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

RIP don Ferruccio

November 5, 2009 5 Comments

One thing I noticed a while ago which gave me a hint that I was becoming even more broken in — like a shoe or a new pair of jeans — to Venice is that I began to look at the death notices taped up around the city. I mean, as if it were possible that I might have known the person.

And by now, I have gone to numerous funerals for one degree of friend or acquaintance or another. Sometimes they’re Lino’s friends, but I get to share.

Today I got a phone call that don Ferruccio Gavagnin has (finally) entered the more abundant life. He was the parish priest of San Pantalon and a true Venetian who grew up in Lino’s neighborhood (San Barnaba) and even on Lino’s street (Calle Lunga). Lino knew him, but was at least a decade behind him, so they didn’t have much connection.

The funeral is going to be Monday, which isn’t good because I’m going to be busy Monday — but I imagine there will be quite a scene. He was 80 years old but he seemed at least 30 years older than that — I think time just got tired and lost track of him. But in spite of pain and infirmity toward the end he carried on through sheer, unadulterated, industrial-strength grit. He was like a goddam racehorse who keeps going on a broken leg.

"The Martyrdom and Apotheosis of San Pantalon," by Venetian painter Gian Antonio Fumiani. The sheer size of this creation overwhelms smaller works down at ground level by artists such as Veronese and Veneziano who are several grades above him.

In the last few years of his life he was very ill with assorted maladies, which I never completely understood. I believe it started with a small stroke one night. After his ancient mother died (she had lived with him in the rectory, where he took care of her; “Priests are good at taking care of other people, but they never seem to take care of their own family”), he lived alone for several years until the night he suffered some brainal lapse which caused him to lose his balance and fall down the stairs.

The stairs are stone, narrow, and extremely steep. He lay there all night with nobody to even imagine he needed help, much less provide it. The next morning the sacristan came to work (Odd, the door is still closed?) and found him lying there, all busted up. Things got progressively worse, as you might imagine. I’ll just leave it at that. But he really hung on, even when he was finally in a wheelchair (they installed a transporter on the staircase). Retire? Surely you jest.

There were times when I’d go by the church in the afternoon, when it’s open to the public. People come in to look at the painting (not a fresco) on the ceiling. It’s the church’s main attraction, a ponderous Baroque effort depicting The Martyrdom and Apotheosis of San Pantalon by Gian Antonio Fumiani (painted between 1680-1704) and it is cautiously described as being perhaps/probably the largest oil painting in the world. It’s not at all beautiful but it’s as big as your average Mongolian steppe.

Don Ferruccio would be sitting there at a desk in the back, to the left. He might be waiting for the kids to show up for catechism, but he was mainly keeping an eye on the place as tourists wandered in and out. He would have made an excellent Electrical/Operations Officer on a nuclear submarine, or maybe a meat inspector for the Department of Agriculture. Whatever you can think of that requires a relentless level of vigilance.

In the winter he would still be at his post, wrapped up in a heavy coat. We would sit there in the enveloping chill, bantering — he was very good at banter, especially the pretend-insulting kind — but our banter was limited by two things. One, he had a way of masticating his words that made it hard to understand him, and the other was the way he kept interrupting the conversation with comments sotto voce on the visitors and what they were doing, and the fact that virtually all of them entered and left without leaving so much as one (1) coin in the offering box.

I often wondered how he must have appeared to the unwary tourists who stepped in out of mere curiosity or to have a chance to sit down for five minutes. There he was, a shrunken, gristly little figure bundled in black, giving sudden sharp thwacks on the desk with his cane to draw their attention to whatever error they were about to commit. Don’t go there! Don’t touch that! I considered myself his friend but he would make even me jump.

Inexplicably, I have no photograph of him to add here. But I will gladly contribute what I wrote about him in 1994 (“Venice: More than a Dream,” National Geographic, February, 1995):

“Meanwhile, somewhere in or around the church of San Pantalon, don Ferruccio Gavagnin is also hard at work. He is always working: He’s the priest of what is technically the smallest parish in Venice, but his congregation won’t stay small. ‘The other priests are a little bit jealous,’ he says. ‘But I can’t refuse people. If they need help, they know they can find me.’

