Like Greek temples and Gothic cathedrals, back in the great days, many (if not most) Venetian palaces were painted — frescoed, that is — usually by the best painters around (Titian, Giorgione, Tintoretto, etc.). Palazzo Barbarigo alla Maddalena on the Grand Canal is one of the few that retains even slight traces of what once was sumptuous and ubiquitous decoration. As far as I know, it’s not for rent even for the tiniest little party.
The latest overheard comment has left me floating, becalmed, in a pool of perplexity.
I was walking along toward the vaporetto stop at the Giardini, a route which is very heavily traveled, as you might imagine. Excellent territory for hearing bits of conversation (as in “Is Paris beautiful?”).
A young man overtook me. He was dressed in a sort of TriBeCa way with a long blond ponytail, but didn’t seem especially eccentric in any noticeable way.
He was talking on his cell phone, and what I heard, in English with a light British accent as he went by was:
“In any case, it will probably be cheaper to rent a palace on the Grand Canal.”
Cheaper than what? Buying an island in the Maldives? Building an F-16? Platinum-plating your armored Bugatti Veyron Super Sports car?
A person for whom renting a palace on the Grand Canal is cheaper than anything is a person … I don’t know how to finish this. All I know is that renting a palace on the Grand Canal would not be the solution to any financial conundrum that I have now, or probably ever will have. But should I ever win the lottery (which I intend to do, just as soon as I find the time), at least now I know how to evaluate my relative expenses.
But comes the dawn: I mentioned this remark to my faithful computer necromancer on via Garibaldi and he wasn’t perplexed for even an instant.
“I think he was talking about where to hold a big party,” he said. “My brother works as a freelance waiter, and on one occasion he asked if I wanted to work an event with him.” The costs of organizing a major party in a big hotel, he went on to explain, get to be pretty high. According to the numbers he cited at random, the package put together by an A-list hotel can reach an amazing total. If I understood him correctly, putting the event together on your own — venue, then catering from somewhere else, then something else from somewhere else, and on down the list of components — can actually turn out to be less.
I’m not commenting, I’m merely reporting. You see? If I carried hotel advertising on my blog, I couldn’t have written that. But then again, I’d have been swamped by links to palaces, catering services, musicians, ventriloquists, florists, purveyors of candles and the occasional epergne, renters of chairs and tables, and on and on till daybreak.
This little campiello tucked away across the canal from Campo San Zan Degola’ is named “Campiello de la Comare.” As far as my explorations have revealed, it’s the only place in Venice still physically bearing this name, despite the official list of streets which claims there are five or six.They don’t make it any easier by whitewashing over it.
It’s sheer coincidence that what I want to say about offspring comes right after my little cadenza on nuptials. Though I suppose it’s preferable to my having done them in reverse. I’m so old-fashioned.
So now we’ve come to the subject of “Children: birthing of.” Midwives were the norm here up until the Forties, anyway. My husband was born in 1938, at home, with the aid of a midwife.
Midwife, in Italian, is levatrice. But in Venetian, it’s “comare” (co-MAH-reh), which I deconstruct as “co-mother,” which is pretty nice. (For the record, it also means matron-of-honor and official female wedding witness.)
Though midwives are no longer common, an old quip hangs on in occasional usage today: “Xe nato a lugio per no pagar la comare” (zeh nahto a LOO-joe pair no pa-gahr ya co-MAH-reh). It literally means “He was born in July so as not to pay the midwife.” It’s one of many affectionate ways to describe a boy or man who could be called a rascal, scamp, rapscallion, etc. What the connection could possibly be between July and the midwife and her accounts payable isn’t clear at all. Even Lino can’t tell me. In general, I suppose it’s meant to show how the individual from the very first moment revealed himself to be more than usually scampish.
Speaking of paying the midwife, or not, I always laugh when I listen to a particular riff (thanks to YouTube) which was broadcast and recorded in 1973 by a then-famous, now-forgotten comic named Angelo Cecchelin (check-eh-YEEN). This hilarious sketch is called “Una QuestioneEreditaria” (A Question of Inheritance), in which he plays the part of a man who has been summoned to a judge’s office, he knows not why, but is already on the defensive for fear that he’s going to get trapped into having to pay somebody money. The fact that he is from Trieste, accent and all, stresses the stereotype of people from the Northeast, especially Friuli, of being spectacularly stingy. I digress.
It starts off like this (translated by me):
Judge: Name?
Cecchelin: Giuseppe Sante fu Giuseppe fu Anna fu nata Paoli. (The old-fashioned way of giving one’s provenance via the parents’ names.)
Q: Born?
A: Yes.
Q: I mean where and when were you born!
A: I was born in Trieste on October 23 1894 in Via delle Zudecche number 19 fifth floor door number 24 on Wednesday morning it was raining cats and dogs and the midwife still has to be paid.
Back under the Venetian Republic, though, these women were not Hogarthian hags with hairy warts using God knows what as instruments and God had no idea what as medication. In those days, being a midwife was a real profession. I love any discovery of how forward-thinking the old Venetians were.
