing that the great Bartolomeo Colleoni is always on watch.
The luxurious abandon of life here, the liberation from civilization’s leg-irons that makes some tourists claim that “Italians really know how to live” (I’ve heard them say this), can be seen in almost every corner of life in this city. Especially our special little niche. Dogs. Vaporettos. I’ve ranted about them many times and will most likely continue. The Phrygian Cabirian Mysteries must be easier to understand than certain behavior around here.
This spot is irresistible to anyone who has something to get rid of; one day it could be melon rinds and pizza crusts, or bags of dusty gravel, today it’s a vintage iMac G3 computer. One reason this place is so appealing could be the ease of transferring the trash down the steps into the boat which presumably will come, if we live long enough, to take it away. The other reason which gives this spot its fatal magnetism is the sign which precisely states that it is forbidden to place or abandon garbage here. It’s a challenge that’s almost impossible to ignore, right up there with “Please don’t throw me in the briar patch!”
But I haven’t said a whole lot about garbage, except for occasional mentions of the people who put their bags out when acqua alta is predicted, so the bags float around the streets and out to sea; or those who put them out at night, or on Saturday afternoon to wait for Monday morning’s collection, thus giving the gulls plenty of time to rip them apart and throw their contents everywhere.
Where garbage is concerned, I’m going to curtail my own little diatribe and cast it in the vox of the populi, as noticed recently here and there. I am not the only one voxing objections, so this is a positive sign of something, I guess. But however many voices may be either muttering or yelling, there is a collective passivity which meets them with the density of the air in a vacuum. Shout all you wish; indulge in the intermittent scream; try your hand at a banshee howl or the ungodly screeching of fisher cats (Martes pennanti); your only response will be a sublime indifference approaching Nirvana.
Nirvana: “A place or state characterized by freedom from or oblivion to pain, worry and the external world.” The external world means everywhere that isn’t inside my four walls. In a word, Venice!!
It says, with admirable concision, that “It is forbidden the abandoning or dumping of trash (Art. 9 D.P.R. 915/82) Whoever infringes Art. 9 will be punished according to the sanctions of the law.”
Here is the text, for the record, Your Honor, of Article 9 D.P.R. 915/82, translated by me:
Prohibition of abandoning garbage: It is forbidden the uncontrolled abandoning, dumping or depositing of garbage in public areas or private areas that are liable to public use. In the case of a breach, the mayor, when sanitary, health or environmental reasons subsist , shall decree an ordinance, with a deadline, for the cleaning-up of the area(s) at the expense of the responsible parties. By the terms contained in Law 10 of May 10, 1976, N. 319, and successive modifications, it is forbidden to dispose of any trash of any sort in either public or private waters.”
So is the old computer sitting on the fondamenta because you’re forbidden to throw it into the canal? Certainly not. Apparently the punitive “sanctions of the law” in this case means that the guilty party has to pay to have it removed. Which they could have arranged for free by calling the garbage collection hotline and making an appointment. But that takes time and thought. Time — don’t have it. Thought — don’t need it.
This bilingual cri de coeur was placed by the residents over this tiny dark passage which is, in fact, a street. The English translation speaks clearly and simply, and ought to be an effective appeal to anyone’s civic conscience except for one tiny flaw…..…which is that the public trash bins, few as they may be, are expressly forbidden by law to contain household garbage, as clearly stated on the bin below.“It is forbidden to insert bags of garbage into the bins, and to abandon bags and garbage around the bins. This behavior will be fined.”
So let’s review: According to the exasperated residents of Calle Vechia, the bags of garbage not theirs have to be taken to the bins. But according to the bins, the garbage isn’t allowed into them.
This leaves one alternative: Do what the city says and put your bag of garbage on your own personal doorstep of the structure where you live before 8:00 AM, and the collector will come by and pick it up and throw it into his big rolling metal box and take it away. I can’t understand why so many people seem to find this system so obnoxious. You’d think they’d been told to make bricks without straw.
So who are these bag-bestrewing malefactors? They can’t be the much-reviled tourists, because they don’t have bags of garbage. They have beer bottles and little plastic ice-cream cups and spoons and Coke cans and things that would fit easily into the bins. (Ignore the fact that these objects often don’t get that far, but are left on the nearest windowsill, because the bins are few and inconveniently placed.)
A tourist didn’t lug that computer to the water’s edge. And tourists don’t sneak out with bags of garbage and leave them in dark alleys.
You see where I’m going. By process of elimination, the principal offenders are Venetians. Why? We’re back to First Principles: It’s because being told that something is forbidden excites a primal urge to do that very thing and nothing else. And lest we suppose the Old Venetians in the Great Old Days were any more virtuous, the hoary stone tablet over the door to what was a convent garden near the church of Sant’ Andrea de la Zirada tells the same old story. Don’t do this, don’t do that — the excellent administrators of the city were refreshingly precise, and they made the punishments very clear. They even carved it in stone, as it were.
And yet I’d be willing to bet that the Old Venetians, who hadn’t thought of anything that day more urgent than whether to fry or grill the sardines, would immediately have felt an overwhelming impulse to run out and start to blaspheme, play cards, throw dice, or at least to tumultuar and strepitar, which basically means create an unholy racket.
People are just made that way.
The doorway appears truncated almost certainly because the street has been built up over time. Possibly by layers of garbage.Making allowances for missing or illegible elements, the text says: “The Serene Prince (the doge) makes it known and by the deliberation of the most excellent Lords against Blasphemy that there not be any … cards dice stickball and other games in this place near the church of the nuns of Sant’ Andrea and the game with the big ball … riot or raise hell … nor use obscene words nor commit scandalous acts nor hang out wool near this church (note: there was a large Flemish wool-working community nearby) and other things which impede the passage transgressors will be subject to banishment the galleys flogging the pillory prison (?) their excellencies will condemn the accusers which accusation will be kept secret (here I lose myself in a maze of abbreviations, so will stop) X 7 1610 Antonio Canal Alvise Mocenigo Piero Sagredo Tommaso Emo
Once upon a time there was a lamp. Then there was a naked boy with a frog. Now there’s a copy of the lamp. I guess all we need to wait for now is a copy of the boy with the frog.
May 24, 2013. Even from afar, the Punta della Dogana is beautiful again.
The important thing is that there is a lamp, and it’s back where it belongs. I’m not sure where the boy with the frog belongs, but it’s probably not at Angkor Wat or the Thracian Tomb of Kazanlak. I doubt it (he? them?) would fit in well at Petra, or the Stone Circles of Senegambia, or the Medina of Fez. Just reminding some people that Venice and its lagoon are also UNESCO World Heritage Sites. There is undoubtedly a place where the boy and his amphibian would belong, but it’s not at the Taj Mahal, or Chartres Cathedral, or here.
