The Redentore returns

This past weekend we reached the summer’s festive culmination, the Feast of the Redeemer. But this year the routine was slightly different: No boat, no fireworks.   Sounds like heresy, I know.   It is heresy.   I might as well just call it a club cookout and forget all the historical/traditional frippery.

Things have changed because now we’re in a different rowing club, and in a different place altogether in our minds and spirits.   And while we could certainly take a boat and load it up with the usual bovoleti, watermelon, sarde in saor, pasta e fagioli, and all the other traditional noshes to get you from sundown to the fireworks, we just don’t feel like it.

One main reason we — and several other old Venetians I asked at random — don’t feel like going in a boat anymore is because of all the other boats.   It’s one thing to be crushed amid swarming hordes of people ashore, it’s quite another to find yourself in the dark with thousands of large motorboats operated by people who are drunk and who don’t know how to drive.  Obviously, this was not a problem when Lino and his cohort were growing up.  It’s pretty hard to hurt anybody with a wooden rowing boat, at least not to the degree a big boat powered by 90 or 140 or more horses.

In fact — not to cast a pall over what I intend to be a jaunty little post — two young women who were aboard a motorboat zooming back to Chioggia after the fireworks have not yet made it home.  Because the boat ran into a piling at high speed — just about every motorboat leaving Venice was going from fast to pretty fast to crazy fast — and one woman hit her head against the other woman’s head.  The first woman lingered about a day, and is now in heaven.  The other woman, who had snagged a ride home with them just on an impulse, is in the hospital recovering from various fractures.  As for the driver/owner/ friends who were aboard, I don’t know what state they’re in, but two of the boys/men/whatever have fled.  I tell you this only to indicate that I am not inventing notions about how dangerous it is out there.  What surprises me is that disaster struck so few.  Not much comfort to the families of all involved.

My first look at the morning's harvest made me wonder if there were any mussels actually to be found in the middle of this wreckage.
My first look at the morning's harvest made me wonder if there were any mussels actually to be found in the middle of this wreckage.

So Friday morning (Saturday night being the high point), Lino and I went to the club to help clean the mussels.  A vast feast — probably more Rabelaisian than Lucullan — was planned, and our contribution was to do some of the prep work.  Little did I know what ten tons of extremely wild mussels will do to your hands.

The set-up is simple.  Take mussel or clump from the big tub; remove the material covering it; throw mussel into medium-size bucket, and the nameless material into the small bucket.
The set-up is simple. Take a mussel or clump of same from the big tub; remove the material covering it; throw the mussel into medium-size bucket, and the nameless material into the small bucket.

Forget how they look, in their just-scraped-off-the-pilings dishabille.  They’re ghastly, I agree.  Even I gave some serious thought to striking mussels off my must-eat list for, like, forever.  But the ones we took home, all clean and shiny, were absolutely delectable.  So you know, don’t judge a mussel by its encrustations.

But as you see, real mussels emerge from the rugby scrum in the big tum.  These look almost edible.  Rinsed and stirred around with a big wooden stick, they come out looking just like something you can't wait to eat.
But as you see, real mussels emerge from the rugby scrum in the big tub. These look almost edible. Rinsed and stirred around with a big wooden stick, they come out looking just like something you can't wait to eat.

After spending hours pulling and scraping off plant and all sorts of other matter, not to mention rending them from each other one by one, my hands felt as if I’d been pulling nettles. Three days later, a few fingers were still a little red and swollen.  Now I understand why one of the men put on rubber gloves. I live, I learn.

A certain number of men got to cooking.   There were great things to eat but there was also fifty times more than anyone could ever consume.  Fried shrimp and deep-fried fresh zucchini and sarde in saor, the aforementioned mussels, grilled pork ribs and sausage and lamb chops and fresh tomatoes out of the garden in the back, and — I  begin to lose the thread here — there was also something I’d never even heard of, much less tasted: deep-fried sage leaves. You can have your fried zucchini blossoms, I’m going to take the sage any chance I get.

The blackboard at the club says, and I translate: (L) "Menu: What there is." (R) On the occasion of the Redentore, Saturday we close at 12:00."
The blackboard at the club says, and I translate: (L) "Menu: What there is." (R) On the occasion of the Redentore, Saturday we close at 12:00."
The table is set, the vases of basil are in place, ready (they say) to repel mosquitoes, and the view over the canal of San Marco toward the Lido cannot be surpassed.
The table is set, the vases of basil are in place, ready (they say) to repel mosquitoes, and the view over the canal of San Marco toward the Lido cannot be surpassed.

