Venice: I am not making this up

So, how are we? (Part 1)

August 2, 2020 10 Comments

I have seen a tourist. I have heard a foreign language. I have seen a taxi and a gondola. I have heard the muffled roar of an airplane taking off. I have seen a barge carrying bags of hotel laundry. And I’ve heard the deep crackling sound of a rolling suitcase. I noticed each one of these, over the past month or so, as a faint, flickering sign of a pulse that could mean that Venice is returning to life.

For anyone whose livelihood depends on tourists — that is, just about everybody — the sight of one must be like the sight of a dripping faucet to a person suffering the last stages of severe dehydration. And someone reading a guidebook instead of squinting at a phone seems like a vision from the era of the Grand Tour.

Not to belabor the metaphor, but it’s one thing to survive a near-death experience, and another to get well. Things are still bad; tourism is making only a tentative, baby-steps recovery. It’s all very little, and for this year, too late for anyone to begin to feel good. But as I say, there are signs.

It was natural for non-Venetians to imagine that life here under quarantine must have been beautiful without tourists. Au very much contraire — it’s been a mar de lagrime (sea of tears), as they say here, because everything in Venice lies at some point on six degrees of separation from tourism.

Having said that — just as an aside — don’t think that the economy of the nation is built only on gelato and selfies at the Leaning Tower. Here’s a fun fact: Italy is the second-ranked industrial country in Europe; in 2019, over 75% of the EU’s value of sold industrial production was generated by six Member States: Germany (28% of the EU total), Italy (16 %), France (12 %)… Of course, tourism is called an industry, too, but I don’t think you can say a country produces it in the same way it produces eyeglasses, machinery, pharmaceuticals, clothing, cars and — wait for it — robots.

But let’s get back to tourists. (Yes, it’s unfortunate that you can’t have tourism without them.) Italy is the fifth country in the world, and third in Europe, in terms of international tourist arrivals. In 2018, tourists from abroad made up 86.6 percent of all visitors to Venice. (Domestic tourist arrivals in 2019 were a small, but perfectly formed, 747,000.) Arrivals from anywhere in the world since March, 2020: …. Five? One official estimate suggests that Italy won’t be back to pre-pandemic levels of tourism before 2023.

The lure of sitting on the fondamenta’s edge has endured, but, at least at the beginning of the reopening, there seems to have been an improvement in the visitors who succumb. (For the record, two German ladies.)

The earliest days of the reopening saw many more families coming to explore, though they still arrived mainly on the weekend, and often stayed only for the day. And a higher number than usual were (and still are) Italian.

And a few daily tourist boats have begun to return, bringing a few more hardy souls. As the numbers increase, ever so slowly, the percentage of barbarians seems to have remained the same. I read that in Campo Santa Margherita some people are back to using the streets as a latrine; in the sestiere of Santa Croce, tourists have been seen washing themselves and their laundry at one of the fountains.

Many hotels are now open, but with reduced staff and reduced numbers of guests, too. The shops are offering dramatic sales, from 50-70 percent off. Gondoliers are working at ten percent of their usual summer load; instead of working three days and staying home two, their normal scheme, they’re working two and staying home three to allow everyone to make at least some money. A friend who has a small jewelry store near San Marco has been opening only two days a week. Many museums are not fully reopened. Baby steps.

True, towns and businesses all over Italy (and world) are undergoing the same crisis; it’s not just Venice, obviously. But I noticed it more vividly via the gondoliers. Not that I had any special concern for or about them, but I had never reflected — nor had they, I suppose — on how dependent on tourism that they had become. I suppose a taxi-driver can adjust his fares, because taxis are always useful. But nobody has to take a gondola.

So: First there was the collapse of tourism following the acqua granda of November 12, 2019. That cataclysm terrified tourists, who cancelled bookings for fear of finding themselves floating out to sea if they came here. Then the quarantine. The faucet (to return to my symbolism) that had seemed to the gondoliers to be perpetually open suddenly shut completely. And therefore the same crisis has struck the three gondola-builders. After the damage inflicted by the high water/hurricane, their business has also stopped. One builder told me that he has had five cancellations of orders for new boats, which amounts to the income of an entire year.

