This morning around noon — about the time the sun had begun to turn the stone sward of via Garibaldi into a griddle — I heard in the middle distance the lyric blaring of the neighborhood tenor.
He’s tallish, and heavy-ish, and not at all decrepit even though his hair is white, and he is sometimes attended by a small entourage of drinking buddies/music-lovers. And for some mystic reason I have never had my camera with me when the muse has struck him.
Via Garibaldi is the perfect stage for anyone and/or thing, but our tenor has never been heard this early in the morning. Those cadenzas require a fully hydrated voice, and hydration takes time.
He’s not bad, actually, though the decibels he prefers lead me to think he spent several seasons somewhere singing without any microphone, or maybe he sang opera at hog auctions. I can picture those swine just flying out of there on the strains of Verdi or Mascagni.
I think he imagines the accompaniment. Sometimes the spirit will move him to plunge into the depths of “Addio alla madre.” This morning it was “E lucevan le stelle,” from Tosca. He goes for the heart-rending stuff — I think it’s because the stronger the emotion, the more he gets to turn up the dial. His friends don’t look as if their hearts were particularly rent, but they applaud anyway.
He tends not to come out when the weather is more interesting than he is. Or maybe he's just somewhere keeping his muse warm.
The most striking feature of these moments musicaux is how they just start — BANG! — and off he goes into cadenza-land. Our man obviously doesn’t have an orchestra struggling to keep up but I’m not sure he notices that.
Like any clever performer, he retains a slight elusiveness. Days, weeks will go by and I won’t even see him. Sometimes I’ll see him but he’s not singing. And then there are those times I hear him but can’t locate him. Maybe he’s resting in the nearest bar, which may not have been the one he was in when the sacred fire fell.
I sometimes wonder if people make requests. Maybe they make bets on what he’s likely to come out with next. Or maybe they just stand back when the divine flame ignites his vocal cords.
Not a moment that would -- or did -- lure Euterpe from her lair. Or favorite bar.
I’m tempted — and I will do it someday — to broach a small conversation, perhaps when he hasn’t got his claque around. I wonder if he would be inclined to talk, or if he’d be likely to reply in arpeggios. I, of course, would be ready with a witty rejoinder in the Lydian mode.
Before the month of May disappears in our mental/emotional/devotional rear-view mirrors, here’s what we did on May 31. Which is not, obviously, Memorial Day here, but the last day of the month dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary, as I’m sure you know. Or at least, as you know now.
Our neighborhood is one of the few which is still inhabited by enough people who care to maintain certain religious habits which used to be pretty common in most parishes in Venice, but now are virtually extinct.
An example was the evening of May 24, the Feast of Santa Maria Ausiliatrice (Holy Mary the Helper): A few hardy men hoisted a large statue of Mary, surrounded by little lightbulbs, on their shoulders, and carried her from the church of San Francesco della Paola on via Garibaldi all the way to the church of San Pietro. She and her native bearers were followed by a long procession of parishioners, including the children who had recently been confirmed (they wore their white robes and little garland crowns). As they walked, they recited the Litany of the BVM. The priest would say his phrase, then they would respond with theirs, and so on, occasionally interspersing various prayers.
As per tradition everywhere in Italy, at least according to my experience, the priest’s prayers and cues were spoken with aid of an amplification system which would be happier if it could be a mule and just stop working altogether. There are inevitably random breaks in the connection, so the flow of piety is punctuated by sudden silences, and the occasional electrical shriek.
Getting ready to row also involves a little badinage with one of the off-duty parish priests (right), in mufti.
A week later, on the evening of May 31, the visit’s over, and this imposing statue has to go home. But this time she goes by boat. For several years, the local rowing club, the Remiera Casteo, has organized a corteo, or boat procession, loading the priest, acolytes and sound “system” on two sturdy caorlinas, followed by whoever wants to join in.
Getting her aboard requires steady nerves and a strong back, and someone ready to keep her from toppling backward.
The first year we participated, Lino and I came in two sandolos rowed by cadets from the nearby Morosini naval college. That was the best version of all.
Then the priest comes aboard.
The acolytes are already in place. They don't have much to do, but they look great.
I think the boys liked it mainly because they got to be out after dinner.
For me, it remains special for two reasons.
First, as we rowed under the wooden bridge leading to San Pietro, someone standing on it was tossing rose petals toward the boats as we passed. We rowed through little eddies of petals in the shining twilight water.
And the caravan begins to move out.The ecclesiastical contingent had to be divided onto two caorlinas. The microphone was on the first, the loudspeaker on the second. Maybe this explains something about the sound quality.