The facade of the church of San Pantalon. Don Ferruccio lived in the ochre-colored house to the left.

Don Ferruccio has been at San Pantalon for the past 26 of his 41 years as a priest [today that would be 41 of his 56]. He’s balding, compact, and his keen, kind eyes framed by steel-rimmed glasses miss nothing. He has a tendency to bustle, and a let’s-get-on-with-it way of talking. He’s up at 5:00 to pray, do paperwork, and look after his 93-year-old mother, who lives with him in the small house attached to the church. At 7:00 he opens the church, and eventually, being a shepherd, he heads out to check on his flock.

In and out of shops and cafes, a quick cup of coffee, a quick word, a smile, a wave — into the butcher shop, into the optician’s shop, into the firemen’s headquarters (he’s their parish priest). We stride down the street past the church of San Silvestro — “The ugliest church in Venice” — we pause in the church of the Frari, where he speaks with one of the friars about the bishop’s impending visit. I notice that the friar smiles at him with particular coolness — the interparish rivalry continues.

There’s always too much to do. Catechism classes, visiting the sick in four different hospitals, planning a funeral or a wedding. ‘Yesterday was a hard day, and at the end of the day I received two young people who asked me to marry them. They met at a hospital — they both had an eye disease. I told the boy, ‘You probably didn’t see her properly.’

You can’t lure Don Ferruccio into a long conversation; he has no time, and less inclination. Favorite Bible story? He twinkles at me; not a chance. Besides, ‘I don’t believe in words,’ he tells me briskly. ‘I believe in deeds. Words are not important.’

There is a long, slender crack in the austere, dark-brick facade of the church of San Pantalon. Don Ferruccio says it’s always been there; a surveyor recently reported that it might, or might not, get worse over time. As long as don Ferruccio is there, I don’t think it would dare get worse.”

Events, Food, History, Venetian-ness

Day of the Dead

October 31, 2009 4 Comments

November 1st and 2nd pack a one-two punch here, though the first is a holiday and the second isn’t (every year I struggle to remember that because it seems wrong to me). (I think they should both be holidays.)

My most recently discovered saint: St. John of Nepomuk, here adorning the prow of the 14-oar gondola of the club Voga Veneta Mestre. He is a national saint of the Czech Republic, and protector of gondoliers and anyone in danger of drowning. He was martyred on March 20, 1393 by being thrown into the Vltava River in Prague.

November 1 is All Saints Day — shortened here to “i santi” (“the saints”). There is no special way of observing this feast, other than going to church which for some people is asking too much. I know men who will proudly tell you that they haven’t been to church (or put on a tie) since their wedding day. Strangulation seems to be the theme.

The cemetery island, San Michele in Isola, is in the upper right corner, just on the way to Murano.

November 2 is All Souls Day — shortened here to “i morti” (“the dead”). This is a day (even if it isn’t a holiday) which Venetians observe with more attention. The vaporetto to the island of San Michele, the cemetery island, is free. In the not-so-old days, within Lino’s memory, a bridge on boats was constructed for the day from the Fondamente Nove to the island (a distance visibly shorter than the Giudecca Canal, whose bridge for the feast of the Redentore was also on boats). Many people make a point, at least once a year, of visiting their relatives’ graves, tombs, loculi, and if you’re ever going to go, this is the day. The florists on the Fondamente Nove make some real money.

The "bateon" for the dead was in use till the Seventies. It was black, of course, decorated with gold. In fact, there were several of them, kept in a canal by the church of the Madonna dell'Orto. If you have to die, this is a superb way to make your exit. A new initiative is being launched to build a new one and put it back into service. Public contributions will be welcome. — The "bateon" for the dead was in use till the Seventies. It was black, of course, decorated with gold. In fact, there were several of them, kept in a canal by the church of the Madonna dell'Orto. If one must die, this is a superb way to make your exit. A new initiative is being launched to build a new one and put it back into service. Public contributions will be welcome.

