I’m very glad to have had so many responses to my last post about seeing/not seeing the photos on my blog. There seems to be consensus on the theory I had begun to form.
In the words of one reader: “I have a simple solution, I just scroll to the bottom of your post and click on the link “Venice: I am not making this up” and it takes me to your blog page and I read your post there.”
Other readers, you’ll see in the Comments, have said the same. Would any previous non-seers let me know if this solution works for them?
We had to switch doctors, so I went to visit one candidate for the first time. This is the door to his office, seen from his waiting room. Was I wrong to leave?
Tell me Lino went to school with somebody who built the basilica of the Salute, and I’d believe it. Jesting aside, the photos today have no special links to the topic at hand. Just wanted to send you a small supply of images of Venice to tide you over till you can come back.
It’s probably just me, but after years of seeing Lino run into people he knows for one reason or event or phase of life over the past eight decades, it strains belief to think that there could be people in Venice who don’t know him. In my opinion, we should probably just rename the most beautiful city in the world LinoLand.
Late one morning we were riding the bus down the Lido toward Malamocco. Lino nabbed a seat near the back — he got the aisle, and a youngish man reading a book was sitting by the window. The bus was crowded, there was the muted tension of people clumped together in the summer heat. The bus pulled up at a stop, the man closed the book and moved to get off. Climbing over Lino on his way out, he said “Ciao, Lino.”
Instant of silence; everyone was wearing masks, so recognition stalled. Then he lowered his mask and it was smiles all round. Not only had Lino collaborated for years with the man’s father on the Committee of the Festa de la Sensa, but yep — Lino taught him (man, not father of) to row when he was a lad.
Parking is a problem in the canals as much as on land. At the end of via Garibaldi on a busy morning, everybody just decides to make it work. The barge demonstrates what I’d call sufficiently parallel parking.
Change of scene: A few weeks ago we were struggling home on a Sunday evening from the regata at Murano. After the races people literally disappeared because a deluge had struck the city that had evidently swept every other humans either home or out to sea. Lino and I trudged through drenching gusts of rain (umbrella? Of course not!), and climbed aboard the vaporetto heading toward San Pietro di Castello. Cold. Soaking wet. Must mention that this is far from the first time Murano has celebrated its big day with Noye’s Fludde — two years ago it was an apocalyptic hailstorm.
Miserable, waterlogged, we were just stepping ashore on the dock at San Pietro di Castello when the vaporetto pilot pulled down his landward window, leaned halfway out, and called out “Ciao Lino!”
So, yet again, I saw that neither snow, nor rain, nor dead of night, etc., stop people from saying hi to Lino. In this case, the man was not someone Lino had taught to row — astonishing, I know — but instead is a former naval seaman at the Military Naval School F. Morosini where Lino teaches rowing, as all the world knows by now. So of course he would have seen Lino thousands of times. Lino doesn’t remember his name, but names are optional in these encounters.
There are many oases of peace and quiet out in the lagoon. So far no fish have surfaced to say hi to Lino. They’d be more likely to surface and say “You caught my grandfather’s great-uncle’s cousin’s father-in-law but you’ll never catch me.”
Speaking of Morosini, we were there one afternoon a few weeks ago, working on some of the boats. The sun was shining, the cadets had gone home for summer vacation, officers were only intermittent. Around the corner came one of the commandants with an older couple and grandon in tow, obviously a prospective student being shown around.
They all stopped for the usual brief introduction (“And yes, we also offer Venetian rowing to the students,” etc. etc.). The grandfather looked at Lino and said, “Wait. I know you. But how?” The briefest checklist of where/who/when revealed that they grew up in the same neighborhood mere streets apart. Lino was a few years older than this person, but not by much. So we all took a break to listen to them riffle through who they knew, who their relatives were, EXACTLY where their houses were located, and so forth. This was one of those rare cases where teaching somebody to row wasn’t the link. It was something better: Family! Childhood! Memories! Neighborhood!