Second, after the statue was safely ensconced in her church, we rowed out the rio di San Isepo and into the Bacino of San Marco to get back to the college. The moon was so full it had completely overflowed, pouring a river of silver along our path. Then the boys started singing. I have no idea what the song was, though I do know that none of them will be appearing at La Scala. But their singing was wonderful because they were happy.
A number of people had decorated their windows with festive hangings, or even small candles on the windowsills.
This year there was the usual chilly breeze — not strong, but insistent, highly annoying — and no rose petals. No cadets, either. Lino and I rowed a two-oar mascareta from the club, which we have now joined. The modest amount of singing was instigated by the priest, who as we turned the corner of the rio San Daniele to head down the long waterway flanking the Arsenal, segued into the classic “Mira al tuo popolo, O bella Signora” (Gaze upon your people, O lovely Lady).
Along the rio di Sant' Ana, past our house, flanked by a mass of parishioners walking along the fondamenta.
Even in the best of times (whenever those are), this hymn has a lugubrious undertow which gives piety a bad name. And in this case, the priest didn’t know many more of the lyrics than I do, and after the first verse he began to mangle even the bits he could remember, with the occasional improvisation. Lino snorted. A priest who doesn’t know the words (A) should turn in his badge and keycard or (B) not sing. This was one situation, though, where the sudden microphonal silences didn’t really do much damage.
Two boats ahead of us, two boats behind. That was the procession. I still think it looked great.
Madonna safely ashore, we rowed back to the club. There was still just enough light left in the darkening sky; we could see without having to turn on the warning flashlight, and better yet, there were hardly any motorboats out now anyway (it was going on toward 10:00). We glided over small smooth waves lifted occasionally by a few larger ones, which gave me the sensation that the lagoon had just breathed a deep sigh of satisfaction.
Or maybe that was me.
Ready to turn left down the rio de la Tana, past the Arsenal walls.Getting her back on dry land is only slightly less tricky than bringing her aboard. I saw somebody almost get brained by an oar.
In a city full of special news comes something even more special than usual.
The columbarium at the municipal cemetery on the island of San Michele is aging and deteriorating faster than some of its past and future residents. This means that the dear departed are not resting in much peace anymore, and they’re not going to let you be feel too serene either.
Today the Gazzettino announced: “If you want to go put some flowers on your loved one’s tomb, you have to wear a helmet.”
Grieving relative takes cover. (Credit: Il Gazzettino).
Yes, lack of money (“no ghe xe schei“) has brought us to this: A cemetery where you have to protect yourself from your relatives even after they’re dead. Three hundred final resting places have become public hazards.
I can hear the helpful advice now, as you set out with your little bunch of chrysanthemums:
“If you’re going to visit Uncle Max today, watch out — he could be throwing bits of rock and cement at your head.”
“He never liked me very much….. “
Veritas, the private agency that oversees the cemetery (and, let it be noted yet again, also disposes of Venetian garbage), says that the necessary funds for repairing the cemetery have been allocated by the Special Fund (money being spent on something that isn’t part of the MOSE floodgate project? Astounding) — but that the money hasn’t been freed-up yet.
“Dig we must.” It takes on new resonance when the guys are drilling and backhoeing around your family. So meanwhile, wear your hard hat. And try to ignore the fact that the stuff that keeps falling on your head will probably not be raindrops. It could be cousin Lola.
Last Sunday (May 16) Venice pulled what was once one of its greatest festivals out of storage for its annual exhibition: Ascension Day, or “la Sensa.”
The boat procession, having passed the Naval College, moves along the Lido shoreline toward the church of San Nicolo’ and the ceremony of the blessing of the ring.
Up until the year 1000 A.D., if you’ll cast your minds back, the fortieth day after Easter had been primarily known as the commemoration of Christ’s ascension to heaven. It still is, but at the turn of the millennium the day took on large quantities of extra importance for Venice.
The day also became just as famous for the “Sposalizio del mare,” or wedding of the sea, a ceremony performed by the doge and Senate in the company of many boats of all sorts which all proceeded toward the inlet to the sea at San Nicolo’ on the Lido. At the culminating moment, the doge tossed a golden ring into the lagoon waters and intoned, “Desponsamus te, Mare, in signum veri perpetique dominii.” (“I wed thee, O Sea, in sign of perpetual dominion.”)
The “Serenissima” pulls up to the judges’ stand to put the doge — I mean mayor — and retinue ashore.