I’ll write more about death in Venice some other time — it’s an interesting subject about which there is plenty to say, partly because of the age of the population. Funeral homes are probably one of the few businesses here that are immune to the global economic situation.

The traditions still associated with this feast-day naturally have mostly to do with food. For about a week before November 2, the pastry-shops and cafes put on sale little bags of what appear to be roundish colored styrofoam blobs, like lumpy cherries, colored white, pink, or brown. These are called “fave” (FAH-veh) and come in either the small (Trieste) form or the larger (Venice) form. It’s inexplicable to me but the Triestine are everywhere. Seeking a sack of Venetian fave will cost you some time and effort.

There are differing recipes, but the one I picked had only three ingredients: powdered pinoli nuts, sugar, and egg white, baked for an hour at low temperature. For the record, I tried making them yesterday and while the simplicity of the recipe was part of its appeal, I can confirm that if you halve the recipe, you’d better make an effort to halve the egg white. They were a spectacular failure.

However, from one of my favorite Venetian cookbooks, A Tola co i Nostri Veci by Mariu’ Salvatori de Zuliani, comes a recipe that makes more sense.

First of all, he makes the point quite firmly that coloring the fave is a newfangled fad; the classic Venetian version is always plain white. Remember that if you want to be a purist.

Venetian Fave for All Souls Day (November 2)

These are typical small bags of fave, of the Trieste style. They are priced by the "etto," or 100 grams. Here the merchant has covered offered two sizes of bag: One etto for 3 euros, and a two-etto bag for 6 euros. It's like trying to understand a pun in a foreign language -- I just don't get it. — These are typical small bags of fave, of the Trieste style. They are priced by the "etto," or 100 grams. Here the merchant has cleverly offered two sizes of bag: One etto for 3 euros, and a two-etto bag for 6 euros. It's like trying to understand a pun in a foreign language -- I just don't get it.

200 gr almonds, 300 gr sugar, 125 gr flour, pinch of ground cinnamon, 20 gr butter, 2 whole eggs, lemon zest.

Leave the “peel” on the almonds and pound them in a mortar with the sugar, then sift. Add the flour, a pinch of cinnamon, butter, eggs, and the lemon zest and mix well with your hands.

Divide the mixture into blobs the size of walnuts, arranging them in lines on a baking sheet that’s been buttered and floured. Press each one lightly with your finger to flatten it slightly — the purpose is to make them resemble as much as possible the normal amaretto cookie.

Bake at “moderate heat” he says; I’ll take that to mean 150. He doesn’t say how long, either (I love the old-fashioned way of writing recipes).

Of course you have already been thinking, “But a fava is a kind of bean.” This is true. So why call these “beans” and why this particular composition, and why on the Day of the Dead?

The rituals associated with death are so ancient there’s a point where explanations fail, but offering food to the gods on certain occasions, especially death, goes back to when people were cooking on stones. In the Mediterranean a great deal of attention was paid to the cult of the Parche (as they were called in Rome), or Fates, who were the goddesses of destiny. (The Greeks also had them under the name of Moirai.) Nona spun the thread of an individual’s life, Decima measured its length, and Morta was the one who cut the thread. Hence they were revered as, among other things, the goddesses of death.

It became known (I always wonder exactly how) that the Parche especially like fava beans. There are undoubtedly reasons for this — I’m guessing spring and fertility, that seems to be what motivates many divinities. So since real fava beans are impossible to get this time of year, or have been — I suppose nowadays you could fly them in from Zanskar — these little nubbins were invented to symbolize them. Sweetness, I seem to recall, was also an important element of some funerary offerings; often honey was used, which also embodied a raft of symbolic meanings.

These fave don’t really have a flavor, unless you count sheer, unadulterated, industrial-strength sweetness as flavor. They’re pleasant enough in the mouth, but as they go down they sort of close up your throat behind them. After two and a half you won’t want any more till next year, and you’ll be vaguely sorry you ate that extra half.

