To anyone who has ever looked at a bit of crumbling Venice and said, or even thought, “They really ought to fix that,” this is your moment. But if you were to have considered coming here now to see Venice, let me warn you that you’ll be seeing square miles of scaffolding and tarpaulin.
I was fascinated by all this happening so suddenly (or at all), and believe me, at a certain point I stopped taking pictures because there’s no need to publish literally a thousand photos of scaffolding and tarpaulin. But why is it happening now? Like so many questions, the answer is lying at, or not far from, some point involving money because, apart from the cost of the work, there is a phenomenal daily cost merely for the scaffolding. As I understand it, the cost is imposed because the metal towers are occupying public space (think cafe tables inching out into the street), and said occupation comes at a price. Perhaps this is true in the whole world, but because we’re here, I risk invoking my one-size-fits-all explanation: ThisisVenicewheremoneyisking.
For confirmation, I went to Lino, as I always do, and he answered my question with two words: “Bonus casa.” (As I said: Money.) Here is how it works and why everything is happening now, translated by me from a well-informed website. “Extension till December 31, 2021 also for the deduction from personal income tax (Irpef) of 50 percent of the expenses sustained for interventions of building recovery, also known as ‘bonus casa’ or ‘bonus renovation.’ With a maximum limit of 96,000 euros for each unit of real estate.” Fun fact: There is an assortment of additional bonuses for a variety of housing improvements from improving energy efficiency to windows to installation of solar panels to street-facing facades to adding or maintaining “green areas.” There is much more, but you get the idea.
So I’m absolutely correct in supposing that everybody woke up with a start one morning yelling “OMG I’ve got to get started on redoing the entire building today!”
I’m not saying you should bring a hard hat to wear over your woolen watch cap. Just saying that work is booming. Nice, when you think about it. Only slightly less nice when they’re drilling, hammering, sawing, scraping, sanding and yelling next to your bedroom window. And the dust, of course. Now I know why I haven’t dusted the house since spring; I must have sensed that this was coming up. Life is still so far from perfection….
And then there are the beginnings and endings of the work, what you might call pre- and post-encumbrances. Here we go again.Gosh there wasn’t anything going on here. Let’s fix that.You need a place to store all your stuff, so temporary areas are usually set up near the work site.More supplies, on their way to work or to the storage area. In any case, these bags of Portland cement are also out in the street, along with everything else.Over there were bags of cement. Here there are bags of 00 flour, heading into the bakery. I can only hope the same company isn’t making both deliveries.I wonder if there is some supervisor losing his or her mind waiting for these, with no idea where they’ve been left. In any case, if you’re a man from Kosovo and know how to hold a hammer, or know somebody who knows how, your fortune awaits.
A few days ago, this extraordinary assemblage appeared on via Garibaldi. The sign explained it: “No to violence to women.” I didn’t know that in the year 2000 the United Nations had declared November 25 to be the International Day for the Elimination of Violence against Women, arguably the most pervasive human rights violation on earth.
The sign was fine by itself, but bringing a mascareta ashore was a lovely gesture by the Remiera Casteo. It is a classic Venetian boat most commonly rowed by women (and created centuries ago, some sources say, specifically for women during Carnival).The red shoes strewn about — not to be confused with the fairy tale or ballet of the same name — became a symbol of this issue in the hands of Mexican artist Elina Chauvet in 2009, when she staged her first art installation of red shoes representing the bloodshed women face in Mexico because of femicide, domestic and sexualized violence. Her installations have inspired activists around the world to wear red shoes to replicate her protests in their own cities and countries, and to share photographs of their red shoes. Not to be confused with Dorothy’s ruby slippers.“Un Filo che Unisce” (‘A Thread That Unites’) says no to the violence against women.” This women’s association, founded in Trivento (region of Molise), devotes its energies to crocheting; the results are used to promote programs on issues of social importance. Charming, ingenious, gratifying, whatever you want to call it. For me, this creation is beyond amazing.Each flower, and other components, is a marvel of crocheting, not to mention the skill required in putting them all together.Even the hearts have been crocheted, the cats’cradle making it all even more symbolic. These women are unstoppable.