After that the sheer quantity began to press down on my brain — I know I ate many more things, but I can’t remember what.  At a certain point one of the wives pulled out a homemade frozen dessert called zuccotto.  The recipe I looked up here makes it sound elegant, but what we ate were pieces that seemed to have been hacked off the Ur-zuccotto with a dull cleaver.  And of course there was watermelon, which is utterly non-negotiable.  You can skip a whole batch of things, but yes, there will be watermelon.

Crossing the votive bridge from the Zattere to the Giudecca, to the very feet of the church of the Most Holy Redeemer, always touches me.
Crossing the votive bridge from the Zattere to the Giudecca, to the very feet of the church of the Most Holy Redeemer, always touches me.

We watched the fireworks from afar, enjoying the highest ones and intuiting the lower ones by the shimmering glow through the treetops.  It was more comfortable than sitting in a boat right under them, but much less exciting.  I don’t see the point in fireworks if the’re not going to be exciting.  You might as well watch them on TV, or through the wrong end of a telescope, and wear earmuffs.

After the fireworks – or as they put it, “pyrotechnic display” — the countless motorboats began to stream homeward.  The paper estimated that some 110,000 people came to party, but didn’t hazard a guess as to how many boats.  There were so many they were tying up to public lighting stanchions, not at all a good idea.

We all sat there, sticky with watermelon juice, watching the migration.  It was like the wildebeest at high speed, with big roaring mechanical voices, each with a little red light gleaming from its left flank.

Next day: The races.  Now they were exciting.  Lots of wind, lots of tension, lots of — unfortunately — waves.  Something is going to have to be done, the racers can hardly row anymore.  But that’s a subject for another day.

For those who are interested in a few more statistics, the spectacle (fireworks, etc.) cost about 100,000 euros.  Doesn’t sound like much, I know — actually, I had the impression that the show was shorter than some other years.

The poppieri, or stern rowers, gather with the judge to draw lots for their positions on the starting line. They may look relaxed, but there are men whose hands are visibly shaking when they reach into the bag for their number.
The poppieri, or stern rowers, gather with the judge to draw lots for their positions on the starting line. They may look relaxed, but there are men whose hands are visibly shaking when they reach into the bag for their number.
Three of the nine gondolas begin to warm up, and head for the starting line.
Three of the nine gondolas begin to warm up, and head for the starting line.
The men and the boat can take it, but the wind and waves were something to contend with.
The men and the boat can take it, but the wind and waves were something to contend with.
It was hard going for the pupparinos too.
It was hard going for the pupparinos too.
The "cavata," or blast out of the starting gate (so to speak) can make a huge difference.  Here, the "Vignottini" on the white gondola have shot to the front.  In the last minute of the race, pink pulled past them.
The "cavata," or blast out of the starting gate (so to speak) can make a huge difference. Here, the "Vignottini" on the white gondola have shot to the front. In the last minute of the race, pink pulled past them.
The phenomenal Franco Dei Rossi, known as "Strigheta," finished fourth in the 34th year he's rowed this race.  You cannot tell me that that is the arm of a 56-year-old man.  And yet, it is.
The phenomenal Franco Dei Rossi, known as "Strigheta," finished fourth (he takes home a blue pennant) in the 34th year he's rowed this race. You cannot tell me that that is the arm of a 56-year-old man. And yet, it is.
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Something fishy

Last night we had an especially delectable dinner, focusing (as often happens) on fish.

Sometimes we buy them, sometimes we catch them, and sometimes they thrust themselves upon us.

Two gilthead sea bream (orate) on the left and center, and the very strong, daring, not very clever gray mullet on the right. It was an impressive jump, but our plate was not his original destination.
Two gilthead sea bream (orate) on the left and center, and the very strong, daring, not very clever gray mullet on the right. It was an impressive jump, but our plate was not his original destination.

As in this case:  “Orate” (gilthead sea bream) are highly prized around Venetian restaurants, and are vigorously cultivated in the various lagoon fish-farms.  We bought these two specimens from our neighborhood fisherman a few hours after he snagged them.