Next year I’m going to try Zuliani’s version, and I hope the Fates will be kinder to me in the kitchen, if nowhere else.

Another treat that shows up in late autumn (not associated with life, death, or whatever is in between) is "cotognata." It is essentially quince jelly, hardened in a mold. Zuliani says that it once was common in houses all over the Veneto, where it was a popular snack for children. He also mentions that some Venetians would turbo-charge the recipe by boiling the quinces in wine instead of water, then adding a touch of vanilla. He says this recipe has fallen into disuse. I'd be willing to try to bring it back.

Venetian-ness

Overheard: Saint Anthony, the Queen of England and Cartolina

October 29, 2009 No Comments

One of the great things about learning the language of your location — or in my case, two languages, Italian and Venetian — is not that you will finally be able to explain to a local what the difference is between metaphysics and epistemology. Useful and entertaining though that might be.

I can never understand how people who see each other every day can have so much to talk about.

No, it’s to catch so many fleeting remarks that you hear people making in all kinds of unexpected or unlikely places. Quips, execrations, assorted badinage, comments that are like little flakes falling from the facade of what we regard as normality.

Yesterday morning I was in the church of S. Francesco di Paola in via Garibaldi. There were eight people there for the 9:00 mass; the usual smattering of nuns from the nearby convent, and a couple of other women, and a man or two. One of the men is someone who seems always to come to this service.

He is old but not ancient; neglected but not repellent; in his own little world, but not actually crazy. His hair is ragged and he always sits by himself, and he is always the first in line to take communion. In fact, he’s first before there is a line. This is obviously his self-appointed right and privilege. He makes sure he’s already in position before the priest has even finished the prayer of consecration.

As the faithful were leaving in peace, obeying the canonical and very precise command at the end of every mass, I noticed one nun pausing in front of a new statue of Saint Anthony of Padua. It was about her height, actually, or maybe slightly shorter, and he was holding the Christ Child in the crook of his left arm and a lily in his right hand, as always.

So she’s standing there looking at it, maybe wondering where it came from or why it’s there now, or whether it needs dusting, or maybe just thinking about the saint. Or not thinking at all.

Seeing her, the old guy abruptly changes course and walks toward her.

“It doesn’t look anything like him,” he announces. “St. Anthony had a very sharp, aquiline nose.” He sounds as certain as if he’d been his brother. The nun just looks at him.

“He didn’t look like this– he had a very aquiline nose,” he repeated.

She said nothing. He paused, then wandered off and that was that. I too walked away, but fighting the urge to stop him and say, “You actually knew him? Wow….”

What he said may have been completely true, though I’m not sure we can trust most of the depictions of St. Anthony, even those made in his own lifetime before he was even close to becoming a saint.

But let’s say it’s true. Let’s say the statue doesn’t look anything like St. Anthony. So what? Devotional images aren’t supposed to help the police identify you, like photos on driver’s licenses. Is some man with a tonsure and a habit (not to mention carrying a lily and the Baby Jesus) likely to be walking around via Garibaldi claiming to be Saint Anthony?

Answer: Not likely. At least in this neighborhood; saints are pretty thin on the ground. Though he might be mistaken for a relatively harmless tourist, or somebody left over from Carnival.

But now we know — or think we know — that Saint Anthony had a very aquiline nose. I’ll be on the lookout.

One of the great things about Venice is running into your friends on the street.

Then there was the family waiting for a relative or maybe just a friend at the vaporetto stop at the Giardini, all set for some outing. The ladies were past middle age but full of energy, their hair ferociously sprayed, and their men were hanging around the periphery while the women batted little comments back and forth.

As I walked toward the dock, I heard one woman say firmly to the others, “She looks just exactly like the Queen of England. All she’s missing is the tiara. Wait and see.” This was a statement, not an opinion.

“There she is — finally! Helloooo,” the woman spotted the lady, then turned back to her friends. “You see? Look at her hair. Even the way she walks. She could be the Queen of England, am I right?”

