I appreciate that Venice (well, San Giorgio, in this case) is seductive and irresistible and beautiful and everything. But it wouldn’t have been less beautiful the next day. The city has been here for 1,500 years — presumably it can wait for a family to have dinner and sleep.
After I began to think about it more clearly (that is to say, after I thought about it in the mountains, where we just went for four days, breathing air that was cool and dry enough to resuscitate my mental processes), I realized that I made a small miscalculation in the payday for the police.
I’m referring to the extra paydays they gave themselves by forging permits and whatever else they were doing to help eager immigrants make it through the bureaucracy.
Yes, each of the accused maintainers of public order did indeed receive 300 euros for finagling the permit, which seemed to my super-saturated brain to be pitifully small.
But now I realize what sharp readers have long since understood: It was 300 euros multiplied by God knows how many times they orbited the cash register each day. Each week. Each month.
Before long, it won’t be only God who knows what the total came to. I presume a phalanx of lawyers and judges is already pounding its calculators.
Not me. I don’t care anymore. I’m on to other things. I’m more interested now in the German couple who drove their camper 1,026 km/637 miles from Dresden to Cavallino-Treporti the other day. Even though the trip probably took them ten hours, and most likely more, when they got there the first thing they wanted to do was to get on the motonave and go to Venice. How romantic, how beautiful. And how inconvenient that their ten-year-old daughter dug in her heels at yet another trek before the day could finally be over.
Nothing daunted, her parents locked her inside the camper. Then they went off on their own, feeling fine about her being fine, except she wasn’t.
She got out of the camper, couldn’t get back in, became distraught, and was collected by a sympathetic passerby who took her to everyone’s favorite caretakers, the Carabinieri. Who were waiting for her parents at midnight when they got off the boat from Venice. To present them with the formal accusation of abandonment of a minor.
Mann kann nicht alles unter einen Hut bringen, as they say in the Vaterland. You can’t put everything under one hat. Neither can you have everything you want, including a child-free jaunt to Venice whenever you feel like it, no matter where you might be inclined to put it.
I don’t know why he has to look so hangdog. At least he gets to lie on ice.
Laboring under the phenomenal force of the combined heat and humidity which have been oppressing us (Italy as a whole, but I take all this personally), I have slowed my blogging efforts, as has probably already become evident. We have had two successive heat waves — ours come from Algeria, if that tells you anything — and the names are indicative: “Charon” and “Styx.” You know those animals that only move once every few months when they have to eat something? That would be us.
Having now pled the “Smothering Heat Wave” defense, I will proceed.
On a normal day, I would now be catching you up on a lot of stuff that’s been going on in and around the old most-beautiful-city-in-the-world. None of which resembles much of what you could call beautiful. Anybody who hasn’t managed to get to the beach or the mountains appears to be taking it out on the rest of the world.
Anyway, since my energy has to be dedicated to maintaining my life-sustaining physical functions — nothing left over for such frivolity as scorn and umbrage — I will give only a smattering of headlines from today’s Gazzettino. I will then try to cool us all off with some views that show that there are still plenty of glimpses around here that make me smile.
National news:
Kashetu “Cecile” Kyenge is not only Minister for Integration, but also a doctor specializing in ophthalmology. I think everybody in the Northern League should be forced to go to her for their myopia. And possibly cataract operations. Too bad she’s not a brain surgeon. (Photo: Provincia di Modena)
Cecile Kyenge, a Congolese-born doctor and only months-long Minister for Integration, and Italy’s first African-Italian minister, has been working out on a sort of political and human Parkour course composed of a seemingly endless series of racist insults from assorted members of the extreme right-wing Northern League.
The process goes like this: The politician says something repulsive (such as comparing her to an orangutan), other politicians indignantly reprimand him, he offers a sort of non-apology along the lines of “I regret if I said anything that might have been construed as offensive” (or “misunderstood,” or “taken out of context,” or “a private communication that was somehow made public,” etc.). At least five Leaguers at various levels have contributed to the stringing of this uncharm-bracelet of abuse regarding her color or her religion. Some have been expelled from the party, but more just keep coming up. It’s like some Whack-a-Mole from Hades.
“Drug dealer dies in the barracks; “Violent asphyxia.” (Riva Ligure) A Tunisian suspect was being held since June 6 in a barracks, awaiting his turn in the legal process. That’s no longer necessary, due to a “powerful pressure exerted on his thorax,” as the coroner put it. The three Carabinieri who arrested him and had him in custody have now been arrested.