So we’re not what I’d call happy without tourists, no.

No mask is going to stop her wearing her mask.

On the bright side, some of the tourists I’ve noticed have been uncharacteristically charming. Instead of the usual heat-stunned shoals of debilitated desert explorers fitted out by sports companies, there have been gems like this couple. What always bemuses me is that no matter how much effort the female component has put into her look, the male component is almost always dressed pretty much like this. But this young lady is visiting Venice in a way that I frankly admire. High heels and a tiny purse! What world is she living in?

Not glamorous, but so remarkably in tune with each other that it’s a pleasure to see them. It’s in the shoes that we see them marching to their separate but equal drummers.

Two months have passed since the end of the lockdown and businesses are struggling. Judging by how many restaurants there are here, I’d have thought people come to Venice just to eat, but “The restaurant situation is extremely serious,” says Ernesto Pancin, secretary of Aepe (Associazione Esercenti Pubblici Esercizi, Association, or Association of Public Businesses),with some 800 restaurant/bar members in the historic center.

“Today between 60-70 percent of the restaurants have reopened,” he said, “but they have only 30-40 percent of the work and income they had last summer. They can’t manage to cover expenses — especially the rent — and the personnel is reduced. The absence of customers is really felt during the week, while the weekend flow is hanging on. But the weekend earnings aren’t enough to make ends meet.” People who have been working from home don’t go out to lunch; people on unemployment don’t have the money to eat out, and people in general are less inclined to go out, period. In some restaurants, the owner is waiting tables.

“We’re living day by day,” said Bonifacio Brass, owner of the Locanda Cipriani at Torcello, told a reporter for La Nuova Venezia. “We’ve had Italian customers, above all… Naturally we’re working mostly on the weekend. Lots of Venetians are coming in their boats, but meanwhile there has been a cutback in the vaporettos.”

Before we leave this chapter in the saga of these days in Venice (Part 2 will follow as soon as I can), all the problems aren’t necessarily tied to tourism.

For those of us trying to live a normal life, there’s the looming problem of the 570 family doctors in the 44-commune “province” of Venice. The national health system requires you to be linked to some basic doctor — your choice — who is your first stop in the world of medical assistance. Any visit to a specialist requires what I call a “work order” from your doctor. Now we find out that within five years, half of them will retire.

Unless replacements are found in a timely manner, the remaining doctors could have as many as 1,600 patients on their rosters.

And speaking of retirement, here’s another economic thunderclap from an approaching storm: For the first time, Italy now has more retired people than actively employed people.

Meanwhile, daily life continues here on its mundane little path to parts unknown. The more banal or even boring an activity or object may be, the more I have come to treasure it.

Crises and catastrophes may abound, but the need for domestic appliances will never fail.

Venetian Events

Redentore, the best we could do

July 22, 2020 3 Comments

Some weather on Friday evening slightly bedraggled the lanterny lights that usually give a happy glow to alfresco feasting along the Giudecca. This in itself doesn’t ruin the party, but it doesn’t help.

When last we spoke, Venice was on the verge of its annual celebration of the feast of the Redentore (held last Sunday). By now the festa has come and gone, but this year the difference between the two was minimal. “Reduced form” is the boilerplate description, but if you reduce something past a certain point it just isn’t it anymore.

We did not have fireworks, as all the world knows. Without fireworks, I discovered, the festa can’t achieve liftoff. Yes, people did come to Venice — according to La Nuova Venezia, 108 tables had been reserved for the usual dinners outside (68 of them along the fondamenta of the Giudecca), and a total of some 15,000 people came to join the Venetians making some sort of merry. Fifteen thousand may sound good compared to nothing (let us cast our minds back to the desolation of the total lockdown), but it represented less than a fifth of the number that crammed the city last year. I used to hate the cramming, but without it the evening felt strangely deflated. No, actually, it felt partially deflated, which is not much better.

