Category: Water

Venice running dry? Not yet

February 23, 2023 9 Comments

The Bacino Orseolo, near the Piazza San Marco, could obviously use a little dredging. But as long as there are even a few feet of water, the gondolas will get through.

About ten days ago, I said to Lino, “Welp, it’s just about time for those wild articles that come out every year yelling ‘Oh-my-God-there’s-no-more-water-in-the-canals-Venice-is-dyyyyiiiiiinnnnnnnng’ to start appearing.”

And sure enough, just as soon as the exceptional low tides began to suck the water out of the canals, the television/online/daily newspaper news in many places began to wail.

Unhappily for the interested public, the people who really would like to understand what’s going on, these articles are not helpful. For one thing, there is a serious drought afflicting the mainland, and photos are showing rivers running dry. Rivers dry, canals dry — the drought has hit Venice! Logical! Obvious! Wrong!

Rivers and Venetian canals are not at all the same, for the simple reason that the Venetian lagoon isn’t fed by rivers, streams, lakes, or rain. It is fed by the Mediterranean Sea, Adriatic department. The canals are tidal: Six hours in, six hours out. No water at the moment? It will be back shortly.

Every Venetian knows that in January and February there will be exceptional low tides. This is no novelty, they even have a nickname for the phenomenon: le seche de la marantega barola.

I can’t overstate this: The low tides are NORMAL. They are predictable. The only thing that changes is the time at which the tide begins to fall or to rise, and the expected maximum depth. And then you plan accordingly. By “you” I mean people whose work depends on using water. If you live in Venice and the water takes you by surprise, you can’t be paying attention.

The lowest low tide this year, so far, was Monday at -68 cm below mean sea level. I was impressed; I’d never seen it that low. But this is nothing!

The Tide Center maintains a trove of historical data, and guess what? Between 1874 and 1989 there were plenty of times that the tide dropped even more dramatically — ranging from -90 cm (4:30 PM on February 24, 1876) to – 124.5 cm (January 18, 1882, at 4:10 PM). Almost all of these exceptional low tides were in January and February, with a few in December and March. We know they are coming! They always come! And then they leave!

Too bad the reports never show the same canal, six hours later, brimming with water. But that would spoil the whole story.

Our little boat, with Lino providing scale and glamour in his Carnival tricorn hat.

Late afternoon and the water is gone! Help!

Go through a few days of this low-tide/high-tide cycle and it begins to seem normal. Because it is.

See you next January, when we’ll go through this again. I’ll bring popcorn, we can watch it together.

Venetian-ness, Water

O Christmas Screen, O Christmas Screen…

December 6, 2020 22 Comments

Seen from afar, it’s the Little Christmas Tree that Could. The bright glow in the glum is admittedly rather pleasant.

You might wonder how a Christmas tree could possibly make people mad (though considering the year almost past, you might not). Whatever your Yuletide habits, a lot of Venetians would have welcomed a honking big Norway spruce to its traditional place in the Piazzetta, some looming aromatic conifer loaded with scintillating lights, sumptuous ribbons, glittering glass baubles, etc. It would have been greeted with open arms, many smartphones, and shining faces.

But because we haven’t had enough computer screens in our lives this year, now we have the Christmas Screen.

It’s art, naturally, art that, from afar, sort of resembles a tree, though this structure isn’t even alive. But it does have the consolation of being, as I mentioned, art, groaning beneath loads of symbolism and verbiage.

Installed in the usual position last Thursday, this structure is the creation of artist Fabrizio Plessi, sponsored by the Assicurazioni Generali. No way of my knowing who had the final, or even the first, word in the discussions that led to this creation. It can’t be to attract tourists, because at this point in the evolution of the pandemic it would be easier to attract a Great Auk than a tourist.

It’s tree-ness, on closer examination, is looking a bit eccentric. Also, it’s moving. Literally.

The public has not been amused by a novelty that appears to be more like a refugee from the Biennale than a festive fixture.

The artist explains: “It’s a message of hope.”

