Venice: I am not making this up

Boatworld, Events, Food, Venetian-ness, Water

Raffling the Vogalonga

November 1, 2010 3 Comments

It all seems (in fact, it all is) very long ago now, but last May 23 was the 36th edition of the annual rowing marathon called the Vogalonga.

The 2009 edition was fairly appalling, and if I were to feel like writing a full account I’d need a strip of paper five Babylonian cubits long, or whatever the electronic equivalent might be.

This year everything was perfect, so I didn’t have anything to write about. You know how they say bad news is more interesting than good news? (I guess somebody says that.) Same thing here. How many different ways can you say “It was great”?

But great or ghastly as the “Long Row” may be, each year the organizing committee gives each rower a numbered stub when he or she registers, then a few months later puts on a raffle and holds a drawing for the prizes.

As the drawing commences, it looks as if the boats themselves are waiting, like puppies in the pound, to find out who their new masters will be.

I dimly recall this event as occurring closer to the date of the Vogalonga itself, but for the past several years this convocation has been scheduled for late fall, when one’s memories of the equatorial heat and humidity, or whatever other weather dominated your spring morning in the lagoon, have been replaced by the sepulchral chill of an autumn twilight.

Thus we gathered last Friday night, in the waterside pavilion of the fish market at the Rialto, as usual, for the official thanking-of-many-brave-and-tireless collaborators, and for the drawing.

Venetian oars, like the forcolas, vary according to size and type of boat. These slender constructions suit the mascareta but would be too light and short for a gondola.

The prizes are pretty simple: Nine pairs of forcolas and nine pairs of oars, either pair suitable for rowing a Venetian mascareta. And two gleaming, brand-new mascaretas in the flesh.

One was financed by the Casino, a bittersweet reminder of the days not so long ago when the Casino had money to lavish on sponsorships all over the city, before their guy in the green eyeshade hit “total” and discovered they were 45 million euros ($52,356,493) in the red. And the other vessel was offered by the Assessorato al Turismo, or Tourism Department, similarly reduced, or so the reports have it, to eating shoe leather and tree bark to stay alive. I remember when there were three boats to be raffled off, but times are hard even in mascaretaland.

Here is how the event feels: I smile at an assortment of boating friends, (good); I feel the cold and damp seeping from the wet granite paving stones up through my shoes as the darkening air forms moisture everywhere around me (less good, but tolerable). And I metaphorically clamp an inverted facelock around the head of that inevitable craving that always lunges at me from when I see a boat that might, perhaps, in my dreams, be mine — that Christmas-morning suspense, but without any of the pleasure of knowing you’ll actually get to open the presents (not good at all.)

These forcolas may look merely like blunt instruments but they are works of exceptional engineering, traditionally made of a single piece of walnut.

So we walked around the boats, like everybody else was doing. We stood and listened to the various pronouncements made by Lalo Rosa Salva, chief organizer and tutelary deity of the Vogalonga. We watched the winners walking away with their prizes. I stifled my urge to wail.

And then there was the buffet. No event can ever be said to have occurred in life here if food is not in some way attached to it. Attached at the end of said event, naturally, otherwise people would just skip it and head directly to the noshfest, however modest it might be.

Because the Rosa Salva family runs one of the city’s oldest and best-known pastry-making and catering operations, there were sandwiches and cookies and wine and sodas and water galore.

The refreshments may not look like much to fight over, but you'd be surprised how strongly some people feel about getting as much as they want.

I remember when the buffet was somewhat more sumptuous — not that I’m complaining. But let the record show that I remember a generous assortment of sandwiches, and tiny finger-pizzas, and pastries as well as cookies, and also fruit. Those were buffets that had a certain allure, as attested by the variety of matrons who, in their instinctive, ruthless way, would appear from nowhere and always get to the table first, claiming their spot with more conviction than Columbus claiming North America, and not budging.