The House of the Rising Clams.Top row are various exemplars of the capatonda or “round clam” (Cerastoderma glaucum), also known as “cuore di laguna,” or “lagoon heart.” Lino says that the black item in the lineup is a very old capatonda. On the other hand, because I am not an expert, I have run aground on this because these look convincingly like Rudicardiumtuberculatum. Both of these species belong to the cockle family, so I’m going to leave the subject there. Further information welcome because I have exploded my brain researching this to little avail. Bottom row: On the left is a clam “that you find all over the beach, sometimes they’re very big,” says Lino. That’s all I know. On the right, a fasolaro (Callista chione)From the bottom, moving clockwise: I haven’t yet been able to identify this pale smooth creature, so let’s move on to two capetonde. Lino states that the blackish object in the center is the shell used by a hermit crab (Pagurus bernhardus). I’m in no position to argue about it, but I’d like to see one of these in the wild to understand it better. Meanwhile, it has been given pride of place amongst the mollusks. The last two in the upper right corner are a young capatonda and the twin of the unidentified clam in the first photo. It’s been a long two days on this. I may end up just ringing the person’s doorbell.
Let’s go back in time — it doesn’t matter how far, because these chance meetings have been going on forever. In fact, LinoLand is everywhere. Take Mogadishu, Somalia, just to pick a place at random. Lino was living there for four months in the mid-Sixties, with a crew from the Aeronavali which was repairing and maintaining airplanes and teaching (I think you might say that was what was happening) local mechanics how to take over when the group went back to Venice.
Lino and his colleagues were billeted at a modest hotel run by a couple from Bologna, the kind of place you’d expect to find flight crews from Alitalia on layover. And yes, one day a young man in Alitalia uniform stopped in the lobby. “Ciao Lino!” Who was he? They’d been in the Boy Scouts together. They didn’t say “So it’s here that we meet again, bwahahaha.” They said some variation on “What the heck are you doing here?” And together they could have replied, “I’m working. What are YOU doing?”
If the sun’s up, it’s time for laundry. No sun, also laundry.Look closer. Here is a detail of what is hanging out the window, evidently supported only by whatever cables keep it alive. Air conditioner is on its own here because for probably many reasons a support has not been constructed. Guess they’ll haul it in when winter comes, like some sort of midwater longline set out for tuna.Speaking of hanging things up to dry, out in the lagoon the fishermen hang out their nets. It’s kind of like laundry, but smells different.
And while we’re ranging far afield, let’s go to Muggia, a village on the east coast of the Adriatic just below Trieste. Lino knows it well, so we decided to take a daytrip one freezing Epiphany a few years ago. The voyage took much of the morning. We get the bus in Trieste. We get off the bus in Muggia. We walk to the small central piazza (Piazza Galileo Galilei, if you’re playing along at home) where the very economically sized duomo sits sideways. Pretty.
“Ciao Lino!” It came from behind this time. Turning around, we see one of our favorite ex-cadets from the Morosini coming toward us. Gad! We’re 176 km (109 miles) from Venice and yet even here there’s SOMEBODY WHO KNOWS LINO. Since we last saw him he’s become a naval officer, has commanded a submarine, and gotten married to a girl from Muggia, which now explains everything. It’s not like people follow Lino around by satellite tracking. It’s just that they seem to be everywhere.
You cannot convince me that they’re not talking to each other. I mean all three of them.
And in conclusion…What was probably the first of these numberless experiences was the day in Lino’s early adulthood during the five-year period when he worked at Ciampino Airport in Rome, repairing and maintaining planes.
He was riding on a bus somewhere in the central area of the city. The bus was crammed full of people, naturally. All of a sudden from the back of the bus comes the ebullient voice of a woman in the broadest possible Venetian accent: “OH VARRRRRREMENGO, VARDA CHI CHE GHE XE!” (“Good Lord have mercy” — a hopelessly bad translation but I’m trying to convey the intensity of the amazement because va a remengo is the absolute maximum Venetian exclamation.) “LOOK WHO IT IS!” These were the days before “Ciao Lino” took over.
Everybody turns to look at Lino, who has instantly gone tomato-paste red with embarrassment. She didn’t stop. “XE EL FRADELO DE LA VANDA!” (“It’s Wanda’s brother!”)
“TI SA CHI GHE SO MI?” she cheerfully demands. (“You know who I am?”)
Tiny embarrassed voice responds: “La Gegia.” The lady’s name was Teresa, but the nickname in Venetian is Gegia (JE-ja.)
That’s where the story ends; I guess he got off at the next stop, whether it was his or not. He doesn’t remember further details, but that voice has been incised in his brain. Little did he know normal all this was going to become for him. Now he just turns to me and either tells me who it is, or asks me. Me? You think I know? As they say here, I just got here tomorrow.
Somebody has just had a baby boy. Part of a new batch of people who’ll be saying “Ciao, Lino”?