The public responds: “A heap of scrap metal.” “Hanging ingots.”

Anything wrong with this picture? In addition to everything else that’s wrong about this tree, Lino notes that it’s between the two infamous columns of “Marco” and “Todaro,” historically the place for public executions. I realize it’s not precisely between the columns, but to him that’s where it is. Not good.

“This year we need a message of light,” Sig. Plessi told La Nuova Venezia. “The 80 modules represent the flow of that many different cultures.” Furthermore, it would seem that the installation symbolically unites earth, water and sky.

“I understand whoever would have preferred a traditional tree,” Plessi continues, “but this is a message of hope. The use of digital in this context becomes spiritual emotion and expresses itself in the only possible language today, permitting us to reach others even if they are physically distant.”

Not sure about you, but while this is the sort of hot air that keeps the Biennale aloft for months on end, it doesn’t do anything for the spirit of Christmas. My own view is that the more you explain something, the less that something actually communicates. If you have to tell people what to think or feel about your creation, you’ve acknowledged that the creation is mute.

If there’s one city that isn’t suffering for lack of works of art, it would be Venice. But there’s always room for one more.

There is more. “This tree is well planted in tradition, but it is also a tree that wants to talk to the world,” says Simone Venturini, the city councilor for Tourism. “Personally I find it marvelous because it shows that Venice knows how to be, together, the city of great history and of the future. It shows that you can make contemporary art without waiting for the Biennale.” Of course you can, as long as you have a sponsor. I don’t want to put a pricetag on Christmas, but this installation, along with 50 kilometers of strings of lights in the Piazza San Marco and on the mainland, not to mention the lights shining on the Rialto bridge, cost a total of some 800,000 euros. So he could also have said that you don’t need to wait for the Biennale in order to spend money. I knew that.

Many years ago a homeless man at the entrance to the subway in New York stopped me with this request: “Hey lady, could you spare some change for an old wino?” How could I say no? His candor was irresistible.

If Mr. Plessi had said, “I like to make art using digital stuff. I don’t know why, I just like it. Maybe because it’s shiny. So here’s sort of a tree made of digital stuff. Kind of made me think of Christmas. Hope yours is happy, in spite of everything,” I’d have started a Fabrizio Plessi fan club.

And yet, at some magical moment in the last four days, some indomitable soul(s) did what they could to put things right. “Thanks, we brought our own….”

Despite the condensation on the plastic, the cardboard sign is clear. The “opera d’arte” (work of art), is straight ahead. Christmas, on the other hand, is down and to the left.

This is what some people (not tourists, I’m thinking) consider Christmas.! I’m just sorry there aren’t any fish to stick in the branches, like the baby owl in New York and the baby koala in Australia.. In any case, Christmas has been saved. This time.

Water

The old swimming hole

August 27, 2020 21 Comments

We’ve been living through the completely reliable and predictable days of scorching heat — this being the end of summer — and we’ve been dealing with it in the simplest and most effective way known to man: Immersion in water. But no beaches for us. The beaches have lost whatever appeal they once had, due mainly to the vaporettos loaded with families with hot, tired children struggling home at the end of the day.

Instead, we go out early into the lagoon to a little spot that I have dubbed “the old swimming hole.” It’s not literally a hole, and usually it’s not deep enough for real swimming, but lowering ourselves up to our necks in the cool water flowing in from the Adriatic is all we need to do to feel happy, harmonious, chakra-balanced, equipoised, and otherwise at peace with ourselves, if not with the world. This little idyll ends at 9:10 AM, when the man with the motorboat arrives, along with assorted family members and a dog. No idea how he discovered this place, but their idea of relaxation is very much not ours.

So we climb in our boat and row home, which we’d probably have been doing in any case, because by 10:00 the sun has switched to “char.” Those two hours, though, are the best part of the entire day.

Ideal departure time is no later than 7:00 AM, so we’re up at 6:00. It takes about the same amount of time to prepare the boat as to prepare ourselves.

The water is wonderfully calm before the barges and taxis and other motorboats begin to rumble around.