Let me say, before the comments begin to come in, that I am aware that men also suffer from domestic and other forms of violence. I know this. But I don’t want to start some ghastly competition between who is more tormented. Verbal, emotional, physical abuse damages everyone — victim, perpetrator, children who have to witness it. Fun fact: One in three women in the world suffers from some form of violence. November 25 is at least one day in which to acknowledge the violence inflicted on them: grown women, little girls, old ladies, at the hands of men, but also of other women, of their own children, and even whole families who agree to whatever atrocity they consider appropriate.
Revolution, an ad agency based in Macapá, Brazil, created the Star Models Sexual Violence ad campaign in 2014. (Photography by Diego Freire.) There were more images, but this is enough for now.
And then there’s this: Just a few weeks ago, 50 year-old Cosimo Damiano Bologna was having a coffee with a lady friend at a cafe’ in the little town of Canosa di Puglia. She had been stalked for an undisclosed amount of time by a man who suddenly appeared, and began to insult and otherwise assault her verbally. Cosimo intervened in her defense, the aggressor aggressed, and literally beat him to death. Not immediately; it took Cosimo two weeks to die.
So not only is there bride burning, dowry death, honor killing, widow cleansing, acid attack, and let’s not forget breast ironing, to name a few dreadful things at random, now we have women getting hurt by men, and men getting hurt for defending women from men.
I am not saying every woman is perfect. I’m just saying that if you wouldn’t do it to a dog, don’t do it to a woman. And if you would do it to a dog, still don’t do it to a woman. Let’s make this the International Century for the Elimination of Violence against Women. It’s really going to be better for everybody.
“It’s Time You Spoke” was an ad campaign for the City of Hope women’s shelter, New York City. Violence against women fuels global crises such as drug and alcohol abuse, suicide, infant mortality, and poverty.When I took this photograph I thought they looked happy. Now I’m beginning to realize you can’t know anything about people by just looking at them, no matter how much gelato they may be eating.Girls don’t have to be beautiful to be wonderful.
Being beautiful is wonderful too, or at least it seems so to most of us. But as I said, what can I really know about this unearthly being except that somebody spent an ungodly amount of time braiding her hair, and that she was fine with it?
Venetian women who are racing take no prisoners.“Signora del Vento,” a three-masted brigantine built in 1962, is the second largest Italian tall ship after “Amerigo Vespucci.” Her figurehead, created by artists Birgit and Claus Hartmann, appears to be permanently waiting to launch the dove of peace. I’d say any time from now on would be ideal. Especially for women.
The official Italian roll call response, here written on the tomb of one of the multi-thousands of dead Italian soldiers whose name will never be known. This image is from the military cemetery at Kobarid, Slovenia, final resting place of 7,014 known and unknown Italian soldiers and the site of no fewer than 12 lost battles against the Austro-Hungarian empire.
In the United States we observe Veterans Day on November 11, the date of Germany’s formal surrender at the end of World War 1. To be precise, the ceasefire took effect at 11:11 on November 11. We called it Armistice Day when I was a sprout, but now the date recognizes veterans of all wars.
The war between Italy and Austria-Hungary, however, came to an end on November 3, when the ceasefire was signed at the Villa Giusti outside Padova, to take effect on November 4. That date has long been observed here as a national day of remembrance, though by the end of it all, the warring parties had signed no fewer than 16 peace treaties.
It’s bad enough to know who were the casualties, but the nameless ones are what haunt me. In 1921, Italy consecrated its national Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, in Rome, and this year marked its hundredth-year anniversary. There are military shrines (sacrario) all over Italy and it is appalling how many of their soldiers are unknown. The monument in Gorizia notes 57,741 Italian casualties, of which 36,000 are unknown. At the shrine at Redipuglia are 100,000 fallen, and 60,000 unknown. At Asiago are 54,286 dead of which 33,000 are unknown. Obliterated.
Which brings me to the sacrario crowning Monte Grappa. The Grappa massif was the site of some of the war’s most violent battles, and where the Austrian advance into Italy was finally stopped.