“She tried to kill him, he applauds her.” (Castiglione delle Stiviere) That’s not quite what it sounds like, but it is somewhat thought-provoking. Claudio del Monaco (son of the famous tenor Mario del Monaco) is married to Daniela Werner, a German former nursery-school teacher and aspiring soprano. In December 2011 things went wrong and she tried to stab him to death. She went to the psychiatric penitentiary and by applying herself to her singing, was able to perform a concert in public last July 2. “I love my wife more than before and I want to forget the past,” said her husband. Now she goes back to serve another three years. Maybe it’s neurotic, but in a strange way I find this admirable. I suppose it’s because the “for better for worse” isn’t usually taken to this extreme, or illuminated by this bright a light.
“Few mosquitoes; layoffs at the insecticide company.” (Trento) Last spring was unusually cold and wet, and it went on far too long. You’d think the resulting lack of mosquitoes would be a good thing, and for most of us, it is. But not for the employees of the Zobele company, 70 of whom are going to be at home from September to November because sales are so slow. It is, indeed, always something.
Venice news:
“Train Hell, few, late, and boiling.” Riders on the national network in the Veneto — not just tourists, but loads of commuters — are once again taking the hit of the management’s inability to provide even minimal rail service. To the many trains which have been canceled, and the super-many which are late, has been added the increasing percentage of trains in which passengers travel in torrid conditions because the air conditioning doesn’t work. This story comes out every summer. I mean, every summer. Do the managers not have calendars? Or is nine months not long enough to make a plan and carry it out? Women do it all the time. Sorry, that just slipped out.
“Money for permits; Three policemen in handcuffs.” Just over the lagoon in Jesolo, they discovered three of the Polizia di Stato’s finest taking cash for various special services, such as expediting applications for “permessi di soggiorno,” permits to stay in Italy for a specified length of time. What makes it worse — as if it had to be worse — is that a number of the immigrants they passed weren’t eligible for permits. The charges: Conspiracy, corruption, counterfeiting documents, and illegal access to computer systems. What inspires the urge to smack one’s forehead isn’t that they took money, but that they took 1000 euros. That is, about 300 euros per policeman. I know. If you’re going to risk blowing your career to smithereens, wouldn’t you make it just a little bit more?
I could go on, but my brain is too tired. There will be more of these antics tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, and on and on till we all disappear over the horizon. Where they will continue, wherever we are.
A man setting out in the morning with a bag and a bouquet of hydrangeas. It looks good.I was tempted to remove the empty detergent bottle, left out to await tomorrow’s recycling pickup, but I kind of like the fact that it says “Sole” (sun).And while I’m on the subject of flowers, a woman waiting for the vaporetto was bearing this astonishing armload of peonies. I invite anyone to tell me that there is anything more beautiful than this.This cat wouldn’t deign to acknowledge a heat wave, but did graciously recognize the presence of a lower-order mammal nearby.One of my all-time favorite repair jobs. What? There’s something wrong with this?Perhaps you were unaware that Venice was bombed 42 times by Austria in the First World War. These plaques will help you remember.“Destroyed by an Austrian bomb February 27, 1918. Reconstructed 1920.”Sometimes our favorite late-afternoon cafe is overrun by women who smoke and babble, but sometimes it seems magically to turn into a sort of little kinder-haven. Manuela, the owner (seated), loves them all.If there is any breeze at all in Venice, a little swirl of air will always form right exactly there and make a scuffed-up patch of water. It makes me smile.
This is the Palazzo del Bo’, the 16th-century heart of the University of Padua, where many of the examinations are held. The winged lion of San Marco was placed over the door after Venice conquered Padua in 1509.
Exactly one week ago today we had what, for me (and for its starring participant, not to mention said participant’s parents) was one of the more extraordinary experiences of my eventful life.
The scene: The University of Padua, founded 1222.
Protagonist: Matteo Paganini, once a student at the Morosini Naval College where Lino taught him Venetian rowing, and till June 24 an aspiring M.D.
Occasion: Defending his thesis and being awarded (he hoped) his degree, diploma, laurel wreath, and future.
University students here don’t graduate en masse, as they do in the U.S.; they are hatched one by one, though in some periods, such as now, they seem to come out on an assembly line.
I’d seen plenty of these festivities in Venice, particularly around Dorsoduro, the sestiere where the two Venetian universities are located. Bunches of roaming students accompany the newly-minted graduate to some spot where they can celebrate by throwing eggs, flour, and other substances on him or her, and occasionally break into a doggerel ditty which I’m not going to translate, not because it’s blue, but because it’s stupid. Its purpose is to take the graduate down a peg. Many pegs.
In fact, having only seen the partying all these years caused me to lose sight of the fundamental reason for the carrying-on. Our day in Padua changed that, because before the fun there had to come the cross-examination. And when the person who has spent six (6) years studying in order to reach this moment of running across the intellectual bed of incandescent burning coals, the academic version of running the gantlet, it’s a pretty intense experience not only for him, but for everyone who cares about him.