Low tide is my favorite moment, though it means we have to take the perimeter route around the mudbanks. Usually the tide is about to turn when we go out, so when we come back there will be enough water for us to cross directly over it.

Not every morning is this calm, but every morning has its own beauty. The lone grey heron who lives nearby never lets us get any closer than this, but it’s always wonderful to see him or her — here he’s standing just to the left of the two poles.

We made absolutely no noise as we approached, but he was taking no chances.

I have made a vow that we’re going to mount an expedition to discover where this lone tree is located. It’s a very strange thing to see out here, all by itself.

I don’t know how long this “capitello,” or little shrine, has been here — we were both surprised to discover it the other morning. The lagoon is full of these memorials, in all sorts of designs and types, commemorating the spot where someone (usually speeding at night with no lights) has met his end. Or, as Lino puts it, “painted himself onto a piling.” There have been more of these events than usual this summer. Post-quarantine madness?

The Regata Storica is coming up soon (September 6), and some racers make the most of the early calm to go out to train. Here is Rudi Vignotto astern, rowing with his son, Mattia. Of course Lino’s right when he says that they ought to be out in the bacino of San Marco instead, where the waves make rowing much more difficult. But we’ll say that after 28 Regata Storicas, Vignotto probably has a pretty good idea of what he’s doing.

One of the few remaining milestones that were placed by the Venetian Republic around the lagoon. The date is now indecipherable.

Further on, two more have fallen side by side — it’s puzzling that they would be together. Some interested soul has braced them with sticks to prevent their sinking into the water and mud forever. So here they lie.

When the tide is really out, this part of the lagoon looks like this. On the way home in an hour and a half, the water will have returned.

The tide has turned, so we begin to see more water, less land.

Not much later, it’s like this. The little ripples in the lower right corner show the water coming in.

And not even an hour later, we’re back to water everywhere. Wandering around Venice, you may not be inclined to notice what’s happening with the water in the canals, but obviously the same thing is going on there as it is out here. Or up, or down, I mean.

The lagoon is full of egrets. There is almost always at least one in this part of the neighborhood, though I’d have no way of knowing if it was the same one.

Returning to our outward-bound trip, this is the last stretch before we swim — it’s one of my favorite parts of the lagoon. It has a sort of Amazonian vibe.

When the tide’s out you can really see the erosion of the wetlands caused by motondoso, or the waves created by motorboats. At this particular moment the marsh is covered with blossoming common sea lavender (Limonium vulgare). It only lasts about a week.

The flowers are interspersed with clumps of Salicornia europaea, variously known as sea asparagus or marsh samphire (crunchy and salty). It’s also called glasswort, as it was burned to make soda ash (sodium carbonate) for glassmaking.

Just a reminder that Venice was built on wetlands like these. That fact alone continues to amaze me, perhaps even more than how impressive the buildings are.

Of course I knew that the tide was low, I’d been watching the water since we left home, but this was ridiculous. Where’d our swimming go? Have we been relegated to the wading pool?

You could see all the shells in the water, left here over months or years by birds, crabs, sea snails and other denizens who’d feasted on clams. Sometimes clams just die, too, Lino tells me. Anyway, it’s Clam Graveyard. I don’t mind walking on them, but when you can see them this easily I’m guessing that swimming is out, along with the tide.

Interesting, to be sure, but not a scene that brings swimming to mind.

Yet as you see, all we needed to do was back up a few yards (meters), and we find a spot where the channel deepens enough for dunking. I am still asking myself why I was surprised — I’d just rowed over the dang thing.

Apart from the little issue of swimming, I have to say I love it when the tide is low. World turned inside out.

The egrets appear to prefer water that’s knee-high, so they’re back with the incoming tide.

Feeling good….partly because the tide is really coming in now, which you can detect by the water flowing around Lino. Yes, the Adriatic inlet at San Nicolo is actually to the right of this frame, but the water doesn’t flow only from right to left. Here it’s gone up a channel, curved around, and is coming in by a sort of back door.