They’d stand there eating, elbows half-cocked to ward off any possible intruders, and I have even seen these dowagers stuff extra snacks into their conveniently large handbags. Or even shopping bags, brought for the occasion. Yes, I have seen that with these very eyes. The buffet has always, at least up to the other night, provided more drama than the drawing, because some ignorant or foolhardy person would occasionally try to displace one of these dreadnoughts. This year, though, the dowagers didn’t even show up. A sign more vivid than the shrinking prizes that times have indeed become hard. Pretty soon we’ll have to start stockpiling canned goods.

Oh, about the boats: I didn’t win one. But as I watched members of the two lucky clubs carry the mascaretas bodily to the Grand Canal, some perplexing thoughts seeped into my mind.

Such as: If Venetian rowers (by which I mean people, of whatever provenance, who row in the Venetian way) form the smallest possible percentage of participants, which they do (something like a quarter of the total) why are the prizes only suitable for Venetian rowing? Me, I think it’s just fine, and a brilliant way to stand firm for whatever can still be maintained of Venetian-ness. I merely note that for someone from Lithuania who rows a kayak, a forcola and an 11-foot [3.30 meters] wooden oar might not be exactly what they’d consider a prize. Of course they could sell it, but that would be crass.

It takes only a few strong and willing people to get this mascareta off the ground and into the water, where she belongs. — Off and into the water, where she belongs.

And this: Why would either of the entities who paid for the two boats feel any particular need or desire to do so? Of course it’s a very handsome gesture, but if the main purpose is self-publicity — and I may have misinterpreted the reasoning — there must be items with more advertising throw-weight than two little boats which will only ever be seen here where everybody already knows about the Casino and the Tourism Department.

And this: I know raffles are intended to be, or to appear to be, composed of free gifts (i.e., gifts paid for by somebody other than the participants). But considering that each person pays a registration fee, technically you could say that the winner of oars or forcolas had already paid for them. But there I go, being crass.

Anyway, I didn’t win anything, so I don’t care. Now I think I’ll go buy a lottery ticket. Maybe my odds will improve and then I’ll be able to buy an entire boatyard all for myself.

Maybe I wouldn't choose exactly this model, which is the racing mascareta, for everyday tooling around town. But would never turn it down. — This is the racing mascareta, maybe not my first choice for everyday tooling around town. But I would never turn it down.

Food, Venetian-ness, Water

Venetian fish-feed

October 22, 2010 4 Comments

For much of the year, you will almost certainly see people fishing right under the lee of the most beautiful city in the world. From Sant’ Elena to San Marco, plus other assorted spots along or in the lagoon, they’re out with a couple of poles and a whole batch of free time. Just now there are more than usual because we are in the period of the fraima [frah-EE-ma], when most of the fish are heading out to sea.

Depending on the time of year — obviously — these tenacious anglers might be hoping for seppie, or gilthead or sea bass or even grey mullet. Or whatever The Supreme Fish Deity decides to send swimming past their hooks, old boots and lost gloves excluded.

You can also expect to see people out in their boats, anchored where the tide is going to give them the biggest assist. Sometimes this perfect fishing spot will be just about in the center of the trajectory of cruise ships or large ferries heading to or from Greece. The captains blow their klaxons in a huffy sort of way. The fishermen are all deaf.

The subject of fish and the lagoon is one that I’m going to expand on some other time — probably many times. Meanwhile, though, I just want to alert you to the fact that there is a dedicated chunk of the male population — they’re always men, though sometimes the guys in the boats bring their wives, if the weather’s nice — who see the lagoon as a place where they might find something delectable to eat, or at least find some of their friends.

By “friends” I mean people they know. Fishermen have no friends; even if a person they’ve known since childhood, maybe even a relative, asks how’s the fishing, they’ll never say it’s good. They get all vague and crafty. Or if he’s obviously lugging home a miraculous catch, he’ll never say where he was. This is true everywhere on earth, and no less so here.

Two of my best moments so far involving fishing (as opposed to fish itself) relate to how Lino sees it. Briefly put, he doesn’t believe that anyone born after about 1960 — my ballpark date — knows anything about the lagoon or its inhabitants. I’m thinking he’s probably right.

I'm staying where the tide is best for me, and the cruise ships can just work around me. Or stay home. Or sink. — I'm staying where the tide is best for me, and the big ships can just work around me. Or stay home. Or sink.