Seeing that we did not go roaming the city in search of entertainment, I only know what I saw in our little lobe of land, or what the newspaper reports. It says that there were people eating outside around the city, along fondamente big or small, or in their boats tied up in the Grand Canal or some other major waterways. That sounds nice.

To warm the general atmosphere to an even happier level, four large boats bearing a total of some 30 Venetian musicians moved around the Grand Canal, the Giudecca Canal and the Bacino of San Marco. Floating music has a long tradition in this festival, although in recent years it has been co-opted by the big party boats blaring music at levels that would pulverize a small planet. It must have been wonderful to have a bouncier, smaller sort of soundtrack as the evening drew on (for the record, the participants were Batisto Coco, Josmil Neris and Laguna Swing, Pitura Stail and Ska-j). All these groups are on YouTube, and here is a small clip that shows how little it took — at least, compared to the labor and cost of a 30-minute fireworks display — to get the party going.

It looks really sweet and I send huge compliments to the organizers, etc. Unhappily for us, none of these boats made it down as far as via Garibaldi — or at least not during the brief period I was roaming the waterfront. So if this sort of thing is ever organized again (and I hope it will be, though probably everyone will want fireworks again), the landlubbers need to lub somewhere further afield.

So I can only report on Redentore as observed south of the Arsenal and north of Sant’ Elena. But I will throw in some of the races held on Sunday afternoon, and a glimpse of the Patriarch going to mass, if that will help liven things up. We’ll hope for better and happier things next year.

The late afternoon scene was a little melancholy. At this point, in a normal world, this stretch of water would have been a turmoil of boats arriving and moving around and getting settled for the evening.

There was a moment when weather looked like it was working up some fireworks of its own, but then it moved away.

The Riva Sette Martiri is usually lined with enormous luxury yachts, driving the mobs crazy by blocking the view of the fireworks. These obviously did not present a problem. It was kind of touching, seeing yachts again, no matter how small and unassuming. This marks a kind of milestone in the return to normalcy.

Getting ready for company, and lots of it, too. Via Garibaldi in the late afternoon seemed like one long table.

Most of the tables were reserved, even if they were merely the picnic type.

Individual tables have been separated, at least somewhat. But if your party consists of 30 friends and family, you’re not going to start measuring distances.

Many people were looking very nice indeed. Not what one usually imagines with the word “tourist.”

Almost all the restaurants add more tables and the police look the other way. But this is sublime! Need two more tables? There’s plenty of room in the middle of via Garibaldi. People can just walk around them.

More expansion into the mainstream, cleverly delimited by fake boxwoods.

Just one more table? What a fabulous problem to have — needing more room — after the Long Closing of the spring.

The waiter is wearing a mask because he’s going inside so often. Also, he probably isn’t related to any of this group. Also, I think it’s required.

There was music here too — several places had live performers. The night’s still young, so the band hasn’t set up yet.

Of course there are dogs. There are always dogs. But the street is uncharacteristically uncrammed. It feels a little strange.

A few families staked out their own territory, the basic building block of the festival. Forego fireworks? If we must. Forego food with the folks? No. Just no.

Neighborhood folks haven’t yet been outnumbered by the visitors. With plenty dogs and kids, it’s just a normal summer night on the street.

The votive bridge got a reasonable amount of traffic, but as many seem to be going as coming. There was one balloon vendor, but no stands selling candy or cotton candy. No parish charity lottery, no stand selling products made by the prisoners. We were down to the bare bones.

However, there were more spectators at the races than usual. I heard several people remark on it.

Masks aren’t required outdoors, as you see. But plenty of people keep one on hand, if they should need to go into a bar/cafe, or take the vaporetto. Passengers aren’t allowed to board if a mask is not already in place.

There are three races: Young men on pupparinos, older men on pupparinos, and men on gondolas. The blue boat has just crossed the finish line, marked by the vertical cord in the wooden frame, which is aligned with a marker further out in the canal.