The other little guy, the slender one at the right edge of the plate, is a cefalo (“siegolo” — SYEH-go-yo — in Venetian), or gray mullet.  Very delicious, but very snobbed these days by restaurants who prefer to offer the very trendy orata, at preposterous prices.

Your basic gray mullet, or cefalo.  They come in various sizes and variaties, and we catch them with a simple gillnet when they're not practicing for the high-jump event in the fish olympics.
Your basic gray mullet, or cefalo. They come in various sizes and variaties, and we catch them with a simple gillnet when they're not practicing for the high-jump event in the fish olympics.

A few hours before the picture above was taken, our little siegolo had been swimming blithely along, zipping through the water thinking whatever busy ichtheous thoughts oppress teenagers of the Mugilidae family.

Suddenly, he felt like leaping.  This happens to mullet of all sizes, I don’t know why, but it strikes usually in the morning, sometimes in the dead of night.  You can be rowing along and they’ll just bounce out of the water as if there were a trampoline down there somewhere.  And it is not at all unusual for them to land, not with a splash, but a thud, as they hit the bottom of our boat.

The first time this ever happened to me, we were rowing in a four-oar sandolo at midnight back from Sant’ Erasmo all the way to the Lido. Summer nights are luminous in the lagoon and back then there weren’t quite so many motorboats tearing around all night, or at least not enough to drown out the pensive voice of a nightingale that came out of the dark woods as we rowed along the canal between the two islands called the Vignole, or the lovely, solitary note — just one — of the owl they call a soeta.  It was magical.

Suddenly there was a thump in the bottom of the boat, and it kept thumping.  In the dark I thought it was a bottle or something similar that had fallen over in the midst of our various voyaging detritus.  But no — it was a fish.  A big, strong mullet, who evidently had rejoiced as a strong man to run a race to see just how high out of the water he could hurl himself.  He found out how high, but he hadn’t calculated on the landing. Fish don’t get to go home again any more than people do, at least not those who launch themselves anywhere near us.  His future was pretty simple at this point: The skillet and a slather of extravirgin olive oil.

Anyway, sorry as I am to see a mullet’s morning, or evening, ruined by being taken prisoner and then executed, I know we appreciate him more than a lot of people do.  Maybe more than his friends and family do.  (Do fish have friends?)

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Afa: get to know it

I was going to write about something else but it’s just too hot.   Every summer we get a heatwave around about now, but I’m not sure I remember one quite this heavy.   Or long-lasting.  

We’ve been having temperatures up around 100 degrees F. (39 degrees C) during the day, slightly less at night, for at least a week.   Yesterday the weather report indicated that it was hotter here than in New York.   I can tell you without consulting anybody but myself that it’s hotter than the hinges of hell.

Looking toward Murano at 8:30 this morning.
Looking toward Murano at 8:30 this morning.

In addition to simple heat, there is the element called “afa,” which means sweltering, sultry, breathless heat, the kind of mugginess that makes you feel like an old sponge that has been left in a dark damp corner next to things that smell.

There are only two places I can think of where this weather would be even more intolerable. One would be anywhere along the Po River plain, where the fields  stretch for  long, desperate distances with no shade.   Where there is shade, among the poplar plantations lining the river, there is no oxygen.   Whatever is taking the place of oxygen does not move, because the world has stopped.

Looking toward the Lido at the lagoon inlet of San Nicolo'.  The heron is happy, but herons don't sweat.
Looking toward the Lido at the lagoon inlet of San Nicolo'. The egret is happy, but egrets don't sweat.

The other place where the heat is torment is the mountains.   Mountains are  made to be cool, at least at night.   If I had to endure this kind of heat at  4,000 feet, I’d have to think long and carefully about my revenge.

Clamming takes your mind off the fact that you're suffocating.
Clamming takes your mind off the fact that you're suffocating.

We’ve gotten through it so far by going out in the lagoon in a small mascareta, to a place where there is virtually always a breeze.   And enough water to immerse myself for ten hours or so.   Other people go to the beach on the Lido.   Other people go shopping at the small supermarket off Campo Ruga, where the air-conditioning is set to cryogenic depths.   We go clamming.   More fun, for us.   Probably not so much for the clams.

I’m off to bed now, planning to dream of the freezers at the Tyson chicken-processing plant.   Do not wake me.