This statement had nothing to do with religion, even though it does sound impressive in Latin, right up there with “till death us do part.” It had much more to do with politics, because on Ascension Day in the year 1000 (May 9, if you’re interested), doge Pietro II Orseolo finally quashed the Slavic pirates who, from their eastern Adriatic lairs, had been harassing Venetian shipping and seriously inconveniencing Venetian progress.
This was a pivotal moment in Venetian history; it opened the way to centuries of expansion, wealth and power, and the Venetians wanted to make sure that all their assorted neighbors and trading partners and possibly also trading competitors remembered what they had done and could do again, if necessary.
For another thing, beginning in 1180 one of the largest commercial fairs of the entire year was held during the Ascension Day period. Merchants and traders from all over the Mediterranean and beyond set up booths in the Piazza San Marco to sell ivory, incense, ebony, oils of jasmine and sandalwood and bergamot, pomegranate soap, tortoiseshell back-scratchers, bath salts, mirrors inlaid with mother-of-pearl, dried figs and apricots, plant-based hair dyes, luxurious textiles, and even Abyssinian and Circassian and sub-Saharan slaves. All this was traded in languages and dialects from Venetian to Armenian, Hebrew, Uzbek, Greek, Turkish, German, Georgian, Iberian, Arabic, French and Persian. I’m sure I’ve left something out. This fair was such a big deal that soon it was extended from eight days to two weeks. Yes, even back then the city was just one big emporium, though incense strikes me as being cooler than the bargain Carnival masks made in China bestrewing the shops today.
A flea market by the church of San Nicolo’ is the best we can do at evoking the fabulous market of yore.
I don’t suppose that the average Venetian on the street would have told you much of the above if you’d stopped to ask what the big deal was about the Sensa. But a smallish contingent of people have applied themselves, since the early Nineties, to bringing back at least some ceremonial in order to acknowledge the moment .
Need a lampshade with a portrait of Audrey Hepburn or Charlie Chaplin? Now’s your chance.I wonder if any merchants from the old days would have been tempted by these.
So yesterday morning there was a boat procession, more or less following the “Serenissima,” the biggest and fanciest of the city’s ceremonial barges which was carrying the mayor (best we could do, seeing as we’re dogeless these days) and costumed trumpeters and a batch of military and civilian dignitaries and also a priest.
At the Morosini naval college at Sant’ Elena, all the cadets were ready and waiting, lined up along the embankment. Standing crisply at attention with their hats in their right hand, on command they raised their hat-holding arm straight out at a sharp 45-degree angle, and shouted with one voice “OO-rah.” They did this three times in succession, then there was a pause. Then they did it again. They do this at intervals till the boats have all passed.
For my money, this is the best part of the event, much better than the ring-and-sea business. In fact, I’m convinced that if the cadets were not to do this, it would ruin the entire day.
The boats surround the “Serenissima” as the declamation(s) proceed.
The boats then proceed to the area in front of the church of San Nicolo’ on the Lido, where they clump together, the priest blesses the ring, and the mayor throws it into the water. One year our boat was close enough that I took somebody’s dare and actually managed to snag it before it sank (all the ribbons tied to it momentarily helped it to float). Then I had a heavy surge of superstitious guilt. Even if it wasn’t gold — it was kind of like what you’d use to hang a heavy curtain — it was a symbolic object fraught with meaning. I wondered if I’d just blighted Venice’s mojo for another year. But I didn’t throw it back — that seemed even stupider than grabbing it in the first place. So, you know, my disrespect just left another ding on the chrome trim of my conscience.
The first three gondolas, battling it out in the back stretch.
Then there is a boat race — in this case, a race for gondolas rowed by four men each. In Venice the celebration of really important events always involved a regata, and when this festival began to take form, Lino created this one. Yesterday the competition was somewhat more dramatic than usual in that a strong garbin, or southwest wind, was blowing, and it was also really cold. Lots of big irritated waves. Strong incoming tide. All elements that do not conduce to easy victory or friendly handshakes afterward, not that these guys are ever inclined to that sort of thing. But it made for a very exciting 40 minutes — better than usual, if you could stand the cold.
Heading into the home stretch, they held onto third place, well ahead of their closest competitors.
So much for the festivities, so much for the wedding of the sea. No honeymoon, though. We just move on to another 12 months of trying to dominate the sea. Not with galleys anymore; Venice seems to be doing a pretty good job with the ever-increasing flotilla of cruise ships.
Our neighborhood is one of the few which is still inhabited by enough people who care to maintain certain religious habits which used to be pretty common in most parishes in Venice, but now are virtually extinct. 
