Holiday high water

The big present everybody got this year was acqua alta.   It seems to have been reported fairly extensively in the world at large — not that people elsewhere don’t have enough drama of their own to keep up with — but there appears to be enough inherent drama, or diversion, in the phenomenon to attract attention.

The water comes up, the water goes down.  Notice that the Piazza San Marco is not flat.
The water comes up, the water goes down. Notice that the Piazza San Marco is not flat.

And they’re predicting more for today, New Year’s Eve, and also Day. Happily, these tides will peak at a decent hour, between 9:00 and 10:00 AM, so we can get some sleep.   Thoughtful of them.

We spent most of Christmas Eve night listening, not  for the reindeer hooves on the roof, but for the wind to veer around from the southeast to anywhere else it felt like going (or coming).   But  the forecasts (regular weather as well as high-water categories), which we consulted about every ten minutes, were implacable: There was going to be a strong scirocco (shih-RAWK-oh), and that  meant that we were essentially destined to have “water on the ground,” as the Venetians call it in its more modest form.    

The scirocco’s force pushes against the lagoon and prevents (or severely slows, but I’m going with prevents) the tide from going out in its normal way and even  exacerbates the subsequent normal rising tide.   The weather report specifies the direction and strength of the wind, but all we need to do is open the front door and listen:  A strong scirocco  causes heavy surf which in turn make a low, smooth roar, something like a distant  jet preparing to taxi for  take-off.   And we can easily hear it, out there toward the left, where the Lido’s slim  line of beach is doing what it can to keep the Adriatic where it belongs.  

The tide doesn't come pouring over the battlements, but merely rises up through the storm drains.  This little pool will just keep expanding till it covers the Piazza.  After an hour or so, it will depart (tranquilly) by the same route.
The tide doesn't come pouring over the battlements, but merely rises up through the storm drains. This little pool will just keep expanding till it covers the Piazza. After an hour or so, it will depart by the same route.

The city’s Tide Center was predicting that the maximum height, at 4:30 AM, Christmas Morning, would be 150 cm [59 inches, or almost five feet] above average sea level.   I will explain the intricacies of these measurements and their meaning in the real world on another occasion, though let me just note here that Venice does not sit  precisely at sea level, but  at various heights above it, so these numbers are not immediately as dramatic as they sound.    

As the Tide Center explains on its website, “97 percent of the city is at about 100 cm above the average sea level.   This means that the amount of water that could invade the city is always well below the maximum number predicted.   For example, an exceptional tide of 140 cm corresponds in reality to about  60 cm [23 inches]  in the lowest points of the city (Piazza San Marco).”

I don’t know how high our  domicile  happens to sit above the average sea level, but  we knew that at 150 cm there would be water  coming over our top step and into our house.   It’s just a little hovel, true, but it’s not a boat, unfortunately  — not that you want water coming into your boat, either.   Venice is an excellent place in which to discover the meaning of “time and tide wait  for no man.”   You can slow an avalanche pretty much as easily as you can slow the tide.

We knew our tidal limit because we had water in the house once before.   Yes, that was one memorable moment.   On  December 1, 2008, we stood there at our doorstep and watched the water slip under our door — and more to the point, under the temporary barrier we had paid 400 euros for.   But it wouldn’t have made any difference because only God and, perhaps, the architect has any idea what’s under our dwelling because water began to enter through a fissure in the kitchen wall, and then up from an ungrouted joint between the slabs of stone paving between the bedroom and the hallway.   I can tell you that if the tide wants to come up through your floor you better just let it.

Life goes on, and so does the bread delivery.
Life goes on, and so does the bread delivery.

By the way, nothing was damaged, and when the tide turned about an hour and a half later, we got out our brooms and just swept it out to sea.   Then I had to wash the floor with fresh water, but it needed it anyway.   (I waxed it too — I was feeling like celebrating.)   Then we put all the stuff that had been thrown onto the bed back under the bed, and life went on.   No death, no damage, and as I say, the floor was clean.   But you can’t count on high water being so relatively minor every time, and you really don’t want water, salt or otherwise,  under your refrigerator and washing machine.