An example: We passed a young man one late summer night on the Lido — it was dark, but not terribly late — standing with his pole on the vaporetto dock, staring into the water, waiting. “He’s never going to catch anything,” Lino stated without even pausing. Why is that? “Because he’s trying to catch seppie, and that’s the wrong kind of gear. Also, the tide is going out. And they’re not in season right now.”

Second example: We have secretly adopted a man who spends a noticeable portion of his day at the vaporetto dock by the Giardini. The first time I noticed him, I was getting off the boat, and Lino was standing there a few discreet steps behind him, watching. They were both, in their own ways, engrossed.

“What’s he catching?” I asked in a whisper.

“Nothing,” Lino replied as we walked away. “He’s giving donations (opera di beneficienza, or charity).” Excuse me?

“He’s been there for hours, rolling little balls of a grated cheese/breadcrumb mash, putting them on his hook and then waiting for his pole to twitch. After a little while he pulls it up, and the hook is empty. Even in an aquarium, fish don’t get fed this much.”

So what’s going wrong? Well, first of all, the guy is attaching the bait in such a way that it comes loose a few seconds after it goes under. The foodball just floats away, probably into the mouth of a big smiling fish. The man is up there imagining his hook as an enormous fatal concealed weapon, and the fish are seeing it as a fabulous food delivery system which requires no effort whatsoever on their part. They’re just down there floating around with their jaws open, saying “God, I haven’t eaten this much since Vernon’s bar mitzvah.”

The second thing that’s going wrong is that the guy hasn’t figured out any of this. He just keeps doing it. Lino can’t believe anybody over the age of two could be so persistent — so hopeful, so convinced — at something so futile. But the evidence is before us.

I look at it this way: The man is happy. The wife is happy because he’s out there and not sitting around the house or the bar. And of course the fish are happy. Happy fish, that’s what we want. Happy and bloated.

You can catch a mormora (striped sea bream) in the lagoon, but it's not likely you'd get this many. I just throw this in to give you an idea of the kind of things the men might be dreaming of as they stare at their poles. — You can catch a mormora (striped sea bream) in the lagoon, but it's not likely you'd get all these. I just throw this in to give you an idea of the sort of thing the men might be dreaming of as they stare at the water.

Boatworld, Problems, Venetian-ness, Water

Racing’s wrong turn

October 20, 2010 3 Comments

I’m willing to believe that not everyone may be as mesmerized by the problems swamping the world of Venetian rowing racing as I seem to be. So, barring some sensational or truly revolutionary turn of events in the aftermath of the recent unpleasantness in the last two races, this might be my last post on the matter for a while. I said “might.”

But before I leave this theme in my wake as I sail on to other strange (or not strange) yet wonderful aspects of life here, I’d like to add one more element to the “1812 Overture” which the subject here has become. And that is the provocative analysis of the Big Picture recently given by veteran Venetian journalist Silvio Testa.

An exciting finish to the young men's race at Sant' Erasmo. One hopes that if they can be acclimated to the reality of rules early enough, later extreme behavior can be avoided. This is more likely to be where they start practicing being furbo. — An exciting finish to the young men's race at Sant' Erasmo. One hopes that if they can be accustomed to the reality of rules early enough, later extreme behavior might be avoided. This is more likely to be where they start practicing being furbo. The same is true for the women, by the way.

Testa’s viewpoint on racing could be summarized as “May the best man win.” Or perhaps, “Every man for himself.” In any case, this radical philosophy of racing does not, for once, involve judges, panels, appeals, fines, and all the other juridical paraphernalia which has wrapped itself around the neck of this activity and is threatening to drag it to the bottom. Au contraire.

In his opinion, in the process of imposing (and imperfectly enforcing) more and more rules, the more acrimonious, bitter, and vicious the races have become — almost as if the rules had fostered the very situations they were meant to prevent. In fact, he thinks that the whole effort to turn Venetian racing into a sport has taken it far down the wrong path. Therefore, as Giuseppe Verdi once remarked, “Let us return to the old way; it would be progress.”