On even moderately clear days, the low outline of Grappa, here just behind the Murano lighthouse, is visible from Venice. A mere 52 miles/84 km separate mountain from lagoon.The cemetery on Monte Grappa contains not only the remains of thousands of Italian soldiers (foreground), but also many unknown Austrian soldiers in the circular area further back.Monument to the Fallen of Monte Grappa Reigning His Majesty Vittorio Emanuele III Leader Benito Mussolini May 24 1934 September 22 1935 XIII year of E.F. (Epoca Fascista). The plaque on the lower right says: “In this shrine rest the remains of 12,615 fallen Italians of which 10,332 are unknown and 10,295 fallen Austro-Hungarians of which 10,000 are unknown.”Austrians to the right, Italians to the left.Meaning no disrespect to the Italian casualties, but I was surprised to find so many of the enemy interred here.Atop the summit, walking toward the Italian tombs.Looking toward Venice. Lino says that on a clear day you can see the sea. Of course the Austrian army wanted to see it too, even closer than this.Looking northward.The smaller loculi contain identified soldiers, the larger ones contain some of the unknown. In this case, it says “Cento Militi Ignoti”” One hundred unknown soldiers. There are many of these.
The full inscription above reads: Gloria a Voi Soldati del Grappa. “Glory to you soldiers of Grappa.”Most of the streets and campos in the area of Sant’ Elena bear names recalling the First World War.
Two weeks ago — the evening of October 29 — a remarkable event passed through Venice in the form of the “Train of Memory,” a steam train that retraced the route of the train that traveled from Aquileia to Rome bearing the coffin of the nameless soldier chosen to represent all of them to his final resting place at the Altar of the Fatherland. As before, the train left Cervignano Aquileia on October 29, stopped at Udine and Treviso, and arrived at Santa Lucia station in Venice at 9:30 PM. A few hours later it departed for Bologna, Florence, Arezzo, and finally Rome.
We waited at the station, determined to see it despite a delay of 90 minutes. A ceremony had been organized, though it was less majestic than those I discovered had been held in other stations. Music, speeches, uniforms. More music. It was moving in spite of all that; for me, the emotion was compounded by the fact that Lino’s father had been a train driver in the steam era, and that Santa Lucia station was once full of puffing, gasping trains just like this one.
A platoon of cadets from the Morosini naval school were arrayed, along with detachments of veterans of various branches and the band of the Alpini Julia Brigade. The train is coming in on Track 1, as it did in October of 1921.
The original train carried the coffin on an open carriage like this one.It was said that this locomotive was the same that had pulled the original train. I can’t confirm that, but I can certainly confirm real steam.
The original train was something infinitely grander and more solemn, of course. This brief film clip shows scenes from the train’s passing towns and stations on its way to Rome, and I trust that even without your understanding the narration, the images will express something of the magnitude of the experience. It seems as though everyone who saw the coffin gave it something from the depths of their heart and spirit, as each person glimpsed, in a way, their own lost soldier.
So where is the monument to the Unknown Soldier in Venice? There is only one and it’s at Sant’Elena, modestly placed amid a sort of garden, a genteel afterthought. For years this piece of stone just sat on the ground till finally a group of former soldiers managed to get it up onto a sort of pedestal. Some cities, such as Florence, organized ceremonies with the laying of a huge laurel wreath.
Here, not so much. The only wreath was placed by Daniele Girardini, president of a military history association named cimeetrincee (peaks and trenches). Not even a nod from the city government, much less a ceremony. Maybe ceremonies are empty calories, but no ceremonies are worse.
This plot is right in front of the vaporetto stop at Sant’ Elena. It’s officially named the Garden of Remembrance, but plenty of people go by every day who have yet to realize that there is a stone here, much less a memorial, so not too heavy on the “remembrance.”
“I was always embarrassed by the words sacred, glorious, and sacrifice, ” wrote Ernest Hemingway. “I had seen nothing sacred, and the things that were glorious had no glory and the sacrifices were like the stockyards at Chicago if nothing was done with the meat except to bury it…Abstract words such as glory, honor, courage…were obscene beside the concrete names of villages… the names of rivers, the numbers of regiments and the dates.”
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”?