Here is what Giuseppe Tassini says in his peerless book, “Curiosita’ Veneziane” (translated by me):
“One finds that in 1689, on September 26, the Magistrate of Health established certain norms for the women who wanted to practice the profession of midwife.
“First of all, he ordered that they had to be able to read, and that they take as their text a book entitled ‘On the Midwife“; that they had to produce a document to certify that for two years they had attended anatomical demonstrations relating to their art, and another to certify that they had spent two years of practical experience with an approved midwife; and finally that they had to undergo an examination which was conducted by the Protomedico in the presence of the Priors of the College of Physicians, and also two distinguished midwives, each of which could add her own questions to those of the Protomedico…
“In the field of obstetrics, the surgeon Giovanni Menini particularly distinguished himself, and he had built, at his own expense, an obstetric chamber so well-supplied and correct that the Venetian Senate acquired it for public use, calling Menini in 1773 to teach obstetrics not only to the women who wanted to be midwives, but also to surgeons. From that time on, surgeons began to attend women in childbirth, something which had previously happened only rarely, and with unhappy results.”
The “Ponte de l’Anatomia,” or Bridge of the Anatomy, leads into Campo San Giacomo dell’Orio.This building on the campo was once the celebrated school of anatomy, where medical students and midwives alike attended dissections and lectures.
And now a fragment of memory comes fluttering across my mind: Some years ago, I read in the paper that the parish priest of Pellestrina — or maybe it was San Pietro in Volta — anyway, a village down along the lagoon edge toward Chioggia — made a radical suggestion. He remarked that everybody was accustomed to a bell ringing to announce a death. I’ve heard this bell too — it’s dark and lugubrious and yes, you can ask for whom it is tolling, because plenty of people always know.
But what this priest suggested was that they also ring the bells to announce a birth. I think it was a brilliant idea, and certainly the bells would have been cheerier than the funeral tolling. Louder, in any case. At the least loud enough to drown out the sound of the newborn’s shrieking and wailing, possibly caused by the ringing of the bells.
On the morning of November 8, our local fishmonger opened with this fabulous fanfare of welcome to his new son, Matteo. The blue bows are the customary festive announcement for a boy (pink for girls), but this is the first time I’ve seen so many bows as well as photos of the baby.“Welcome Matteo!” Matteo has the typical stunned. groggy look of the just born, perhaps increased by the awareness that he’s drawn a dad who’s going to be doing things like this. Or maybe I’m just imagining that.Speaking of boys, a friend of ours had her first baby on November 13, in Vienna. So we put the blue bow on her boat.Bows or not, evidence of little people (not to be confused with The Little People) is everywhere. I have no idea what sodality was meeting here this afternoon. Maybe it was the Pink Bicycle Marching and Chowder Society.This family either has ten children, or one child who has to change clothes five times a day.
A couple this happy doesn’t need a romantic backdrop. Our friend Andrea Patalano,an officer of the Capitaneria di Porto, wed his ladylove on May 10, 2008.
The following has nothing to do with Venice, but a friend has urged (commanded) me to write this, so here goes.
Last month I was in Washington D.C. for two weddings, both involving people extremely dear to me and, as it happens, at two distant points on the matrimonial timeline.
Similarities: Both ceremonies were conducted according to the Episcopal ritual. Both were deeply moving. Both couples are unfathomably in love.
Differences: One was in a historic private house, the other in a small neighborhood church. One was attended by mostly friends; the other by mostly relatives. One was evening, one was morning.
What made the deepest impression on me was not simply the solemnity of the vows, which always affects me, but hearing the same promises spoken across the chasm of time and experience which separates the two happy couples.
Event One was the wedding of my only niece, Re’ Leps, now Teague; both she and her husband, Erik Teague, are on or near 30 years old, joyfully undertaking the first (one hopes the only) marriage of their lives. I regret the lack of a suitable photo here; one will be added as soon as I can get one. But I can introduce them via their websites: Re’ has two (http://www.customclothingandcostumes.com/ and http://www.etsy.com/shop/OneStickVoodoo) and Erik has two which I am unable to make behave as links, but here goes: erikteaguedesign.com and www.etsy.com/opergeist haberdashery.
Event Two, a week later, was the wedding of my widowed ex-sister-in-law who had fallen in love with an amazing (widower) man. Both on or near 70 years old, and joyfully undertaking the second marriage of their lives.
On October 20, 2012, Rita Trefz and Bruce Allan tied the proverbial knot, adored by their assembled sisters, brothers, children, and grandchildren.
I don’t know which couple was more adorable, the shiny just-minted little newbies or the softly gleaming veterans, bearing the patina of pain and perseverance, who had a very different feeling when pronouncing the very same words.
Certainly they all felt same conviction and sincerity. But it’s one thing to promise fidelity for better/for worse, for richer/for poorer, “in sickness and in health” when you’re young and iridescent with vitality — it’s like promising never to lie or to save ten dollars every month. How hard could this be?
It’s another thing, though, to vow fidelity to someone “in sickness and health” when each of you has nursed your spouse through terminal cancer.