Andrea Bertoldini and Mattia Colombi winning for the second year in a row. They were at least one boat-length ahead of their closest competitor.

The battle for third place came down to the last few seconds.

To enter the church required a line, of course; this year, a modest and very orderly line. Hand sanitizer on the table at the entrance, clearly marked entrance and exit (no more milling around), and monks with masks. It was all rather subdued.

The Patriarch of Venice (last seen at the festa of San Piero at the end of June), arriving to get garbed for the big ceremonial procession.

Events, Venetian Events

Redentore up in smoke

July 9, 2020 9 Comments

Waiting for the fireworks. Last year, this looked like a party. This year, it looks like a public health nightmare. I hadn’t ever thought about it, but fireworks manufacturers must be hurting this year along with everybody else.

This just in: The bridge is already under construction, and I’m sure the fireworks are already on the way, but like a launch at Cape Canaveral, mayor Luigi Brugnaro has scrubbed the mission.

This year, there will be no fireworks for the Redentore (July 19). No fireworks, no party boats, no “notte famosissima.” It’s a blow, but there were already signs that caution was going to rule, beginning with the new regulation that spaces along the fondamente were going to be assigned only by booking. But in the end, it was obvious that safe social distancing was going to be impossible to plan, much less maintain, on water or on land.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. “Festa of the Redentore, on the embankments only by reservation.”

Here is the mayor’s announcement (translated by me):

“I do not have good news. I have been awake all night, but unfortunately I’m forced to tell you that we are annulling the fireworks for the Redentore. I can’t bring myself to make it work, I have tried everything. In conscience I just don’t feel like it, for me it’s the most beautiful festa of the year. We set up an incredible system for booking for the boats, we even invented a series of plans for limiting the flow. It’s my decision, I take responsibility for it, but I cannot bring the city to risk it. This is a safe city.”

If you come for the fireworks, you’re almost certainly going to want to eat something somewhere. Not a scene that bears repeating this year.

No news at this moment as to whether the races will be held on Sunday afternoon, or the mass.

However, I think it’s unlikely that the festal mass on Sunday afternoon is going to be permitted to proceed as in days of yore.

Winds of change, as the cliche’ goes. Hang tough, Venice.

Boatworld

Boats and saints

July 4, 2020 5 Comments

Last Sunday was an unusually entertaining day. It wasn’t as entertaining as the last Sunday of June typically is, coming at the culmination of five days of festivizing at San Pietro di Castello in honor of the church’s namesake. But by the time the day was over there had been more diversion than I’d expected.

Let’s start with the festa for Saint Peter. This year — you know what’s coming — The Virus made it impossible to host the usual large and lively crowds, or execute the expected entertainment and the feeding of at least five thousand. (Yes, bread and fish are always on the menu, among other things.)

This is the way the festival always looks, give or take a colored spotlight or two. Five evenings straight, going full blast until midnight. We can hear the music from our house, and we’re not exactly next door. Depending on the direction of the wind, we can also get wafts of hot greasy things. This year, nothing.

A lot of people always came from all around Venice, and maybe the mainland too. So technically you could call them “tourists,” though they generally seemed unforeign. I wish I’d paid more attention to the little boy in the center of the image, who I now see was attempting to climb the large trash-collection bin. I’d like to have known how that came out. I don’t recall any ambulances. Those were great years.

But nobody said we couldn’t have the festal mass, complete with the Patriarch of Venice on his annual visit. Chairs were set up outside in the campo, correctly distanced, and although the usual supporting players were few (a couple of selected Scouts instead of a whole troop, four trumpeters instead of the band from Sant’ Erasmo), or even non-existent (no Cavalieri di San Marco in their sweeping mantles — soooo hot but sooooo well worth it, I’m sure they believe), there was a fine gathering of the faithful.