His script — I mean, his thesis. “Integrated Ecographic Protocol for Acute Respiratory Insufficiency in the Emergency Room An Observational Study.” He wants to specialize in emergency medicine, so this makes sense.
It didn’t appear to be so intense for the board of examiners, partly because they’ve done it 157,000 times; partly because they have no stake in the outcome (at last they’re not supposed to!); partly because it was possibly the 20th such session they’d held that morning; and partly (how many parts am I up to?) because it was hotter than the hinges of hell and they were all caparisoned in heavy academic robes.
To my surprise, I was awash in pride and joy, and if little me could feel so much, I can’t even imagine how proud he must have been, to say nothing of his long-suffering and -paying parents, who didn’t give any sign that they were experiencing what had to have been Olympic-level kvelling.
The images below depict the outlines of this enterprise. But I’ll give away the ending: He was awarded his degree as Doctor of Medicine summa cum laude. When he finished his presentation, he was told he had earned 110 e lode, which corresponds to magna cum laude, but then he was given a stunning bonus: a “menzione di eccellenza,” literally “mention of excellence,” which put him at the summit of Everest, the absolute peak of academic achievement.
And all this from a university whose alumni include Nicolaus Copernicus, Torquato Tasso, St. Francis de Sales, Galileo Galilei, and William Harvey. Not to forget Elena Lucrezia Piscopia Corner, the first woman in the world to be awarded a university diploma (1678). And Federico Faggin, designer of the first commercial microprocessor. Age has done nothing to dim this academy’s luster.
Keep it shiny, Matteo.
Matteo’s family, plus Lino, sat against the wall of City Hall, facing the Palazzo — two crucial elements: somewhere to sit, and a shadow — until the sun rose so high that it destroyed the shadow. Then we went inside to wait.The entrance to the building, like the walls and ceilings inside, is covered with the escutcheons of students and faculty going back centuries.The group of his faithful followers and family, bunched together with him inside the Palazzo, as he waited to be called. It was hot, and there was nowhere to sit, and if we were keyed-up, I don’t know how he managed to stand it.Matteo had spent an hour or so wandering to and fro with his friends, most of them from the medical school, but as the time drew near, he went into his own little bubble. His mother and father were never far away.At long last, he’s up next. The previous candidate is leaving the examination hall with his entourage, and Matteo is taking his last few breaths before the plunge.The judges line up, the prisoner — I mean, candidate — is in the dock.And away he went. He spoke rapidly, reviewing his study in phenomenal detail, explaining various aspects shown on the screen. I understood nothing, but I was fascinated by how secure he was. Not only did he not hesitate even once, I’m not sure he breathed.If there was one person who was really paying attention, it was his thesis professor (left).I take that back — I think his parents were listening even harder. Closely followed by his platoon of friends.End of presentation. The prisoner will rise and face the jury.As soon as the decision was announced — 110 e lode, with the mention of excellence — everyone began to applaud, including the professors. Handshakes. Smiles. Incredulity. Elation. And so on.And let the wild picture-taking begin — especially some shots with his professor. The traditional wreath is indeed of laurel.I’ll spare you the unabridged version of what came next, but the first phase of the celebration outside involved his male friends pounding him on his back with their open hands.
The area for his hazing is prepared. The two indispensable items are the poster, describing his life and career in painful detail, and the heavy plastic sheeting to protect the street from what comes next.By this point, his friends have cut his trousers and rearranged them, put on a curious hat, and managed to drape a live (well, dead, by now) octopus across his shoulders. Meanwhile, he has to read the poster aloud. Every word. It was long.The fact that it took so long to read the poster gave his friends plenty of time to slime him with mustard, mayonnaise, yogurt, tomato sauce, flour, eggs, and I don’t know what else. Yells and shouts came from all sides, especially “Bevi!” (drink!) at which point he was required to take a swig from the bottle of prosecco. It went on like this for quite a while, but we went to the restaurant long before it ended. You see a little of this, you’ve seen a lot of it.Let’s talk about real food. The refreshments were great, the buffet setup highly practical, and there was air conditioning (and nobody yelling Bevi!). We started without the guest of honor, who was off somewhere getting a major shower — maybe at the firehouse, with a hose.Matteo was still full of energy, but his mom and dad (and uncle) were definitely downshifting. It’s been a long six years for everybody.The laurel wreath may not be on his brow anymore, but it’s definitely in the bag.He may hate me for this, but this is how I remember him, out with other boys from the Naval College, on the 8-oar gondola. It was Palm Sunday, 2006, and he was affixing the traditional olive branch. Guess I’m getting old and sentimental.