Mothers are beyond comprehension. If this woman had had three other kids, I have absolutely no doubt she’d have found a way to carry them as well. Plus the groceries and a sheaf of gladioli.
Happy Mother’s Day. We pluck this day out of the calendar to slather mothers with excessive adoration, usually ignoring the reason why we feel we have to exaggerate (the reason is simply those 364 preceding days of incessant but unthanked lion-taming that mothers perform every waking and often non-waking hour.) Looking past the holiday to the reality of your average Mom’s year, you’ll have to admit that it’s not made of flowers and chocolate and lace-trimmed cards laden with poetry. Lion taming (the lion being life, not merely the children) can become un-poetic very fast, no matter how tough your mother is.
I especially want to recognize mothers’ uncanny ability to say so much using so few words. And the truly amazing thing is that mothers say the exact same things in each of the 7,139 languages in the world. The universal language is not Esperanto. It’s Momspeak.
Any Venetian of any age will recognize the common expressions listed below — as will you — either from having said them or, as a child, having heard them. And if some of these apothegms seem unreasonably violent, just remember that she was almost always driven to it. By you. If we’re being honest.
So as you read, send a silent salute to your mother, wherever she is. And I’d love to hear from anyone who was, in fact, born in a barn.
It all starts out so well. When you’ve just been born, even ladies walking out of the supermarket want to stop to admire you.Momspeak at this stage isn’t necessary yet, but the classic retorts are already prepared for whenever you might decide to start being clever.
Threats:
Vardime co te parlo. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you!”
Col vien casa to pare ghelo digo. “I’m telling your father about this when he comes home.”
Come che te go fato, te desfo! “Just like I made you, I can unmake you.” (My favorite, a sort of global, all-encompassing threat coming from the elemental source. This was one of Lino’s mother’s major standbys.)
Verzo la scatola de le tangare. “I’m opening the box that’s full of smacks upside the head.” (A tangara is a smack. This is sometimes said as a very early warning using a delicately menacing tone. Sometimes it’s enough just to say “Verzo?”)
Dai, disi calcossa! Prova parlar se ti ga coragio!!! “Come on, say something! Try to speak if you’ve got the courage!”
Baby steps. Momspeak isn’t much use at this stage, but it soon will be.
Ti pol pianzer in grego, tanto no te lo compro. “You can even cry in Greek, I’m still not buying it for you.”
Vara che te cambio i conotati! “Watch out, I’m going to change your face” (“conotati” are the features of your face, thus “beat you up”).
Mothers are the source of everything: costumes, food, hugs, Carnival confetti…
Vara che quela xè la porta. “Look, that over there is the door.” (Meaning you’re invited to depart by it.)
No sta far che vegna là to pare! “Don’t do it or your father will be coming over there.”
Vara che te meto in colegio! “Watch out, I’m going to put you in the reformatory.”
Happy in a world of their own, but their mothers’ legs aren’t far away.Will there be repercussions? Mothers know that no child has yet been born who can resist a puddle, however small. But mothers are allergic to mud…
Domestic remarks:
I to amissi no ga minga na famega? “Your friends haven’t got families?”
Ti ga sentio quelo che te go dito! “Did you hear what I just said?”
Ma ti credi che mi fassa i schei de note? “You think I print money at night?”
Mi a la to età gero zà stufo de lavorar. “At your age I was already fed up with working.” (This sounds more like something a man would say to a slightly spoiled or slothful child, but I wouldn’t doubt that a mother might say the same thing.)
In Venice, if you see kids you’ll almost certainly see moms. They may be engrossed in their own conversations with other mothers, but they’re using that mother radar to monitor the entire campo.
No sta strassinar i pìe. Also: No sta savatàr. “Don’t drag your feet.” “Savatar” is a verb created from zavata (ciabatta), or house slipper. Thus “Don’t scuff around as if you were wearing slippers.”
Te par che xe ora de rivar? “You think this is the right time to arrive?” (that is, come home). Said sarcastically when the obvious answer is “No, it’s screamingly late and I have no excuse.”
Ti vedara co noghe sarà più la serva. “You’ll see (how things are) when you don’t have the servant (female gender) anymore.”
Cò moro mì ti mor da la fame. “When I die, you’ll die of hunger.”
Magna e tasi! “Eat and be quiet.”
This bar/cafe/bacaro near San Zaccaria reinforces the classic sentiment by adding an extra word from the bartender. Now it reads “Eat Drink Be Quiet.” Not “quiet” as in the serenity of the cloister, but more along the lines of “Zip it! Stuff a sock in it!”
