Venice: I am not making this up

Just don’t call me late for dinner *

July 23, 2018 2 Comments

Here the deceased is remembered by all, as noted, by the nickname “Spagheto” (“Chiam.” is short for “chiamato,” or “called”). In Italian the word “spaghetto” means “twine,” or “string.” (Lots of little ones are obviously called spaghetti even if you eat them rather than tie them. Even food gets nicknames.)

Nicknames grow spontaneously here, like the shrubbery sprouting from the bridges. (I think I’ve mentioned this in other posts.) They’re not like stage names; you can’t plan them, and you can’t nickname yourself. Something just happens and voila’ — you’ve got a nom de guerre for life, and not only you but, as you’ll see shortly, also your descendants.

On our way to the nicknames we need to detour through the numbers of the Neapolitan “smorfia,” or scheme by which items are assigned a particular occult number; the purpose of this is to facilitate your translating elements of your dream last night into numbers which you will use to play the lottery.

I was in Naples some years ago and dreamed of a flying rainbow-colored turtle, so being almost certain of having received a mystic message which would soon be translated into cash, I went to the lottery-shop and a wizened lady behind a window looked up the numbers corresponding to flight, turtle, and rainbow. I played them and I won, almost immediately, nothing. But the numbers are sacrosanct so it obviously wasn’t My Day and so, I ask myself, why did I bother playing? For the same reason everybody plays, to one degree or another. Because you NEVER KNOW.

The classic number I remember best is 47: “Morto che parla” — Dead man who talks. Immortalized in an unforgettable instant in the film “Gli Onorevoli” with the incomparable Toto’, who is running for office and yells out his condominium window for everybody to vote for him by checking box 47. Voices from hundreds of surrounding windows bellow “Morto che parla!”

Or 8: “Otto fa culo, otto fa porco, otto fa marinaio” — Eight makes butt, eight makes pig, eight makes sailor. Lino says this sometimes, and I’m not taking this one any further.

If you want to read the list from one to 90 according to the usage in Naples (where fortune-telling is as basic to life as bread), here’s a chance to learn some new Italian and also some Neapolitan.

And so we come to the number 14, which is why I brought up nicknames. Lino has an ancient cousin who was telling me the other day that her father was called “Fourteen.” (She didn’t say “nicknamed,” which would have helped.) Someone trying to place her would say “Oh — you’re Fourteen’s daughter.” I, in my innocence, thought he was the fourteenth child, which 90 years ago wouldn’t have been totally improbable. I’ve known people of a certain age named “First,” or “Second,” and there was even “Decimo” — tenth. Useful for the parents, probably scarring for the children, but really efficient.

But when I asked Lino later if her father had been the 14th child, he laughed. “Heavens no,” he said. “Her father was always drunk. Fourteen stands for drunk.” (Certainly better than nicknaming him “Drunk.”) It even has a sort of affectionate little fillip to it, as in “We all know, but he’s our guy.”

In another case, there is a certain tightly-wound guy who is known in all the rowing clubs he’s belonged to (he keeps getting moved on) by the nickname “Cagnara” (ka-NYA-ra). It means a quarrel, of the sudden and belligerent type. I suppose that’s an affectionate term, in its way. Maybe in this case it also serves as a warning label for people who’ve just met him. He might volunteer at the hospice, he might adopt 20 Patagonian orphans — he’ll still be Cagnara because of something that may well have happened 50 years ago.

This is Khufu carved in ivory. Doesn’t look much like Lino. (photo: Chipdawes)

There are also plenty of names which you can’t explain. Lino went to work at the airport when he was 15, and at some point (maybe even his first day) he was dubbed “Cheope” (kay-OH-peh). It means Cheops, as in the pharaoh Khufu. He still has no idea why, but that was his moniker and he could decide whether to respond or not, but there would be no substitutions made.

One of his co-workers was dubbed “Piangi” (PYAN-jee). It means “whiner,” “complainer,” “crybaby.” This person was obviously in the habit of communicating in laments of various grades. Did this person hate the nickname? Too bad. He should have thought of that sooner.

There’s a gondolier nicknamed “Cinese” — “Chinese.” He’s not Chinese. Another gondolier with a perfectly banal baptismal name is known by all as “Cicciolina” (chih-cho-LEE-na), which was the stage name of a certain Ilona Staller, a Hungarian-Italian porn star. Two generations of the Dei Rossi family of gondoliers/racers have been known by their nickname “Strigheta” (Strih-GHE-ta), or” little witch.” And so it goes: “Five lire.” “Mosquito.” “Pastry.” “Raft.”

Lino added, “What about Burielo?” “What does that mean?” “I have no idea.”

I saw the lightning-flash birth of a nickname last Saturday. Our little group had a new addition, the French boyfriend of one of the girls. He was introduced as “Gaby,” and hearing this, Lino’s brain bounced and he immediately responded “Gabi ocio!” (GAH-bee OH-cho). This is Venetian for “Have an eye,” meaning “Be alert! Pay attention! Watch out!” and similar warnings. It was evidently his Venetian destiny to be known this way, and that’s how Lino addressed him for the rest of the day. If the kid lived in Venice, that would almost certainly be printed on his death notice.