And may I say that seeing each other without being separated by layers of tourists has been, and continues to be, a noticeably positive aspect of the quarantine and aftermath. More about that another time. But back to the service.

As the Patriarch pointed out in his sermon, the religious aspect is the one essential element of the occasion. He didn’t specifically say “Don’t feel mournful because there were no barbecued ribs and polenta and live music and horsing around for hours with your friends and the mosquitoes,” though I’m sure he knew that’s what people were missing. At least they came for him.

To review: This was the traditional festa:

It’s a bigger campo than most, but I wouldn’t have wanted to be the person responsible for enforcing social distancing on this mob.

And this was the setup for mass, the only event of the entire festival. Down to the essentials, indeed.

The temporary platform/altar arrangement was very efficient. The backdrop is the Patriarch’s coat of arms, worked by the tireless fingers of the group “Un Filo che Riunisce” (A Thread that Brings Together).

Just a refresher: The crossed-key motif symbolizes Saint Peter.

Except for a few places in the design that called for more complicated handiwork, the fundamental element appeared to be potholders. Sorry if that seems disrespectful.

Last year’s festa was the first exhibition of the handiwork by “Un Filo che Riunisce” was this arrangement of — if not potholders, then squares to compose some titanic afghan. The components were sold for a few euros each to benefit the pediatric department of the Ospedale Civile, or city hospital, in Venice.

They struck again last Christmas, with this creation in via Garibaldi. The group, a crocheting class, was formed in January of 2019 at the Salesian convent in calle San Domenico. The idea was to create something big out of many small pieces. I like the metaphor, and it certainly cheered up the December night.

The arrival of the Patriarch aboard an elegant balotina is always a great moment (made beautiful as much by the balotina as the passenger, sorry). This year the Remiera Casteo launched the fleet — I’ve never seen that many boats from the club accompanying the guest of honor. The caorlina carried four trumpeters, the ones usually seen blasting from the bow of the bissona at the head of the corteo for the festa de la Sensa. I love the band from Sant’ Erasmo, but these were better, partly because ceremonial fanfares are fabulous in themselves, and because they came under oar-power. I can tell you from experience that following the motor-barge that carries the band means that you spend 45 minutes inhaling diesel exhaust, so it’s basically like rowing the Patriarch behind an 18-wheeler on the interstate. Not very poetic.

Behold the brass section. They sounded as good as they look.

Here the eye moves from the boat and its passengers to the dock onto which the passengers must alight (if one can use that word for a maneuver coming from so far below the objective). Hmmm….

The job description for Patriarch of Venice ought to include “Boats, ability to climb into and out of.” His Eminence Francesco Moraglia has always shown remarkable aplomb in nautical moments that have every potential for disaster. Perhaps being born in Genoa and former bishop of La Spezia, site of an important naval base, has had some effect.

Nothing easier. And he’s always quite conscientious about showing appreciation to the crew.

A squirt of the semi-obligatory hand sanitizer, then on to greeting the notables, beginning with the woman representing the city government bedecked with the colors of the national flag. As you see, masks are not obligatory because we are all outside. But many people are still taking the safe route.

Assorted greetings follow, in this case to a divisional general of the Guardia di Finanza, as he walks toward the church, where he will add some garb and prepare for the mass.

Four priests administered communion from various positions around the area; they were easy to find by a white umbrella held aloft by a Scout.

And then it was time to take everything down.

Some of these ladies may have cataracts and any other sort of visual problem, but there is at least one who still manages to miss nothing. What is she looking at? She, and nobody else?

A batch of balloons has broken free. Up and away… Of course I have no idea where they’re going, but as for me, I’m off to the races this afternoon.

Sunday afternoon it was time to segue from the sublime to the secular. Every year, on the last Sunday in June, the city of Venice organizes two races in honor of Saints Giovanni and Paolo. The reason it isn’t called the race of Saint Peter is because it is held in the water between Murano and the Fondamente Nove, and the finish line is in front of the hospital, which is on the campo SS. Giovanni e Paolo.