Naturally I looked. But I have to say that it was a bit of a stretch. If we start referring to every late middle-aged, short, heavily upholstered woman with neatly curled short white hair, whose skirt falls just below her knee, as the Queen of England, we’re going to be spending all day curtsying.

And there was the other morning, as I left the house early and there was almost nobody on the street yet. The sun was just getting itself up and out the door, the air was cool, the world looked ready for business.

As I crossed the bridge to the fondamenta on the other side, “Cartolina” was walking by from his home way over in the Quintavalle neighborhood toward via Garibaldi.

“Cartolina” means “postcard” (somebody surely knows his real name, but that’s the only way Lino knows him and can’t tell me why he got this nickname) is a small, chunky, old man who is just a bubble off plumb but still full of energy, some of which he expends on what I call his little litany as he walks along, a sotto voce recital of how bad he feels and how old he is, directed at nobody in particular. It’s a pretty limited repertoire, usually assorted murmurings to himself and anybody in earshot: “Aiuto. Aiutami mamma. Aiuto. Povero vecio. Aiuto.” (Help. Help me mama. Help. Poor old guy. Help.)

Evidently there's no more to be said, at least not at the moment.

I would never belittle his pain, which might be serious, for all I know. Lino told me that he used to work as a porter at the Bacino Orseolo near the Piazza San Marco, on call from any nearby hotel or office which needed somebody to shlep luggage or anything else heavy and cumbersome by means of an equally heavy handtruck, undoubtedly over many bridges. Years of that will mark you, but not many people orchestrate their own chorus of sympathy and then sing it themselves.

So the other morning he passes me on the bridge and I hear this: “Aiuto. Aiuto. Go 120 anni. No, 106. Go sbaglia’.” (Help. Help. I’m 120 years old. No, 106. I made a mistake.).

Then there was the morning (he seems to be a matutinal creature — I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him after 11:00 AM) we were having the first real fog of the fall. He was coming out of the bread bakery with a small sack, muttering: “Aiuto. Mamma mia. Ancuo magno pan e caligo.” (Help. Mamma mia. Today I’m eating bread and fog.)

This morning, I saw him coming as I was heading toward the Quintavalle bridge. He began in the classic way: “Mamma mia. Aiuto. Aiuto.” Then he said, “Vogio ‘na bela casseta. Vado via. So stufo.” (Mamma mia. Help. Help. I want a really beautiful casket. I’m out of here. I’m fed up.)

I love this guy! Not only can he make a joke about how bad he feels, he’ll make it to himself. Or to however many personalities are living in there.

Boatworld, Events, Venetian-ness, Water

Regata Storica, my version

September 12, 2009 3 Comments

My earlier post about Race Day as a whole didn’t say anything about what I was doing while the world was ending for some of the racers.

I can tell you what I wasn’t doing: Screaming my lungs out for the Vignottini, which would have been ridiculous considering that they were already five car-lengths in the lead. No danger of anything rear-ending them last Sunday if they’d come to a sudden stop. I felt cheated, somehow. I fully intended to be screaming. Never mind. Life will probably provide another opportunity for screamage.

What the Storica means for us at the club — and it’s more or less like this every year except this year it was even better than usual — is the following:

Saturday morning: Whoever is free comes to titivate their boat. There was a small chain gang working on the caorlina, and an even smaller one (including me) working on the gondolone. We had to sandpaper and polish all the brass, including the big ornamental ferri of the prow and the bow. Lino and Lucio worked at nailing and screwing down various bits that had gone adrift over the months, and then there was varnishing the whole thing. She is now a dazzling vision of delight, and will remain so for, oh, maybe a month. It depends on the weather how fast the brass will lose its luster.

Our caorlina heading toward Venice, off to the races.

At 2:00 we dressed in our club best — blue and white tank top and white skirt (women), white pants for the men. Lino was dressed in his judge’s outfit, as he was on duty for two of the four races.