It’s too bad that we’re leaving just when there’s finally plenty of water around, but that motorboat is probably only minutes away.

Having covered that muddy field, the lagoon has returned to postcard perfection. We’re looking straight out to sea, with the Lido on the right and the inlet at San Nicolo in the center of the horizon.

Homeward bound, wending through Amazonia toward Venice.

And back to the big city. Let’s do it all again tomorrow.

Acqua Alta, Water

Waterworld again

June 11, 2020 4 Comments

It seems as if there is just about every form and manifestation of water to be had around here, at some point or other.

To take an extreme example, we had some weather yesterday evening. A friend sent me this clip of the scene at the Rialto Bridge (I don’t know who made it, but I absolutely wish I’d been there). All that’s missing are a few spawning salmon and a hungry bear.

And then there is The Drainpipe.

Lino is obsessed by this drainpipe, and I can’t say I blame him. I’m not qualified to suggest a different setup of the pipe, but if somebody had wanted to find a solution I bet they would have.

The reason isn’t so much the pipe, in itself, but how blithely it makes itself at home over a rather worthwhile plaque. Seems rude — that’s what the issue comes down to. It’s the kind of thing I’d have been worked-up about, back before obsession-fatigue set in. (Translated by me): “Restored the aforementioned two rooms by reason of Domenico Marchio Celsi by his heirs in the year 1686.” I suppose it looked just fine for 300 years or so, then progress intervened. As it does.

This unhappy sight is out there for anybody to see — how embarrassing — who takes a short-cut down a very small and narrow side street near us. Does it seem wise to order a new street-level door made of iron in a place where salty water is almost guaranteed to soak it? “Gosh, look at that,” Lino said. “Wow.” Or let me put it this way: Seeing that there are methods for removing rust from marble, does it seem wise to leave it this way at the entrance to an apartment that’s rented to tourists? First impressions and all.

Not made up — the door leads to one of the thousands of rentable apartments in town.

The house next door was not stricken, as you see — the entrance is higher, which always helps, and the door is made of wood. Not perfect either, considering how wood swells when wet, though I don’t know if that happened here. And something regrettable happened to the stone step and its underpinnings. That’s a thing about Venice — even when everything is bone dry, water still has the last word.

There are plenty of signs still visible of the damage caused by the hideous high water of November 12, 2019. This is in our doctor’s office. You see how intelligent the builders were in placing the electrical outlets up so high. They may have thought they were exaggerating, but not really.

People sometimes ask me how deep the water is in the canals. And I always ask, “At high tide, or at low tide?” And they go, “Ummmmm…..”.

The extreme low tides in winter went on longer than usual a few months ago. As long as you have enough water to keep the boat afloat, you’re fine — but only if you’ve figured out a way to climb onto (or off) your boat in a way that doesn’t threaten you with bodily harm.

Our boat, second from the bottom of the frame, presents an unreasonable challenge at low tide. Life, limb, and the pursuit of happiness — in this situation, you can either plummet onto the boat from the fondamenta, or on your return you can attempt to scale the wall with no tools at all. I finally bought a rope ladder.

This is a simple, classic Venetian boat called a sandolo; it can be bigger or smaller, but this is the essential shape of several everyday boats. Just setting the scene here, giving a sense of scale to clarify the next photographs.

Let me present one of my own favorite fixations: How the boat-builder made such a rookie mistake as to put the water-draining hole (“ombrinale”) where the water doesn’t flow. It’s easy to see the rainwater that has collected on the bow; the boat is intentionally stored tilting forward in order to aid the drainage.

But in this case, the water has collected upstream, if you will, and has no way to drain out by itself. You can see the hole helplessly sitting by itself on the right side of the wooden barrier, and the accumulated water sitting equally helplessly on the other side. It’s like Pyramus and Thisbe. Let’s say anybody can make a mistake (the worker never read the plans? Had never encountered a boat before? Or water? Or gravity?). All that needed to be done to solve the problem was just to cut another hole on the upstream side. But as you see, here we are.

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