So at 2:00 AM on Christmas Eve (that is,  Christmas morning)  we got up and began preparing for the onslaught.   No wailing, no  hysterical vows to the Virgin; we just began to move whatever we could to higher ground (the bathroom) or on the bed.   Last year, unbelieving to the last moment, we left everything where it was, which meant that Lino accomplished what ought to be an Olympic sport — the pulling-out-stuff-and-throwing-it-all-on-bed event — in mere seconds.  

Then we took out candles and flashlights.   I frittered away a little time sweeping and dusting, since I was going to have to do it anyway.   We stared out the front door at the water.   We listened.

But we were spared.   Lino, whose instincts have been honed by an entire lifetime in boats in the lagoon, sensed when the reprieve was arriving — he could tell that the tide had slowed (“gotten tired,” as they put it) at about 3:30.   The tide, in fact, did begin to turn then, earlier than predicted, and lower (143 cm) than predicted.   The roar of the wind was diminishing.   Christmas morning was beginning to look better than we’d supposed.

Not easy to explain "Just hold it till the tide goes down" to your dog.
Not easy to explain "Just hold it till the tide goes down" to your dog.

Turns out that this event was the fourth highest tide since the city began to record them.   It also turns out — for real weather geeks — that one reason it occurred was not so much the force of the scirocco but the fact that it was constant for quite a while.   In any case, nothing you can do about that; whatever the wind is doing, you just have to go along with it.

But I have to repeat what I always repeat when high tide makes the news: Nobody dies.   Nothing gets especially damaged (I put in “especially” so somebody won’t say “Well what about my bookcase?”).   The shopowners had to spend the night keeping vigil in their shops, which earned a few lines in the general coverage, but I say: So?   We were up too and we don’t have anything we’re planning to sell.   Water damage, whether it’s genuine or just labeled as such, is a great way for merchants to get rid of stock that isn’t moving anyway.   I did not make that up.  

Another point to consider: Whenever the news reports refer to the city being “under water,” or “flooded,” or however they term it, they never say how much of the city, nor do they say to what depth (it isn’t uniform; does one inch count as “flooded”?).   Anyway, in the case of an exceptional high water, such as our Christmas Eve marvel, 56 percent of the city has water on the ground.   Sound bad?   Let’s do this: “44 percent of the city did not have water.”   I suddenly feel better.   Why don’t the newspapers ever do that?   Rhetorical question.

So on to the next tide, I say, and pull out your cameras.   But I think somebody should make it illegal to bring your boat into the Piazza San Marco, and doubly illegal to float around so people can snap your picture.   The tide comes in, the tide goes out, all it leaves is some muddy slime

The street outside our house is like every other street when the tide goes out: damp with a fine muddy film.
The street outside our house is like every other street when the tide goes out: Damp with a fine muddy film.
The receding water as usual leaves behind eelgrass and stuff.
The receding water as usual leaves behind eelgrass and stuff.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and bits of garbage tangled up in clumps of eelgrass and busted bits of reeds floating in from the barene, the marshy wetlands.   This has been going on since the ocean was invented.   If you really can’t stand it, go live somewhere more tranquil — say, Haiti in hurricane season, or Bangladesh when the typhoons come through.   Or even certain parts of Tuscany the past few days, where some rivers have had nervous breakdowns under the unusually torrential rain.   It’s just a suggestion.  

So I’m going to stick with wishing everyone happy holidays.   I’ll be back with more bulletins.

Meaning no disrespect, but this lion distinctly looks as if he's checking how alta the acqua is going to be rising.  I've seen people who look almost exactly like this, though without the wings.
Meaning no disrespect, but this lion distinctly looks as if he's checking how alta the acqua is going to be rising. I've seen people who look almost exactly like this, though without the wings.
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A Christmas Story

IMG_5314 xmas wreath compThe following was not written by me, nor is it set in Venice; it was written by a friend whose gifts far outstrip the recognition they have received.   And because this small but perfect jewel has become part of my own personal Christmas tradition, I am giving it to you here.   Happy Holidays to all.

THE LATECOMER

 

 

 

 

                                                                                                                                                                                        

by George S. Nammack

It was after 10 o’clock on Christmas Eve and I was 12 and wearing my first long trousers.   I never had been permitted to attend midnight mass, but I knew that 10:30 was the latest one could be sure of seating at St. Mary, Star of the Sea in Far Rockaway [NY].   After that, you hurried across the dark schoolyard to claim a folding seat in the Lyceum, actually the school’s auditorium, where you would participate in what was perceived to be a somehow second-cabin rite known as The Overflow Mass.