We rowed across the lagoon with some breeze but not too much. We crossed the Bacino of San Marco (waves, as always, but not as bad as usual because the traffic is limited this afternoon) and dropped Lino near San Marco, where he went to join the rest of his merry band of judges at the Tourism Office (regata division).

We rowed around the Bacino for a little while until it was time for the corteo, or boat procession, to form up. There is no real Italian way to express the concept of “forming up,” as the concept doesn’t exist. I’m not sure there is even anything close that you could compare it to, in order to explain to someone here what it might involve, or why it might matter. They’d just give you that “Well you’re perfectly welcome to try it if you want to but don’t get me involved” look.

Boats milling around waiting for the corteo to start.

Each boat has a number on its bow which indicates its order in the lineup. The number’s only discernible use is to help the speaker on the reviewing stand (the “Machina,” MAH-keen-ah) to identify the particular organization the boat belongs to as it drifts past. That part actually works pretty well.

We had number 11 and were probably two-thirds of the way back when the thing got going. You ask why we were so far back? Because the corteo wranglers had given absolutely no signal of any kind to indicate the imminent departure of said corteo. Evidently order isn’t foremost on their list of concerns either.

So we rowed in a slow and stately way up the Grand Canal (sometimes I surprise myself, at how normal doing something like that has come to be — then I suddenly snap to and think, Holy Crap! This is incredible!). The first regatas that might correspond somewhat to the current “regata storica” were arguably the series of races organized in January 1315 by doge Giovanni Soranzo. (In the 19th century it was called the “regata reale,” or royal regata). The corteo was added to the program much, much later, to evoke the arrival in Venice in 1489 of Caterina Cornaro, a Venetian noblewoman who was briefly also queen of Cyprus. It’s as good an excuse as any to add just that much more glamour — or glitter or marabou or whatever looks good — to the event.

A homemade version of the alzaremi -- the crews are giving the traditional raised-oar salute in response to the blessing of their caorlinas before a race in December.

At certain points along the route we perform an alzaremi, or oar-raising, the classic Venetian waterborne ceremonial salute which looks thrilling. Too bad it’s been done to death by now. Lino thinks it should be limited to very few and very important moments, and I agree. But on this occasion, there are clumps of people all along the way who yell “alzaremi” at every boat just so they can snap a picture. It’s just one of the many, many ways in which a person here begins to be made to feel like a walk-on in somebody else’s entertainment.

But the sun is shining, there is music playing over lots of loudspeakers, people are leaning out of palace windows everywhere taking it all in, and it’s all just too splendid for words.

Then we turn around — I remember when we used to go as far as the train station, but every year people tend to break ranks and turn around sooner. There are some reasons for this, one of which, I think, has to do with resisting the idea of being compelled to perform for other people’s entertainment. That’s my theory. At least I resist that idea.

So we find a good place to park, as close to the finish line near the San Toma’ vaporetto stop as we can manage (on the shady, not the sunny side), and we tie up the boat. We pull out the vittles — cookies, tiny pizzas, peanuts, squares of homemade cake, fruit, etc. — and beverages, which are wine, water, and fruit juice. Very important, beverages. The heat can trick you and the one thing you don’t want to be in a boat is thirsty.

There’s another thing you don’t want to be in a boat, and we bring a small bucket for that. Nobody has ever had to use it.

This event used to have a dramatically different aspect. For decades, Lino would come early in the afternoon in his own little boat — as most people did — find a good place to tie up, and then eat and drink all afternoon, sharing with his neighbors, clambering over boats to go visit friends, and so on — much like the Redentore, but with races instead of fireworks.

In those days, the corteo consisted only of the bissone, or fancy ceremonial barges, and a long procession of black gondolas carrying every authority figure within reach — mayor, councilors, presidents of things, even the President of Italy on occasion. Then came the year when the Italian Prime Minister, Amintore Fanfani, had the misfortune of being rowed up the Grand Canal to the jeering shouts of a doggerel rhyme that works very well in Venetian (Fanfani! Fanfani! Ti ga i morti cani!). This is one of the absolutely worst insults in the Venetian universe and it basically means that your deceased relatives are dogs. I don’t think you have to speak Venetian to understand that it’s not your day.