Tattoos are everywhere, but it’s a bit unusual to see a cross on a chain tattooed on an ankle — and even more to see the phrase “mea culpa” written beneath it. (Sorry for the bad quality; I only got one shot with my phone before he walked away.) This is the ankle of a prisoner who belongs to a group whose members are reaching the end of their sentence and are working during the summer as dock-masters on the vaporetto docks to help manage the crowds. When you reflect on his being a convict, and that the inscription is Latin for “my fault,” all sorts of possible sobriquets come to mind. Or he may not have had one at all. I hope he isn’t going to spend the rest of his life being referred to as “mea culpa.”

A few years ago the Italian postal service made an exception to the rules by allowing mail to be delivered in Pellestrina if the address bore the addressee’s nickname. This was vital, because there are basically four last names in Pellestrina, and not all that many different first names, so nicknames help everybody understand who’s being talked about. The letter-carrier could spend all day going door to door looking for the right Marco Zennaro (made up) if you didn’t write the nickname to clarify things. Plus this would help you avoid leaving letters at the wrong house, where they could be read by the wrong persons, which in a small village with only four last names would be equivalent to standing at your front door shouting somebody else’s private news to the entire street.

For the record, if I have a nickname, I’ve never heard it. Hope I don’t have to discover it on my death notice.

No idea if this pair has a nickname (separately or together). Maybe they’re twins? Maybe it’s Crash and Eddie?

* It’s an American joke: “I don’t care what you call me, just don’t call me late for dinner.”

Events

Redentore 2018: hang that boat, tote that bale

July 16, 2018 3 Comments

The fireworks on Saturday night for the annual festa of the Redentore were in the top five I’ve ever seen in my life — beyond spectacular — full of new designs and gorgeous combinations, an exhibition that ran almost 15 minutes over the usual 30. It was thrilling.

There was a thunderstorm at 9:30 for a while that made it unclear whether the show would go on at 11:30 as usual, or if all those little bombs would still be combustible if lit in front of what might have been only a scattering of drenched, diehard boats. Also, restaurants all along via Garibaldi were forced to implement their disaster procedure, staff racing to clear tables and carry them inside (the customers were figuring out their own strategies, some of which were “Well hey, let’s just keep on singing in the rain”).

But the rain stopped, the people took heart, and the pyrotecnics proceeded.

Sunday morning dawned bright and shiny, and as we strolled we came upon one of the most eloquent demonstrations I’ve ever seen of what taking your boat to the Redentore means. It’s the aftermath that reveals the truth about you and your boat.

Somebody didn’t remember — if they knew — that the tide goes out (meaning down) every 6 hours. This doesn’t mean you shouldn’t tie your boat to a railing, even though obviously the line won’t slide downward along with the descending boat. But it does mean that you should allow lots and lots and lots of slack. As was not done here. In ordinary parlance, the boat is “impiccata” — hanged. As in what you do to criminals on the gallows.

Any seadog with a shred of foresight — let’s even posit that he/she doesn’t drink — might have considered consulting the updated daily forecast of the tides (height and depth of) so usefully provided by the Tide Center of the Comune of Venezia. Italian language skills not required. I appreciate that after a festive evening, which might have begun at 3:00 PM, one’s thoughts on caring for one’s boat might turn more naturally to preventing its floating away than toward its dropping a few feet straight down.

This owner was extremely lucky in one way: At this moment, the tide had already begun to rise, which meant that although the boat was still hanged, it wasn’t drowned as well. Because it isn’t the hardest thing in the world for the rising water to begin to go over the gunwale of the boat and peacefully and efficiently fill it up. I have seen this and it is not a happy sight; you can bail out the boat, but the effect of salt water on your submerged engine is a catastrophe. Those horses will never run again.

Another point: There are scores of boating knots, the most important qualities of which are reliability, ease of tying and — most important — ease of untying. This person has succeeded impressively with the first, and perhaps with the second. But the weight of the boat has jammed this knot beyond recovery.

Different knot toward the stern, but the same problem remains. I have no idea how one would release this knot even in the best conditions. Lino took one look and said, “He’ll never be able to open that knot. His only solution will be to cut it.” Well, fine — what difference does that make? None, I suppose, except that it’s the nautical equivalent of the white flag. And before you start bragging that you’re totally in control of knotting, a very old salt once told me, “You can’t say you know how to tie a knot until you can tie it at night, upside down, in a storm.”

Lino teaches his students a few knots, but naturally they forget everything in the moment of necessity. At which point he says “Just make the knot you use to tie your shoes!” Not something Commander Hornblower might have said, but actually it works just fine.

Venetian Events

Just open wide….

July 10, 2018 5 Comments

Last Sunday the people of Malamocco celebrated the annual festa of the Madonna di Marina. Like a few other festivals — the one at Pellestrina on the first Sunday of August comes to mind — it is based on a legend involving a miraculous apparition of the Madonna. I’ll get to that in a moment.