The first race involves pairs of men on a boat called a pupparino; the second race is for young men up to age 25, rowing solo on gondolas. Sound simple? Of course it is, as long as everything goes well.

But sometimes it doesn’t…..

For both races, the starting line is in front of Murano; the race then follows the path indicated here, and the finish line is in front of the hospital. Until this year, the gondolas lined up in the canal in front of the campo SS. Giovanni e Paolo for a blessing. Hence the name of the regata is the two saints, and not “race of the City Hospital.” That would always sound sketchy, but these days it would be inconceivable.

The men on pupparinos go first, and go they certainly did. I’m usually watching from the shore, but this time I was able to follow the race on a friend’s motorboat.

The men on pupparinos are off to a fast start, leaving Murano behind to the left and heading west past the cemetery toward Sant’ Alvise and the first turn. All the boats, regardless of type, are painted these colors and yes, the two boats in the lead (orange and green) have made an impressive start. They will pretty much run their own race and finish first and second respectively. The real race is what transpired in the scrum following them.

This is what we like to see — the boats strung out in an orderly line. Except there are a few issues lurking in the lineup. Green has left the group and gone left, hoping to find some advantage in the tide (problem: it will soon have to rejoin the group at the first turn). And there is the pink boat, side by side with white. I foresee problems because boats arriving at the turn side by side — especially the boat on the inside — are inevitably going to be facing consequences.

The plot is rapidly thickening here as the boats try to get into the best position (as defined by each one) for rounding the first turn, anticlockwise around a piling.

It’s enough just to look at the race judge with the loudspeaker to realize that things are not going well. Orange has turned and is clean away; blue has just completed its turn, and green has rejoined the pack in third position. But blue made its turn very close to the piling in order to prevent green from having space to turn (a maneuver that is forbidden for reasons which are already obvious. The judge would have been justified in disqualifying blue right there, but events have gotten out of control). So green is now destined to run into the blue boat — destined also by the decision of its stern rower not to swing wide at the last second, which he could have done. Meanwhile….

Why is blue still here? It should already be gone, but its calculations went a little screwy and instead it is now stuck, grappling with green, and white and pink are both coming up at high speed to make the turn with two boats essentially standing still in front of them. Pink was gambling on having room to turn from the inside, even though the rules prohibit putting yourself between the piling and another boat, for reasons which are already obvious. White could have swung wide here, but for some reason decided not to (probably it doesn’t want to lose time), and right about now they both realize that they have no room at all to avoid the pile-up. An expert later explained that blue had probably deliberately made the turn closer to the piling than is permitted in the hope of preventing the following boat to sneak past on the inside (also forbidden). Everybody’s supposed to leave room for at least minimal functioning, but blue decided otherwise. And so, as the expression now goes, here we are.

Purple and yellow have cut their losses by swinging wide; they lose some seconds of time but at least they can maneuver. White and pink are still stuck inside, trapped by green and white, and now we have brown coming up on the inside, stuck between the piling and yellow. Blue has managed to disengage itself and accelerated, speeding away and leaving everybody to deal with the effects of its little duel with green. Looking good? There’s still plenty of race to go….

Yellow and purple are fleeing, while brown is trying to stop the boat to avoid running into pink; pink is sitting there because white and green can’t move. Everyone’s so close there’s no room to work their oars.

The stern rower on pink has actually reached down and is grabbing the metal point on brown’s bow to keep it from colliding. You can understand the instinct, but it is totally forbidden to touch your adversary’s boat. So pink could have been disqualified here, but too much is going on. Blue, bless its heart, probably thinks the day is won and is already envisioning that beautiful white pennant for second place. But the race is far from over.

Things are starting to look a little better for everybody except for red, who is now hurtling into the mix. But red manages to make it around without incident, and so everybody’s back on track. Yellow and purple, out of the frame at the moment, are turning around to get back into contention. Orange is so far in the lead by now he must be wondering where everybody went.

Well, that was exciting. Now back to normal, here in the back half of the race.