This happened about 1976, as Lino recalls. Not long thereafter, the political party in power shifted to the Communist party and that sort of thing wasn’t tolerated at all. To make sure it didn’t happen by mistake, they just stopped sending their authority figures.

At the same time, after the first Vogalonga in 1975, there was a boom in new boat clubs, so the corteo began to be generally populated by boats like ours. civilians from rowing clubs who may also be tempted to shout rude things at each other, but it doesn’t make any difference when they do it. Since I’ve been here I’ve never seen a gondola with an official or notable aboard — just tourists, or paid costumed walk-ons.

Furthermore, for most of the “Storica”‘s history there was only one race: The gondolini. The races for women, boys, and men on the caorlinas were added gradually over the same mid-Seventies period. If you had to do triage and get rid of any races, I can tell you the only one they’d try to save would be the gondolini. Although the other ones are very nice.

The boys on a boat called a pupparino are nearing the line.

The red caorlina in the home stretch, ready for the red pennant for first place. The man rowing astern piloted me and three others on a small sandolo in my first Venetian race. We also won.

The most serious change in the past 20, or even 15, years is the steady decline in spectator boats. As I mentioned, Lino could climb over boats from hither to farther than yon all afternoon, but each year fewer Venetians come in boats to witness what was once one of their central events of the year. Even I have noticed the diminution of number of boats watching. There are many reasons for this but one of the primary ones is that the regata, on the whole, has been reshaped for tourists, either on land or watching TV, and therefore (for reasons I’ll spare you) it’s less interesting to be a participant. And the increase in motorboats has fatally weakened what was once a common language and connection with boats that are rowed.

This is one view of how the Grand Canal used to look when there was a regata, seen in an undated archival photograph.

From being a crucial element of daily life for everyone, rowing has become a sort of boutique activity whose appeal is probably stronger as a picturesque curiosity to non-Venetians than to most locals, especially the younger ones.

Back to us. So we spend the afternoon hanging around watching the races and screaming if we should feel the need to for whoever our favorite racer(s) might be — and there have been times I have screamed so hard that I probably blew out some synapses, mine as well as the people nearest to me. I know the racers can’t hear me, but I also know they would notice if my voice weren’t in there somewhere. I know this. It’s a mystic racing thing.

As soon as the gondolini have crossed the finish line, everybody starts to leave. Instantly. Imagine everybody after the game trying to get out of the stadium parking lot at the same time. Lots of motors (not everybody who comes rows here anymore, unfortunately), and lots of motor-revving and choking exhaust fumes from these lovers of the oar.

Our trusty caorlina pulls over for some refreshments.

Now comes almost the best part of all, which is the row back to the club. This takes about an hour because we’re not in a hurry; the sun is setting — it’s after 7:00 PM now — and the lagoon is calm and everyone is feeling happy and relaxed and it’s just one of the loveliest rowing interludes in the entire year.

We always stop, not far from the club, to open a bottle of wine (okay, two) and just sit and savor the moment out in the water all by ourselves. This year it was even sweeter than usual. The caorlina was not far behind us, and so we waited and then we tied the two boats together and just let the day and the moment and the sunset and the calm seep all the way through us.

Flavia and Roberto absorbing the sunset.

The moon, enormous and shining and orange, rose slowly above the treetops on the Lido. It was so beautiful it verged on the preposterous; Italians say that something like this, the final perfect touch, is the “cherry on the cake.” It was actually the moon on the cake. I’m sticking with that, at least I know what I mean.

The corteo is very nice, of course. But it’s something thousands of people (80,000 this year, by police estimates) can see, and anything that imitates something that once was genuine can hardly compare with something that is completely genuine right now. The corteo was a sort of imitation, but this was really ours. There were very, very few people who saw the lagoon as we did in the twilight with evening breath drifting around us and the moon’s radiance blooming out of the sky.

It all belonged to us and it needed no spectators or commentators. What a beautiful thing that is in this world, and how rare.