What is reliably involved each year at Malamocco is a small sale of old and often eccentric stuff. I would say “antiques,” but that might be glamorizing them too much.

So forget the glamour, and while you’re waiting in line to pick up your plate of spaghetti alla malamocchina (with tiny clams called bevarasse), feast your eyes and your memory on this item. Anybody under the age of 50 probably has no recollection of it, but for the rest of us, I’m betting it still can bring on the shudders.

If Proust had ever sat in one of these, “Remembrance of Things Past” would have had a dramatically different beginning. Of course the column with the lamp and the small sink for endless spittings-out are not in their correct position, which I suppose means you could have bought them separately. But that would be crazy.

This sink was especially grotesquely huge when I was six, or however little I was when the dentist began his oral excavations. The sound of the water swirling around the inner edge only slightly masked the sound of the drill. End of reminiscences, you can go back to Proust now.

Speaking of Malamocco, you might want to know that the name is derived from Metamauco, by way of Medoacus, the Roman name of the Brenta River, which emptied into the Adriatic here. Could be useful on a crossword puzzle sometime?

It was originally a small settlement of families who cultivated vegetables, fished, and worked in the salt pans. The population grew in 452 A.D. with the fleeing dwellers from the lagoon shoreline seeking refuge from Attila’s Rome-bound hordes. It became the seat of the Venetian government between 742 and 811. In that year the new doge, Agnello Partecipazio, moved what was becoming Venice to the Rialto area and Malamocco returned to its earlier dimensions.

As for the Madonna di Marina herself, a legend springing from around the year 1300 tells of a certain Felice Dario, native of Malamocco, who found an enormous stump of wood lying on the beach and took it home to chop it up as firewood. (To give a more precise idea of this object, it’s called a ceppo [CHEH-po] in Italian, and while you certainly can burn it, it is more typically used as that heavy block on which you chop wood, or on which a butcher cuts meat, or on which a blacksmith places his anvil, or on which the public executioner places his customer’s head, etc.) In Venetian, the word is zoco (SOH-koh).

The ceppo disappeared three times, and three times Signor Dario found it back in its original place on the beach, at which point the Virgin appeared to him. The story ends there, though I suppose we could risk imagining miraculous cures and victories at sea and and platoons of male children and other beautiful things as a result. For the first years — no idea how many — the miracle was attributed to the “Madonna del zoco,” the “Madonna of the stump of wood used for chopping things on.” Somebody clearly thought that didn’t have the right ring to it, but I disagree.

I would tell you more about the festa, but the real point of this post isn’t the regata, or the procession, or the band, or even the (excuse me) Madonna and her chopping block. It’s the dentist’s chair. If I’d anywhere to put it, I’d have bought it and sat in it and rinsed my mouth and laughed triumphantly all day at the ghosts of all those dentists I’ve worn out.

Events

The flying arrows

July 6, 2018 4 Comments

You may already know this, but Italy boasts the largest aerial acrobatic team in the world: The “Frecce Tricolori,” or tricolor arrows.

The ten-plane squad was founded in 1961, but the first Italian school of aerobatics dates from 1930. The Frecce give exhibitions at air shows, and can also be scheduled for flyovers on special events and/or occasions (Luciano Pavarotti’s funeral on September 8, 2007, for example). The aforementioned three colors are the red, white and green of the Italian flag.

I am not a connoisseur of airplanes, but I’m a huge enthusiast of beauty and badassery, and the few times I’ve seen this group perform I’ve been thrilled to my follicles.

Two Saturdays ago the Arrows were booked to fly over Venice — something which is forbidden by law to normal mortals and planes — as part of a festive weekend marking the 50th anniversary of Ferretti, designers and builders of luxury yachts. The plan was fulfilled as advertised: Once from east to west, once from south to north. The whole thing took about five minutes, a tiny fragment of time which felt infinitely bigger, broader, longer, and braver.

And then they were gone.

The first pass was finished before my brain woke up to the fact that I could be making pictures. Hence the diaphanous though smudged contrails of the colors of the national flag.

Meanwhile, the squadron has circled round toward the south, ready to head for Venice once more. You can just barely make out the formation in the low center of this image.

There they are. These are Aermacchi MB-339 A/PAN MLU aircraft, whose maximum speed is 908 km/h (564 mph). I cannot say what the speed was in this case, but it can’t have been much slower than that. Any aeronautic experts reading this, please correct me, as I stand here with my mouth open. Yes, these are nine planes — the tenth one mentioned earlier gives solo exhibitions.

Several seconds later, they’re over the Bacino of San Marco.

And swoop. All this to the most terrifying shriek of the planes.

Over in five minutes. Or maybe fewer. My sense of time got lost somewhere.

And they’re gone, screaming their way back to their base at Rivolto airport near Codroipo in the province of Udine, 92 km/ 57 miles away to the northeast. So I guess they landed in about 15 seconds (made up). All I know is that they were home before I was.