Mother had made her traditional pronouncement that those who chose to go to midnight services were in a state of less rectitude and grace than were those clear-eyed parishioners who led their scrubbed and shining families to the front pews on Christmas morning.   My father, splendid in the swallowtail coat that he wore as well to medical society meetings, paced before the fire.   He lectured and charmed in favor of the late mass and, finally, prevailed.

IMG_9504 xmas flowers compIt was five minutes before midnight when we were shown to our seats.   Mr. Phelan, a huge detective who looked like the legendary John L. Sullivan and was certainly the heavyweight champion of Far Rockaway, was ushering.   He smiled at my father and leaned in to speak.   “Gee, Doc, you’re just under the wire.   Sorry about the seats.”

“That’s all right, Eddie,” my father said.   “Even the kings were late.”

The altar was centered on the stage, its snowy linens seeming to move in the dancing candlelight.   On a raised platform of red and green two-by-fours, James O’Brien, known as far away as West Hempstead for his rendition of “Bill Bailey, Won’t You Please Come Home,” was playing “Silent Night” on the small organ.   Jockey-size and florid of complexion, he was blessed with a golden tenor.

At four minutes past 12, the popular veteran priest, Father Shine, commenced the celebration of midnight mass.   Following communion and the Special Christmas Collection   — “I trust we’ll have a lovely soft collection…I don’t want to be hearing any silver!” — Mr. O’Brien launched into his showstopper, Adolph Adam’s beautiful “O Holy Night.”

We sang along, but softly, because it was Mr. O’Brien’s moment.   As he reached the somewhat imperative line  about falling on your knees, the back door of the Lyceum opened to admit a javelin of frigid wind and, right behind it, Mr. Mitt Gaffney, who lived in an unheated bungalow near the beach and on handouts from saloon keepers, the kitchen ladies at the hospital and the limited largesse of Long Island Rail Road commuters, many of whom had been his classmates in better days.

He stood there for a moment, listening to Mr. O’Brien and filling the already close atmosphere with the unmistakable aroma of cheap muscatel.   Mr. Phelan’s neck was turning purple as he looked at Mitt Gaffney’s head.   It was covered with a drooping red Santa Claus cap, the peak of which terminated in a once-white pom-pom that fell across the left shoulder of his stained Army overcoat like a medal awarded for congenital innocence.

Mr. Phelan whispered as only a 300-pound man can when he needs to make a point but doesn’t want to disturb the world at large.   He said, “Mother of God, Mitt, you’re late and mass is nearly over, and you got a helluva bun on and take off that damned hat in church!”

“Go easy, Eddie, easy,” smiled Mitt, removing his droll topping and stuffing it into a pocket.   “We’re not in church, we’re at The Overflow and I just overflowed in for a peek.”

Mr. Phelan said, “I’ll give you a peek and more, Mitt, if you don’t shut up and behave yourself.   Now hush!”

IMG_9665 xmas angel compThe latecomer managed to balance himself behind the last row.   As the last lingering note rose in the accepted direction of Paradise, Mitt Gaffney stepped into the main aisle and acknowledged Mr. O’Brien’s tour de force.   “Bravo, Jimmy!   Bravo!   You sounded just like an angel!   Honest, kiddo, an angel!   A real angel!”

Mitt was teetering from side to side, applauding his friend, his enormous freckled hands crashing into each other.   Mr. O’Brien stood and stared through his rimless glasses at this display of uninvited support.   His expression was akin to the kind you see at the zoo, when a child sees a rhinoceros for the first time.    I believed he was about to faint.

The stunned faithful turned as one to fix the speaker with glares, and Mr. Phelan was puffing back from the front of the auditorium.   My father reached out and gently but firmly navigated Mr. Mitt Gaffney into the only empty seat in our row.

The glares gave way to head-shaking, then to snickers, which built to a great wave of relieving laughter.   My father put a protective arm around the old Army overcoat and told its frail occupant to be quiet.

Father Shine took a deep breath and spoke.   His brogue was as soft as rain on pebbles, and his large blue eyes seemed to hold all of the light.   “All right, then, settle down all of you.