Questa xè la casa de la lasagna…. Chi che no lavora no magna! “This is the house of lasagna — who doesn’t work doesn’t eat.” The point is the rhyme as much as the statement.
Ti ga proprio ciapa’ esempio dai piu’ sempi. “You’ve really taken the dumbest people as your example” (that is, of all the people you could have copied, you picked the dumbest ones).
On the first day of elementary school, the clothes and aprons are clean, as are the new backpacks. Parents’ phones flash, commemorating the event. Mothers hover. Small lumps of advice and encouragement are being tossed around by assorted relatives and friends.It’s odd to see a child out on his own, but mother radar must be tracking him.
General insults:
Bon da gnente come el pantan! “Good for nothing, like mud.”
Varda el trio paloma: dò inseminii e uno in coma! “Look at the paloma trio: two idiots and one in coma.” The point is obviously the rhyme, but hitting three victims with one invective is motherly target practice at its best. “Inseminio” (in-sem-eh-NEE-oh) is a very common, usually friendly, insult. Nothing to do with insemination, it comes by way of scimunito, meaning fool. It’s a low-voltage jibe, which one source says is used “when a person near you does something irrational based on ignorance, little knowledge or inexperience.”
Te vorìa un poca de Russia a ti. “What you need is a little bit of Russia.” This is heavy artillery. The inference is from the Second World War, meaning that you need to be seriously squared away, perhaps by intense discipline, suffering, defeat — any aspect of the appalling experience the Italian Army suffered during Operation Barbarossa (the doomed German attempt to conquer the Soviet Union that ended hideously in the depths of winter, naturally). This expression may be losing some of its power by now, as the generations pass, though its significance is still clear enough. Father Gastone Barecchia, who was priest of the church of San Sebastiano and passed away in 2016 at the age of 102, served as military chaplain in Russia from July 1941 to March 1943.
Vergognite che xè ora e tempo! “It’s about time you were ashamed.”
No ti te vergogni minga! “You’re not the least bit embarrassed.”
Varda che te tendo. “Look out, I’m watching you.”
Gò un fio solo e anca ebete! “I’ve got just one son and he’s even dimwitted.” (Pronounced EH-beh-teh.) The implication is “Not only did I have only one child” (bad), “he had to be dimwitted too” (even worse). In other words, she’s saying she got screwed twice.
Somebody please explain to me why we so often take them for granted. Mothers are incredible.
As everyone knows, April 25 is a big date on the Venetian calendar: Not only is it the Feast of San Marco, but also Liberation Day, commemorating the end of World War II.
Seeing that San Marco gets precedence, having been around for some years before World War II, I like to focus on that part of the big day. And arguably the most important element is the long-stemmed red rose known as a “bocciolo” in Italian, and “bocolo” (BOH-ko-lo) in Venetian.
It’s simple: Any and every Venetian man gives a bocolo to the dearest ladies in his life, from wife to mother to sister to whoever else really matters to him. Or they just stick to mother and wife.
We went out early in our little boat to row around the city for a while, and the first step — literally, as we have to cross a bridge to get to the boat — was to buy a rose from the young man prowling on the bridge with a fistful of roses. Lino planned to give me a much more glamorous bocolo a little later, but it was unthinkable to appear in Venice in a roseless boat.
So until we finally reached the florist nearest to our hovel, we rowed around the city on a sampierota proudly bearing its very own bocolo, totally in tune with the day.
P.S.: Any reader who wants to chance his or her arm in plotting our route based on the photos is very welcome to let me know where we went. It’s just a game — if I’d wanted to make it really difficult, I’d have showed mainly reflections and walls.