One meditates (“one”would be me) on the beauty of a couple’s determination to do something which they have never yet confronted, and hence has no idea whether or how they will manage to maintain the promise, or what toll it will take when they do.
One also meditates on the beauty of a couple’s promise to do a thing of which they clearly know the meaning, the depth, the breadth, the board feet, the gross tonnage, of what they’re saying.
In any case, all four spouses meant it with all their hearts.
They were good days for Kleenex.
I have no idea who she is, but I’m very happy I went out to do the shopping at the right moment on December 2, 2006.Cristiana Rigotti gets ready to board our rowing club’s 8-oar gondola to be rowed in state, with her father, across the lagoon to the church of the Redentore at 3:30 PM on July 2, 2006. She’s smiling now, but it’s as hot as a skillet on a summer afternoon on the water, and the trip took at least 45 minutes. I give her credit for grit.I realize everyone was praying for it not to rain, but a prayer for a few more clouds wouldn’t have been a bad idea. Picture-perfect sun translates into the heat of Hades in July.I was walking home on June 30, 2012, when I encountered this bride heading toward her reception (I think) at the nearby Greenhouse near the Giardini. The T-shirted man is not her groom, but one of several passersby who asked to have their picture taken with her. (She had just posed with the three women on the bench.) I never saw her groom, but she had fabulous red shoes, so I hope that wherever he was, he’s going to be able to keep up with her.And then come kids, presumably — or in this case, tiny gnomes with pieces of bread.And in the fullness of time, grandkids…..…interspersed with the eternal, everlasting laundry….I think they ought to add “For cleaner, for dirtier” in the vows.Then time passes and you keep getting older, and you have to sit down more often, but at least you’re still together.And eventually one of you dies, and your friends or relatives or colleagues send big expensive wreaths to your funeral.If you keep a shop, you shut it for a day or two and put up the notice of the demise of your spouse which includes the funeral details, so everybody can attend.In this case, Giancarlo Cimitan passed away on Feb. 7, 2009, and the neighbors have put up their own notice too: It says “The friends and colleagues and everyone who loved Giancarlo are close to Daniela.” I include this episode not to remind us that we all are doomed, but to remind us that Venice is not composed entirely of tourists.So don’t be stingy with the kisses, people. They’re one of the few truly sustainable resources on this earth.
The national flag above the entrance to the middle school evinces about the same degree of enthusiasm as the students passing beneath it. Except that this flag has been this way for years, and it always looks like this, except when it’s not tangled up in itself when it looks even worse. This is an abomination and it beggars belief that nobody either in or out of the school notices, or cares.
Now that my computer is back to work, I can give a late but heartfelt salute to the First Day of School. Officially it was September 12, but for the zeitgeist it’s been the entire month.
The elementary and middle school classes got a rousing sendoff by the Seniors Club (“Gruppo Anziani”), which organized a ceremony that probably softened the shock of re-entry (or in the case of the smaller children, first entry). The children not only got applause from the assembled relatives and onlookers, but a gift, which is always a Good Thing, even if it was a Useful Present of school supplies. Free swag distracts, even if only temporarily, from the realization that your life is no longer your own.
Some of the organizers put up a big poster announcing the Big Send-Off. It reads (translated by me): The Seniors Club and Odeon Club are giving school supplies to the students of the First and Second classes and augur that it may be the start of a long and profitable course of study.” (Smaller posters with the date and time were taped up around the neighborhood.) All this would need in order to sound any better would be a 21-gun salute, but I’m not going to be the one to suggest it.
And children go to school here on Saturday morning, too. If that sounds painful, just remember how many vacations are strewn throughout the year. I haven’t counted them, but I have the impression there is some kind of break almost every month. Christmas! Epiphany! Winter holiday (“settimanabianca“) when school groups to go the mountains to ski. Easter! National Liberation Day! And so on.
So the offspring are back under state control for half of each day, and the days are imperceptibly shortening, and the temperature is trying to drop, even if slowly and unwillingly. In a word: Autumn.
Some of the girls are looking pretty effervescent, even if they do have to sherpa backpacks that are bigger and heavier than they are. And that they have to wear the anonymous smock, which is required. Cheaper than a uniform, and nobody seems to mind wearing it down the street in public.This little boy, though, was not with the program at all. I don’t know what set it off — perhaps the sudden realization that his life was no longer his own.The troops are lined up and ready for cheers, blessings, applause, and free stuff.
Each bag had a name tag and each child was called by name. The smocks may be anonymous, but the old folks remembered that these were individual people. Probably most of them had known these sprouts since they were born.
And lest the old rumpsprung adults should feel left out, September brings a truckload of learn-this programs and activities. The useless dead vaporetto ticket booth is one of the local billboards, which at the moment are advertising classes in: Indian “Bollywood” dancing; belly-dancing; karate; cutting and sewing; languages (English, Spanish, French, Russian, Chinese, Japanese, American English, American Slang); Zumba; Latin ballroom dances; yoga for children; theatre for children, and so on. It’s the educational version of your New Year’s Resolutions all thrown into a pot and set on fire.