IMG_2281 xmas madonna comp“Given the fact that I found his somewhat-demonstrative approbation a bit unusual, given the fact that in these parts we’re not given to applauding the sacred music, I must say that I wholeheartedly concurred with Mr. Gaffney’s appreciation of Mr. O’Brien’s divinely inspired performance.   You did sound just like an angel, Jimmy.   And Mitt, if you’re to clap and bellow again in church — and you’re in church, Lyceum or not — I’ll have Mr. Phelan cart you off to the hoosegow.   Now then, the mass is ended.   Go in peace.   God bless you all, and drive safely.”

On the way home, my mother said that the interruption was disgraceful, but my father said that things don’t happen unless they’re supposed to and that Mr. Mitt Gaffney had brought a unique gift to midnight mass.   Not only that, but he had caused everyone to open it and share it right there at The Overflow, and pity those over at the main church who missed out.

Later, in bed, I thought about the red Santa cap and its almost-white pom-pom, and Mr. O’Brien’s facial expression, and Father Shine’s forgiving eyes, and my father.   I gazed out into the starry night and wondered if Mr. O’Brien would sing one day as an angel in Heaven and if Mr Mitt Gaffney would be there to applaud him, and I thought that their chances were pretty good.

IMG_5513 xmas creche comp

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Cell phones save lives

When I was first living in Venice, back when dinosaurs still roamed the earth, cell phones were just beginning to catch on. It seems strange — insane — to think of it now, but there were still few enough to justify making passing comments such as “Buy! Buy!” when someone ostentatiously walked by, talking into this little gimcrack.

Now, of course, we can’t even metabolize  simple sugars without them.

One night, in those distant years, we were walking home along the Fondamenta San Basegio. All at once we were startled to hear a woman’s voice suddenly, very loud, right behind us.

Mothers: omnipotent, omniscient, omni everything, even before they got cell phones.  It was sorcery; now it's just electronics.
Mothers: omnipotent, omniscient, omni everything, even before they got cell phones. It used to be sorcery; now it's just electronics.

Cominciate a mangiare,” she stated firmly, striding past us.   “Fra due minuti saro’ a casa.”   [“You all start eating, I’ll be home in two minutes.”]   She turned down the Calle de l’Avogaria and was gone.

We went left, over the bridge.

“Wow,” I said.   “Good thing she had the cell phone.   What would have happened if we were still back in the old days, when people couldn’t phone to say they were almost home?”

“The family would have starved,” Lino answered immediately.   “There they are, all sitting around the table, with their knives and forks ready.   But Mom isn’t home!   What should we do?   Should we wait?   Should we start?   Where is she?   What’s gone wrong?”

He was in full sail now.   “The police will finally break in, but it will be too late for most of them.   The grandfather will already be dead, because he’s the weakest.   He couldn’t hold out.   The little boy will be barely alive, but that’s only because he was sneaking bits of pasta on the side.   The rest of the family will be strewn about the table, unconscious.  

“‘What happened?’ the police will cry.

“‘We couldn’t start eating,’ somebody will gasp out, barely able to talk.   ‘Mom wasn’t home yet.’

“Thank God she had the phone.”

Fathers are also good.  Somebody gets two extra points for getting their little boy a hobbyhorse and then letting him ride it to wherever they were going.  I didn't know they still even made them.
Fathers are also good. Somebody gets two extra points for giving their little boy a hobbyhorse and then letting him ride it to wherever they were going. I didn't know they still even made them.
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Snow Day

We got snow!   While I realize that our little meterological adventure was nothing compared to what the East Coast of the US has gone through, not to mention northern Europe (stories of the trains trapped under the Channel inspire a special kind of shudder), it still was  enough to jolt us out of our midwinter torpor.

This was our wake-up call.
This was our wake-up call.

Even here, flights were cancelled, or delayed, and I have no doubt that stories of catastrophes on the mainland will be coming in.

But for us, the situation was more beautiful than distressing, if you don’t count our miscalculation on getting home before the acqua alta was high enough to mostly cover our feet.   (Yes, we were warned: two tones on the sirens.   But I didn’t take it seriously.)   Sorry about my Timberland hiking boots; hope I can salvage something from the effects of salt water.