You are looking at one of the main reasons why starting early is such a good idea — mirror-like water. It has become more common over the past year with the economic collapse of Venice (fewer boats of many types), but don’t let that mitigate your appreciation for seeing the canals as they all were when Lino was a boy.The roses are almost always inserted into a plastic sleeve. One reason might be to keep the petals in place until you’ve paid your money and are walking away. The cheap roses, such as this one, seem to be cut sometime between Epiphany and Easter (made up) — I’ll never forget the shower of petals that fell from the bloom-downward rose I bought at the last minute from a street vendor to put on our boat a few years ago. Precious little was left in the sleeve by the time I got aboard. This rose, though, seems to be of hardier (or more recent) stock.The meeting of the Venetian symbols. I just learned that you could call this an example of syzygy, but that would be pretentious even if accurate. It exists in Italian, though (sizigia), so I’m going with it.Not the first image ever made that shows the bacino of San Marco as it is without traffic, but in the pre-2020 era you’d have had to be out at 2:00 AM to see no waves. Here it’s 9:00 AM on a sunny Sunday morning, and there ought to be phalanxes of taxis and tourist launches. I want you to enjoy this as long as you can, even though we know it represents a world of hurt.The entrance to the Grand Canal, with the slightest wavy trace of the passage of one (1) motorized vehicle, going slowly — specifically, the very small motorboat heading upstream in front of the red dock. Seems only fair that I acknowledge that there is still some sort of traffic. I know things have to change, but I am going to miss this.Speaking of traffic, this is a scene that I have savored — small boats being rowed on glass-like water, usually on weekend mornings — more than I can say.A typical sandolo — a private boat, I notice, which is nice — set up to be rowed alla valesana (notice the momentarily unused forcola on the port side). The square of wood attached to the stern, however, reveals that he, or someone, set up the boat to use an outboard motor sometime.Another private boat — as I’ve discovered in the trafficless Canal, plenty of them still exist — in this case a mascareta rowed by two doughty ladies.
A pause to run to the fancy florist for the fancy bocolo.Plenty of people have had the same idea, and as we left the line was even longer. There used to be more florists, as I recall….Not that these aren’t worth waiting for.Waiting for his friend inside the shop. Better get home soon, the wife is waiting…Off you go, gents. Well done. Note to apparently undecided man on the right: A bocolo-colored jacket is not going to save you. The florist is right there — make that decision now!Technically there’s nothing wrong, I guess, with a lady buying her own bocolo. But it seems somehow slightly askew. It’s like any present you buy for yourself: Not the same as someone giving it to you.Mission accomplished, and he’s walking fast. No telling how far he’s got to go (see: lack of florists in town).The two musketeers have paused at the end of the street for some light refreshment. The pastry shop unseen at the right dispenses all sorts of wonderful things, but Sunday was the last day in months in which we were required to stay outside to consume them. We had to drink on the street, and not even stand — we were supposed to move along and drink while walking. All this was to avoid cramming people together, especially because, as you see, eating and drinking pretty much depends on not covering your mouth. Danger is still lurking everywhere. I will go to my grave wondering what has happened to the second bocolo.Like all the other bars/cafes, this one blocked the doorway with a table, which was useful also for the placement of items being bought, or in this case also the customer’s (Lino’s) detritus. The sign on the door says “Orange Zone, Only Takeaway.”Lino boatward-bound with our very glamorous bocolo.Our little bocolo still doesn’t know that we’re about to put a rock-star rose into the boat. Not sure what the horticultural equivalent of “I was here first” is, but I hope they’ll work it out.Not wanting to disrespect Bocolo 1, still standing so firmly in its bracket, I laid the stately Bocolo 2 on the bow. Then I began to worry, and so did Lino, about the wind possibly blowing it around and deranging its perfection. So down it soon went (see below) onto the cruddy floorboards next to the cake in the pink box.The cruddy compartment was covered by the small wooden door for most of the return trip, but here you can see how we arranged the most important bits: the cake, the rose, the folded boat cover, also the sponge…. I bet Bocolo 1 was snickering because Bocolo 2 was lying down there in the hold where nobody could see it.The home stretch. The area looks only slightly better for having the compartment covered. Now that you know that Bocolo 2 is prone you can slightly make out its plastic sleeve. And finally we’re back to home itself. The boat is moored and ready to be covered and put away for a day or two. Our little bocolo has really gone the distance, not one petal out of place. Bocolo 2 still prostrate.Walking past us is a man with a mission: It looks like he’s carrying three bocolos (bocoli?). It’s going to be a fun day for him and the family. Hope all the relatives have had their shots.On the left, the boat’s bocolo, and on the right, the 3-foot monster from the fancy florist. Tradition maintains that the greater your love, the longer the stem, so I’m happy with the monster even though my secret favorite is the runt of the litter. I suppose they’ve reached an agreement, I didn’t hear any scuffling during the night.Outside on the fondamenta, the monument to the Partigiane (female partisans of World War II) is more than usually floral this year. On the left is the traditional laurel wreath offered by the city, and on the right the traditional mass of roses from the national Partisans Association. The other flowers have obviously come from individual hands and hearts.Gerbera daisies also welcome. Anything red will do. They earned every blossom countless times over.April 25. Bocolo. Bring it.
