We’ve had polar cold for at least a week, but today whoever is in charge of weather decided that that was becoming boring.
This morning, it was a soupcon of acqua alta.
And now: Snow!
For all my readers who may have been shoveling white fluffy water since Michaelmas, excuse me for doing that annoying “It’s so pretty!!” thing. I grew up in upstate New York, so I grew up being unimpressed. But now I feel differently. Sorry. That could be largely because I don’t have to drive in it.
The important thing now is that it doesn’t melt and then freeze. I draw the line at that. Ice turns bridges into stone skateboards from which people can fly with amazing speed and pain. So I’m fine with it melting, but no freezing. That’s the rule that I just made up.
As we strolled along the Strada Nuova a few mornings ago toward the station, we came upon a curious addition to the urban fabric: A very fancy sign at a very tricky spot warning people not to slip on the steps in four languages. First, the steps:
As you see, with each descending step the risk increases. You wouldn’t think a sign would be necessary to draw attention to that, but signs are always in short supply, and nearby merchants often volunteer to provide that missing piece. It’s not so much civic spirit as a desire to do something more with one’s day in the shop than answering the same lost-tourist questions over and over again.A sterling example of the sort of done-it-myself sign at a crucial intersection; it reminds me of those signs you see depicted at military bases overseas that give the distance from there to everywhere. It does not give the direction to your home town, though, or to your hotel. Life is short, paper is even shorter. But the spirit was spot-on. In order from top: To San Marco, To Rialto, To Campo (indecipherable here), To Strada Nuova, To Campo Santa Maria Formosa, and blah blah. I can’t read the photo, I’ll have to go past there someday to review the contents. I’m sure this effort has broken at least 15 decrees and ordinances, but that’s nothing considering how many the Superintendency of Fine Arts, etc. overrides every day.Back to the sign on the Strada Nuova. You can see that someone has gone to considerable trouble and expense on this one. It almost looks official.Reminds me of those yellow plastic sandwich-board signs they put out when they’re mopping the airport floor. I wonder if anybody pays any attention to them?
This morning, Sunday, at about 10:00 AM, we walked by here again. There was no sign. I conclude that either it keeps hours that correspond to the sign-maker’s work schedule (they’d have to take it inside overnight, that much is obvious. So you’re free to slip to a spectacular fall in the evening.) Or the Superintendency was annoyed by it and sent a culture-policeman to remove it. If I wanted to pursue this any further, I’d have to go back and check on the fate of the taped-up sign, as well. But I don’t care that much.
Water you wouldn’t enjoy falling into this morning: Ice. Not covering all the canal surface, and it’s that fine, filmy sort that remains somewhat flexible. I’m sure the next passing motorboat busted it to bits. But it’s been below freezing here for three days, and is expected to continue for a while longer. This is, by the way, exactly the blast of frigid weather that brings the seppie to the surface and back into our lives (if the southwest wind is blowing, I must note). I have no idea why, but I’ll be watching for their appearance. Maybe they’ve heard that we’ve got hot chocolate at home.
One of the great truths is that it’s the small things in life that count, and Venice is one of the biggest places made of small things I’ve ever seen.
“Oh look,” I thought, “what interesting reflections.” Reflections are my favorite thing, and the sun was shining just right to make these look like a glittering series of little mirrors on the ground. So pretty. But wait…..It hasn’t rained in weeks, nor has there been any acqua alta.I had just notified Lino that I was far behind following him down the street because of these wonderful reflections. To which he said… well, it’s obvious what he said, as I realized when I looked again at the marks that weren’t reflecting.Yep — somebody had just fallen into the canal, and the walk home was long and thankfully solitary. I’m already well acquainted with the canal that attacked him (check background of first photo) because one memorable day I slipped on the slimy green step as I got out of a boat just at the moment when I, the Big Venice Expert, was telling everybody in the boat not to step on the green slime. In that case only one foot got wet, but my butt was now slimy and I was drenched in feeling stupid. In this case, however, we’re looking at full immersion. That canal is nursing a grudge against somebody and will just keep attacking people until its chosen victim finally succumbs.And while we’re on the subject of “Water, Avoidance Of,” spare a glance at this tie-rod. Many Venetian houses depend on them in order to stay foursquare on their feet.But the tying-together hasn’t been working out too well for the house facing our exemplar, as we realized glancing up one day at a curious appendage on the wall.The hapless homeowner not only has had to repair the tie-rod (rather, the cement around it), but insecurity about the long-term stability of either the rod, or the plaster, or both, has made this intervention necessary. I hope it makes him or her feel better, because I can offer no certainty that the results desired will be obtained. But I can’t offer certainty about many things.A gondola and its -lier made of Lego pieces. I wonder if it floats? Or sings? Or shouts “Oy!” when it gets to the corner of the table?Hoping for the best for everyone in 2017.