We usually get at least one severe cold snap each winter, though it seems to want to wait till just after Christmas.   So this year we got it early.   For the past few days it’s been at or below freezing and Saturday morning we woke to the double-whammy of snow and acqua alta.  

Two hours later, the scene had changed.  One good thing about acqua alta is that at least it removes the snow.
Two hours later, the scene had changed. One good thing about acqua alta is that at least it removes the snow.

When  Lino was a lad, as soon as the flakes began  to fall, men would present themselves at the central office of the Vigili (a sort of local police) to pick up a shovel and make some extra money cleaning the streets and bridges.   He says you could hear them out on the street, talking, as early as 4:00 AM,  waiting to get to work. Intensely  intelligent and also effective and probably didn’t cost the city all that much.   All good reasons why they don’t do it anymore.

Our faithful trash collectors  were scarce to invisible this morning.   Any tiny deviation from the norm throws the squad into total disarray.   No snow shoveled, no garbage collected — I can’t believe that every sanitation worker in the city had to be in the Piazza San Marco to set up the high-water walkways.   Perhaps they were all clustered in a doorway (more likely it was a warm bar somewhere) drawing straws to determine who’d be the one who had to go out and actually work.

I have some happy, if highly eccentric, memories of a real cold snap here.   One winter morning a number of years ago, when the cold had come down from Siberia like the wolf on the fold, we went out rowing.   Yes, of course we’re mentally unstable.    

This time it wasn't fog that made the city look like this.  Blowing snow is also pretty effective for blurring the scenery.
This time it wasn't fog that made the city look like this. Blowing snow is also pretty effective for blurring the scenery.

Here’s what I remember:   Rowing down a canal and our oars slicing neatly (once in, once out) through the forming ice.   What a fun little crunching sound it made.   What wasn’t quite so fun was the wind blowing so hard that the spray from the waves froze in the bottom of the boat.   I spent the entire time we were rowing back  imagining that my shoes were nailed in place, because it was like standing on a skating rink.   If I’d slipped just once, I’d never have gotten my footing back.   I took my mind off this problem by trying to imagine if it would be possible to row on my knees.  

But that was nothing.   There was the famous — make that “epic” freeze of February, 1929: people were walking across the lagoon from the Fondamente Nove to San Michele.   Impressive.   Of course, one reason that happened (and probably could never happen again) isn’t just the factor of the degrees below zero.   There wasn’t the constant maelstrom of waves back then that we have today, which would prevent any rational water from freezing.   If you’ve got a really low temperature, few or no waves, plus only the tiniest tidal variation (twice a month, when the moon is exactly  half, the tide scarcely moves, which would help the freezing, obviously) it’s almost inevitable that ice will form.   I have to say I’m glad we didn’t reach that point.   Delicate little skins of ice covering the water is one thing, but not this polar purgatory.

 

 
 

So on the whole, we made out really well.   The snow came, and then, when the tide turned in the early afternoon, the sun came out and we were fine.   Except, I mean, for the bags of garbage which will lie out there till Monday.  

The lions in front of the Arsenal were not amused.  "Remind me again how we ended up here, surrounded by water?  Oh, right: spoils of war.  Great."
The lions in front of the Arsenal were not amused. "Remind me again how we ended up here, surrounded by water? Oh, right: spoils of war. Great."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As long as you don't have to drive, scenes like this are really beautiful.
As long as you don't have to drive, scenes like this are really beautiful.

 

The guys who run the bumper cars at the temporary amusement park on the Riva dei Sette Martiri have to clean up the old-fashioned way: physical exertion.
The guys who run the bumper cars at the temporary amusement park on the Riva dei Sette Martiri have to clean up the old-fashioned way: physical exertion.

 

 

Eventually at least a couple of ecological operators, as they're called, had to get out and do something. The Barbie-sized wheelbarrow appears to contain enough salt for exactly one bridge.
Eventually at least a couple of ecological operators, as they're called, had to get out and do something. The Barbie-sized wheelbarrow appears to contain enough salt for exactly one bridge.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All the gondoliers who didn't come to work in the Bacino Orseolo are just going to wait for it to melt, then bail.
All the gondoliers who didn't come to work in the Bacino Orseolo are just going to wait for it to melt, then bail.
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