Testa puts it this way:

“In 1981 I was reporting on the race at Murano. Bruno ‘Strigheta’ was in the lead, closely followed by Franco ‘Crea,” so closely that the prow of Crea’s gondola was almost running over Strigheta’s oar. Finally Crea passed him and pulled ahead, and Strigheta finished second.

“‘Now’ — I thought — ‘there’s going to be a huge quarrel.’ But Bruno didn’t even open his mouth. When I asked him why, his answer couldn’t have been clearer: ‘He was more furbo than I was.'” (“FOOR-bo” is a mix of sneaky, clever, slick, and cagey.)

“When I asked Crea about it, he replied, ‘I did what my uncle Italo taught me: Don’t ever take the lead at Murano; instead, hang onto a tight second place until you’ve worn him out.” (Literally, “cut his legs out from under him.”)

“The race was beautiful, the spectators applauded, and at the end the rowers all shook each other’s hands.”

If this had happened in the past few years (and memory reveals that it or something like it has), the anger pervading the world of racers and their fans would probably have forced Bruno and/or Franco to change his name and enter the Witness Protection Program.

The poppieri (men who row astern) gather round to draw lots for their position at the starting line. This could be one of the few moments overseen by judges which has never been criticized. Ten numbered billiard balls in a bag -- it's pretty hard to see how a judge could mess that up.

Testa continues: “All this [recent conflict] is the fruit of a 30-year effort on the part of the city to turn the races into a ‘sport,’ which it isn’t. Venetian racing has its roots in the Middle Ages, and [all these rules] are similar to what it would be like if the Palio of Siena, where the jockeys are all whipping each other, were to be conducted according to the rules of Ascot.

“For centuries the races have been carried forward only by their participants; today there are 45 articles in the regulations. But Venetian racing isn’t like crew, or English-style racing, where the boats are kept in lanes. Here it’s an open ‘field’ and contact is — or could be — part of the game.

“If the racers expected that, they’d be watching out and would be prepared to defend themselves, without appealing to judges who are apt to make mistakes because the line between cunning and error is so slight that it practically doesn’t exist.

“The great racers of the past were like this and the winner wasn’t only the strongest, but the more astute, the more heartless, the best. There were no recriminations, except maybe to yourself.

“The future commissioner the racers have requested to calm the world of racing would do well to keep that in mind.”

I certainly hope that the future commissioner, if such a person should materialize, will be able to do something useful. Meanwhile, winter is coming on, the season is over, the racers have reclaimed for personal enjoyment at least a few of the endless hours they spend training, and I am anticipating that, as so often happens after an exhilarating crisis of any sort here, oblivion will tiptoe into the room and pull the covers gently up under the collective chin and tiptoe out again, leaving only the soft sound of communal snoring broken by the occasional muttered oath.

“

Problems, Tourism

Watch your back, and your front, and your sides

October 16, 2010 5 Comments

The following message is brought to you by me, your common sense. Have you not heard my voice recently? I’ve missed you too.

It was about 4:30 on Sunday afternoon, October 3 (the date is unimportant, because events of this sort occur all year long — but the factors of Sunday and Afternoon are significant because they are synonymous with “lots of people in a limited space not paying attention”).

“People” as in two American tourists.

“Not paying attention” as in “had 2,400 euros ($3,347.28) in cash and eight credit cards stolen.”

A moment of respectful silence would be appropriate here.

I'm just guessing that this family's cash is not what they're thinking about right now. Though I wouldn't know where to start digging, I have no doubt that a professional would see where to go. — I'm just guessing that their money is not what this family is thinking about right now. I wouldn't have the least idea where to start digging for it, but I'm not a professional.

The reason I want to relate this event to you is not because I assume you’re going to travel with all that cargo, nor is it because it is so unusual. The only thing that makes this story worth telling is not that it happened, but the electrifying amounts involved.

Pickpocketing is by far the most common crime here in the most beautiful city in the world. There could be as many as 200 events a day in high season, usually accomplished not by gypsies with babies who are easy to identify, but by professionals you will never see but who are all too well-known to the police. They even have nicknames.