The prize ceremony at the regata of SS. Giovanni e Paolo, and all the races this year, is sponsored by the Graspo de Ua, a restaurant which is in the process of becoming a small empire. Their sponsorship covers innovations such as the podium, the logo-laden T-shirts, each colored to match the corresponding pennant, and the bottle of bubbly to spray everywhere. Prize money? Not so much.
I have been brooding on the struggle between the Venetian rowing racers and the Comune, and I think some numbers might be illuminating.
I know I said in my last post that the racers don’t need the money, but the laborer is worthy of his hire, and the payments this year hover somewhere between risible and offensive. If I were a racer, I would indeed be angered by a city office named “Tutela Tradizioni” (protection of traditions) which does so little to keep this tradition going.
This year the city looked under the cushions of the divan and found some loose change, which permits them to offer prizes which would not be enough to pay for a fill-up at a gas station in Correctionville, Iowa.
The winner of the race pictured above — SS. Giovanni e Paolo, young men rowing gondolas solo — took home 221.20 euros ($293.67). The man who won the Regata di Murano, which is arguably the most important race of the year, scored 347.20 euros ($460.95).
The woman who won the Regata di Murano earned 221.20 euros ($293.67). The boy who won the same race took home 66 euros ($87.62). The boy who finished last got 33 euros ($43.81). And there are people in the city government who say they’re worried about the future of the races because so few boys show up to try out.
It gets better. The first four women to cross the finish line of the Regata de la Sensa got a pennant and a gold medal, which I think is nice, though money has a more immediate appeal. The other five women in the nine-boat field got zip. Niente. Zero. Same thing for the Regata di Malamocco.
And so it goes. The city manages to scrape up more for the Regata Storica, usually around 2,000 euros per man for the winning pair on the gondolinos, and downward from there for the other finishers.
This is so stupid that I can’t decide who to yell at first. It’s like inviting somebody to dinner and telling them to bring their own food.
But comes a ray of light glinting from a chest of gold doubloons, so to speak, from a faithful reader and friend (full disclosure).
This friend is American, by the way, which may explain why he sees ways to make money that the tired Old-World city government hasn’t yet considered. Evidently, what’s doable out in the big old vulgar tradition-free world beyond the bridge doesn’t seem so simple in our little tin-cup-rattling economy.
Let me say that I’m all in favor of the races being pure — whatever we think that means. But I don’t like them being poor. And I especially don’t like them not being, period. In case there was any doubt about that.
So here are some possible solutions:
He writes:
“It seems to me that an infusion of crass commercialism could get things back on track. E.g.:
1. All boats will bear corporate logos like Nike, Taco Bell, Trojans, Depend Diapers, whatever … and thus a ton of ad revenue will get directed into the “Rowers’ Pot.”
2. All rowers will be adorned with shirts and caps similarly garnished and bearing internet addresses of the race sponsors = more ad revenue for the RP.
3. TV rights will be sold for live distribution around the world on the Nat Geo channel, thus tapping Rupert Murdoch for the RP.
4. Buxom cheerleaders for the various teams, scantily clad, no doubt, will cheer and bounce around in unison on the waterfront.
5. Observers will be barraged with logo items for sale by shoreside vendors who’ll remit 20% to the RP.
6. There will be time-outs between races to run commercials for said products – so more RP dough.
7. Travel agents throughout Europe will be tithed on airline ticket sales to Venice during June each year to create yet more moolah for the RP.
8. Racers will be paid the same amount in cash by divvying up the RP (estimated at about 4.5 million euros per rower annually); trophies made of various precious metals and gems will signify winners, losers, etc. (Here I balk: The four pennants — red, white, blue and green — have to be maintained. IT’S TRADITION.)
9. Racers will get lifetime supplies of all products advertised during the regata.
10. UNESCO will declare the race a World Heritage Event, thus assuring it United Nations funding in perpetuity.”
I cannot think of one reason why not to do any or all of the above. The one thing everybody agrees on, racers and city, is that they all want more money. So if the city can’t seem to discover any way to get more money for the races (though they were pretty clever at getting 5 billion euros and counting for MOSE), then we should just face it and play the game the way it’s supposed to be played.
So the Graspo de Ua has paid for the podium (arguably unnecessary, though I understand that the company’s logo has to go somewhere); paid for the T-shirts (ditto), paid for the bubbly, which is nice, but everybody’s been fine without for about a hundred years, and paid for the pennants. What’s missing here is cash for the racers, which the Graspo, no less than the Comune, does not feel able to provide. Impressive sponsorship.