Only fog could make Father Christmas look so ominous.
I love charity benefit events; I also love Santa Claus (for the brief period each year in which I give him even one thought). And last Sunday we came upon — or it came upon us — the third edition of an annual run/trot/stroll around half the city called the “Corsa dei Babbo Natale,” or “Race of the Santa Clauses” (Santas Claus?)
This is not unique to Venice, though the landscape here obviously presents some traits not present in Milan, Brescia, Verona, Savona, Belluno, and undoubtedly lots of other places all over Italy. Sometimes it’s for charity, sometimes it’s just for fun. Check your local listings.
In the case of Venice, it was organized to benefit AVAPO, the association of volunteers who assist cancer patients and their families. The event was managed by The Venice Sport Shop and aided by various sponsors, primarily Mizuna, a maker of running shoes. For a modest fee anyone could sign up, get a number and a Santa Claus outfit and some other goodies, and join the crowd running/trotting/strolling from Rialto to Sant’ Elena and back to our own little lobe of Venice, the Giardini Pubblici, where music and refreshments waited.
I would happily have followed it and made lots of pictures of them running across the Piazza San Marco and other landmark sites, but we were set up to go rowing and join the boat procession of — yes — more Santa Clauses in the Grand Canal. Curses! We were foiled by fog! Vast, shifting, impenetrable banks of fog which not only would have spoiled the fun for us, but rowing to the church of the Salute would have rendered us a spectacular hazard to navigation.
But on our disappointed walk homeward, we suddenly found ourselves facing an army of S.C.’s swarming toward us. They were tired, but they were determined, and it was great to see whole families out together. And then people started greeting Lino by name as they passed, which was especially nice in the case of those who hadn’t yet removed their sweat-inducing beards because somehow Lino recognized virtually every one of the people greeting him. Was it their voice? Their glasses? Jewelry? Birthmark? But as usual, this came as no surprise. It’s the call of the DNA, which I can confirm overrides costumes, fog, and the passage of time.
But the Clauses on the bridge were only the forerunners — or forewalkers. They were followed by more and more red-breasted Saint Nicholases, who at this point had begun to ditch the beards which are cute, but undoubtedly hot and damp after a while.They are not making Olympic qualifying times, but who cares? They’re still in the game.Man Mountain Santa is a prime candidate for testing for growth hormones. Or for supplying them.I have no idea where this boy got such a burst of energy — at this point there were children being pulled along on their razor scooters. He may have had a vision of something thrilling, though he may just be excited that the fog has lifted enough for him to see anything.What an adorable chorus line of little girls who appear to have foregone the provided outfit in favor of something more like Little Red Riding Santa.As you see. Who but Italians (or I don’t know, maybe they’re Albanians. Anyway, they’re in Italy) could make this outfit look so cool? In any case, I know for a fact that at least one of these munchkins is half-Moldovan, because that’s her mother smiling at me. She’s an amazing seamstress and now that I think about it, she probably made all these outfits. In an hour. In her sleep.And Fido makes three. His version of “Ho Ho Ho” was impressive.If this Santa hasn’t run to Venice straight from the North Pole, she at least must come from Hammerfest, where weather like this qualifies as a heat wave.Bibendum has decided to branch out.Santa needs funds, his reindeer need fodder.The finish line for the race is the starting line for the party, just inside the gate at the “Serra,” or municipal greenhouse. They’ve got LAWN SPACE!And the emergency squad’s everyday uniform blends perfectly with the Santa color scheme. If you needed to find the first-responders in this crowd, you might have a problem.People who paid the premium registration fee got the garb, a gadget of some sort, and entrance to the party and rehydration agents. I didn’t inquire as to what they were sipping, but there was music and people looked happy.And then it was time for Mom-Santa to go the supermarket, get some grub, and take it and the kids home. When Santa lands the sleigh, the party’s over.