So, back to October 3. The vaporetto #2 was trundling along the Grand Canal and was coming up to the Accademia stop, an important node where there are typically many, many people getting on and off the waterbuses.

This is a vaporetto on a Thursday afternoon, one stop before "Accademia." It's a beautiful sight to the purloiners. — This is a vaporetto on a mere Thursday afternoon, one stop before "Accademia." It's a beautiful sight to the purloiners.

The vaporetto was, as usual, crammed with people, most of whom are usually thinking about lots of other things (whether they’ll make their train, where to find a bathroom, what to have for dinner, how to get their kid to stop yelling) than the people around them. This is perfect for thieves. In this case, a youngish Rumanian couple.

According to the report in the Gazzettino, they lifted the wallets of the two Americans smoothly and quickly (two crucial elements of the craft), but not sufficiently secretly, because the deed was observed by a few passengers, including — this is a nice bit — an American policeman.

As soon as the vaporetto tied up to the bus-stop dock, the Rumanians fled, but the alarm had already been given, people were running after them, the police were alerted, they sent two boats, and all these people plus two employees (I don’t know what sort) of the transport company managed to nab the crooks.

Seeing that only minutes had passed, the swag was still warm, and was returned in its entirety to its rightful owners.

One wallet contained three credit cards and 1,300 euros ($1,813.11) in cash; the other contained five credit cards and 1,140 euros ($1,589.96) in cash.

Of course you would feel safer if the streets all looked like this. But what fun would that be?

So now my questions shift from the dark imponderables of the life and mind of a pickpocket, to the more vivid imponderables of the two extremely lucky victims. My questions are perhaps also yours: Why would anybody be carrying that much cash? Especially if they’ve got five pounds of credit cards? Or do people with that much money not need to think?

Here’s another thing I wish I knew: Do pickpockets have any idea of how much plunder any particular pocket or bag is likely to hold? I realize that heavy gold jewelry and fistfuls of shopping bags from Ferragamo and Fendi might be pretty good clues. But most of the tourists I see out there are not the Ferragamo/Fendi sort, nor are they bedecked with any accessories more noticeable than a backpack, water bottle, map(s), hats, and anything else needed for a trek across the Empty Quarter. Or do all those tireless Fagins now recognize this get-up as the perfect disguise for people carrying hundreds and hundreds of crisp crackling banknotes?

If I knew any thieves, I’m sure they could explain. But meanwhile I’m left with the urgent desire to flip the switch on a large, blinking, neon WARNING sign for you that says:

Do not carry anything with you out of your hotel room that you would really miss if it suddenly were to be gone.

And don’t think just because you’re not in the Piazza San Marco with a batch of mass tourists that you can’t get stung. A friend of mine from Chicago who travels a lot was visiting and we went to the weekly market on the Lido, a large assemblage of vans selling everything from fresh fruit to buttons to wine-making equipment. Hardly a touristic site, but there were — yes — large numbers of people crammed into small spaces thinking about something else. And her wallet was stolen. (What? She’s no tourist, she’s with me!). So we spent one of her two days here dealing with reports to the carabinieri and phone calls home to work out a cash transfer. Fun.

And don’t think you’re sneakier and smarter and more alert than they are.

And don’t think that there are somehow “safe” zones, the way certain stores are for lost children. A German tourist guide had her wallet stolen while she was with a group. In the basilica of San Marco. (There it is again: Lots of people not paying attention.)

Still, if you were to have your wallet lifted while you’re on a vaporetto, you’d actually be in pretty good shape. Because as soon as you notify the mariner (who ties the boat to the dock at each stop) or the driver, he will stop the boat right there in the middle of the water and call the police. If that had been possible in the case of the two Americans, it would have saved a whole lot of running like crazy.

So let me suggest this, even though I do not want you to come here thinking you’re putting yourself at some appalling risk. Just imagine that your wallet gets stolen in Venice. Then think about what you would be thinking about when you realize it’s gone. You’d be thinking about what you should or shouldn’t have done. So before you go out the door, do or don’t do that.

Now get out there and have a great time.