Now what? For some reason the blue boat (remember those few seconds when it seemed like it was zooming away? The other boats have caught up) has swerved off its trajectory right into white’s path. The usual term is either “losing” the boat or the boat has “fallen.” You might do it on purpose and pretend it was an accident if you’re willing to sacrifice yourself for the sake of eliminating your rival, but it’s a risk and I’m not saying that happened here because blue had plenty of space to race. It could be that white got too close to blue and ran over blue’s oar (forbidden!!), a contact that renders the victim helpless, as you see here.

Blue is now trying to get moving again as white speeds away. Blue’s race seems to not be following whatever wonderful plan was implied at the fateful turn. So blue decides to chance its arm by abandoning this flight path, to so speak, and heads across the channel to the right to seek some better current (or fewer adversaries).

As you see, blue has disappeared, and now we have a delightfully orderly line of boats. This is refreshing, we haven’t seen this for quite a while. Think I’ll look back at what’s happening with the last boats.

Excuse me? Yellow has completely stopped because his partner in the bow has collapsed.

And he’s staying collapsed, too. Meanwhile, the show — I mean race — must go on. I would never presume to know what goes through racers’ minds, but I’d be willing to bet that after “Holy yikes!” some version of “One less boat!” has flitted through their brains. No real worries, because the judges’ boat is right there.

There is always an ambulance nearby — the race can’t be held without one. So help is at hand (and the man was resuscitated, though they didn’t finish the race).

So that’s taken care of. How are things going with the race up ahead? The last three boats have peeled off to the right, seeking some advantage with the tide that will put them ahead of the rest of the boats along the line of pilings to the left. I see blue in the lead, followed by purple and red.

But wait! Why is purple suddenly heading toward the embankment — or more precisely, toward the red boat?

Purple has lost control, has run into red, and they’re both heading straight toward the ponderous white vaporetto moored at the dock. (Ignore the blue motorboat — it’s not dangerously close.)

It’s every man for himself. Red swerved right to avoid hitting the white vaporetto, purple managed somehow to swerve left (hidden by the vaporetto), and blue continued on its merry way.

But never say die, they’re still in the race.

We didn’t follow the race beyond this point, but waited near the finish line. The judge’s dock, with the blue awning and gonfalone of San Marco, is moored to the fondamenta on the right.

The anarchy of the after-race half-hour is almost as entertaining as the anarchy of everything else. The mix of boats, people, relatives, and racers in various states of anger or joy is pretty entertaining. Center stage here is a pupparino from the rowing club of the DLF, or Dopolavoro Ferroviario, the after-work sports club of railway workers. Coming to see a race is just as good an excuse for amateur rowers to come out on a sunny Sunday afternoon as it is for the families in motorboats.

Speaking of families (or people, anyway) in motorboats, you get used to the fact that everybody in a motorboat is a fan of rowing. I know. Crazy.

The rule — not always observed — is that motorboats aren’t allowed to get out ahead of the race and create waves that would disturb the first boats in the race. The second through ninth boats have to deal with whatever waves come their way. Yes, I freely recognize that I too am in a motorboat.

If it floats and has a motor, you’ll probably find it at the races. Here we have a better-than-usual assortment of spectator boats.

This is the quintessential summer-Sunday-in-lagoon boat: A classic wooden sampierota (could be rowed, or even sailed with the right rigging), with a tiny motor and lightly toasted family and friends of various shapes and ages. There’s a cooler (extra points) but no baby or dog (points subtracted). You could easily see all this on a shiny plastic motorboat, but it wouldn’t be this beautiful.

If anyone is interested, here are the results of the race of the men on pupparinos, from first to last: Orange, green, pink, white, brown, blue, purple, red. (Yellow withdrew, obviously.)

As for the race of the young men on gondolas, I have no strength left to report on it or anything else. Happily, there is nothing noteworthy to report. It seems that the day’s double-ration of drama was expended completely on the first race.

Now I’m going to lie down for a while.

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