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Crimes of passion

Things  are heating up here in an alarming manner, and I’m not referring to the Saharan heatwave that is currently sweeping the old Bel Paese and suffocating everybody’s capacity to think.

I’m referring to two  recent spectacular homicides with distressing similarities, the kind one hears that judges in Provence excuse because of the effect of the mistral.   Here, I’m not sure that the weather is considered an accomplice or not.   But the girls are still dead.

These two  tragedies demonstrate  the most effective way to  resolve your pain when your girlfriend breaks up with you.   Not a new approach, but it works:   You kill her, then yourself.  

Both of these recent calamities happened on the mainland (sorry, no romantic canals into which to throw the body), but just a few miles inland, and the Gazzettino has  been providing the details for days, even though virtually every element is pretty much out of the handbook.  

Roberta Vanin (left) and her body being removed from Bio-Vit, her store.
Roberta Vanin (left) and her body being removed from Bio-Vita, her store.

Spinea is  a small town in the Province of Venice about 10 miles from the Piazza San Marco, hitherto famous (I guess) for being the hometown of Federica Pellegrini, an Olympic  swimming medalist.   Spinea is like numberless other small towns on the mainland near Venice; what were once little villages stuck in the middle of fields of corn or wheat differentiated only by the belltower of their parish church, and now are larger settlements surrounded by roads, highways, and shopping centers, differentiated by nothing, not even their love-deranged inhabitants.   I’ve been there several times to visit some  of Lino’s relatives.

Now Spinea is stuck in my mind as the home of  a certain Andrea Donaglio, a 47-year-old professor of chemistry,  who was in love  and lived with Roberta Vanin, 43; they even owned and operated a health-food store.

Anyway, she broke up with him, moved out, found a new boyfriend.   He began to stalk her.   He kept phoning her.   He threatened her with a knife.     (And then people start with the “We never imagined he could do such a thing.”   Makes no sense in Italian, either.)   She felt sorry for him.   Her friends and family told her to get a restraining order against him.   She didn’t.

So July 7, we pay our one euro for the Gazzettino to read the lead story: “He massacred his ex with 20 stab wounds.”   (Later accounts raised it to 40, then to 60; it appears he used two knives, perhaps because the first one broke.   Oy.)   Then he tried to kill himself with a couple of stabs to the stomach, but he’s recovering.   Physically, I mean.

"Death of Romeo and Juliet," by John Millais (1848).  Even in iambic pentameter, the onlookers say pretty much the things they say today: "What a waste."
"Death of Romeo and Juliet," by John Everett Millais (1848). Even in iambic pentameter, the onlookers say pretty much the things they say today: "What a waste."

So if this catastrophe is the pebble thrown into the pool,  we now experience the ripples of the subsequent stories which go into all sorts of aspects of the situation from all sorts of points of view.   There is  the story about how the scene of the murder is now a sort of shrine, covered with flowers and notes and stuffed animals, then the story about the funeral and how many people were there — a thousand, anyway,   because everybody knew them.     The story about her as told by her friends, how wonderful she was.   The story about him as told by his friends (or relatives) about how desperate and unhappy he was.

The one really unusual part of this whole horrible tale is the fact that Roberta’s parents declared that they forgave Andrea.   This is as amazing here as anywhere else, and  I want us all to stop and reflect on that for a moment.  

Fabio Riccati and Eleonora Noventa.
Fabio Riccati and Eleonora Noventa.

A mere four days later, while all this was still boiling through the newspapers, another man decided to punish his girlfriend for leaving him.   (I thought romances were supposed to end in September.)   This happened at 9 in the morning on July 11  in a very small town, Asseggiano, a mere mile and a half from Spinea.

Fabio Riccati, 30 years old,  had found the first girlfriend of his life, and they’d been seeing each other for six months or so.   Eleanora Noventa, an only child, was evidently one of the sunniest and loveliest girls ever.   Unfortunately, she was only 16.   Maybe a tad young to have started up with him, but not too young to have realized she had to break it off.   On Saturday she gave him the bad news and whatever little presents he had bestowed on her.

On Sunday morning, Fabio waited for her out on the street, expecting her to pass by on her bicycle.   She stopped.   They exchanged some comments.   He pulled out a Magnum .357 and shot her three times, the last shot to the head.   Then he shot himself in the heart.    

I want to live somewhere where nothing ever happens.   Nothing.   Ever.   And I never liked Romeo and Juliet, either.

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