Reports written the day after said there were 150 (or even 200) boats in this gathering. It was really fun to see everybody out again, not to mention the doctors, etc. on the fondamenta in front of the hospital.
Last Sunday morning there was quite the boating event, after three months without either boats or events. Everybody was more than ready for it.
Seeing that the city is on the verge of complete reopening after the three-month lockdown, the moment was right for the “Vogada de la Rinascita” (Row of the Rebirth). The morning afloat was emotional (the worst is over, we hope; the day is glorious; finally we’re all out rowing again) and a tangible way of expressing group gratitude to the medical personnel of the hospital, as well as a gesture of respect to the victims.
The event was organized by the Panathlon Club, Venice chapter (fun fact: Panathlon International, now numbering some 300 chapters scattered across 30 countries, was founded in Venice in 1951), with the collaboration of the Comune.
We were there with two sandolos from the F. Morosini Naval Military School, where Lino teaches Venetian rowing. Cadets and passengers are looking good on the way from the school to the Arsenal (Lino astern, a friend on the bow). Going with the tide just added to that happy feeling. (I was on the other boat, obviously.)The boats began slowly to assemble in the Great Basin of the Arsenal. Allow me to draw your admiring attention away from the boats for a moment to the enormous Armstrong Mitchell hydraulic crane, installed here in 1883. At the end of the 19th century there were nine of these behemoths in the world, but this is the only one left and is designated a historic monument by the Superintendency of Archaeology, Fine Arts and Landscape. It could lift up to 160 tons of weight, primarily naval artillery and sheets of steel for the cladding of battleships.At the head of the procession, departing from the Arsenal, was a gondola carrying Luigi Brugnaro, the mayor, in the bow, and making a video amidships is Giovanni Giusto, president of the Coordinating Association of Rowing Clubs as well as the municipal delegate tasked with keeping up with Venetian rowing. Be cynical if you want to, but seeing the mayor rowing (and he did the whole thing) was unusually cool.The “local police,” otherwise known as the “vigili,” have their own sandolo Buranello. There was an effort a while ago to reinstate their once-normal patrols of the canals by oar-power, but I think that rapidly faded away.
The corteo departed the Arsenal at 11:00 AM, and we all wended our way toward the hospital, where we stopped and gave the traditional “alzaremi” salute to the assembled doctors, nurses, and other medical personnel gathered on the fondamenta. Much clapping, many smiles. Much noontime sun scorching our skulls.
We weren’t practicing social distancing, but it just so happened that we were in an open space at that moment.
After executing the “alzaremi” twice, people just sort of hung around for a minute or so before the corteo got moving again. I’m seated astern with what looks like an oar in my lap. Of course it’s an oar, but I don’t remember it being that close.
Down the Cannaregio Canal, and the Grand Canal, to a pause in front of the basilica of the Salute (dedicated to Our Lady of Health, appropriate in this case), where members of the chorus of La Fenice and musicians of the Benedetto Marcello conservatory performed assorted wonderful pieces. We didn’t linger — by that point it was almost 1:00 PM and the heat and the hunger were singing their own little duet in our brains: “Shade…food…water…food…shade…”.
Considering how lavishly this was reported in the foreign press — and we were hugely photogenic, it’s true — not only was the corteo lovely to look at, but it conveyed the message that Venice is alive and has come out of its pharmacological coma. Translation: Get traveling, people. We’re ready for you.
Gathering at the bottom of the Grand Canal, me still astern, me still dreaming of glaciers and permafrost.
Yes, the row was open to anyone with a boat with oars. So yes, a yellow kayak with a pink inflatable — is that a dinosaur? — had a perfect right to join in. The gondolas were not carrying tourists, as I thought at first. Each carried a guest of honor: The ambassadors to Italy from the USA, Japan, and France, The American ambassador reciprocated via an article in the Gazzettino the next day by enthusing about Venice and recommending that all Americans come here forthwith. It’s not clear when that might be, considering that at the moment Americans aren’t permitted to enter Italy because of the virus. But let’s be hopeful.The “people of the oar,” as we are called in a sort of Paleolithic clan nomenclature, come in every sort of shape and size. Tradition dictates that women wear a white skirt on special boating occasions though, as you see, the definition of “skirt” is open to interpretation. But whatever you were wearing (or rowing) it was a splendid occasion in every way.
Our favorite bar at Sant’Elena went all out in festive decorations for the Vogalonga. The boat, the poster, the flags of many nations. Nice.
I am now re-establishing radio contact with the rest of the world. The recent crackling silence was completely predictable, at least to me. May is a great month if you’re a plant, but if you’re me, it’s an Olympic biathlon involving two of the city’s three biggest boating events: the corteo for the Festa de la Sensa, on Ascension Day (May 12 this year), and the Vogalonga (May 19).
Once again, I dedicated two weeks to working in the registration office for the Vogalonga. Sound simple? The first week, yes. The second week, right up to 6:00 PM the day before the event, was a crescendo of desperation — not on my part, but those who came, as one hollow-eyed supplicant put it, “A thousand kilometers over the Alps with our boats,” thinking they could sign up at the last minute and discovering that all the 1,700 bibs, one per boat, had already been booked.
I heard stories about people needing a number for their dying best friend. I didn’t hear any pleas based on expiring grandmothers or promises to small children, but the accumulated emotional tension began to take a toll on me. It wasn’t just the exclamations of doomed desire that were so tiring (“But why?” “But why?” “I have the money right here” “Can’t you find just one number for me?” “But I didn’t know” “I didn’t read the website” “I don’t have internet” “We’ve come all this way” “”Noooooooooooo, it can’t be truuuuuuuue”), it was my irritation at situations which could easily have been prevented if even one of their group had had a functioning medulla oblongata. Or whatever part of the brain governs logic and rationality. If there is such a part.
While everybody who already had their numbers were working themselves into a froth over the unpleasant weather forecast, I and my colleagues were struggling to resolve many silly and time-consuming and avoidable problems. Reservations made but not paid for; payments that didn’t correspond to the booking; adding people to boats; subtracting people from boats; doing long division of people from boats: the single reservation for 20 rowers who were assumed by us to all occupy the same boat, but which it turned out were each rowing by themselves, hence requiring 19 more numbers. That was fun. “You need 19 numbers? Sure, I’ll just make them right here for you, like Subway sandwiches. You want pickles?”
Compared to all that, rowing the event is almost always easier, and more enjoyable, and more, well, rational.
You might have heard that it rained; you might have heard that the rain was something epic! That some boats capsized! Frankly, it was all much better than I’d feared. The rain came down in hurled handfuls of big hard round drops, then shifted, like a shower-head, to fine, thin and steady, then heavy and steady, then lots of little drizzly drops, then another downpour, then a pause, then another downpour. After Mazzorbo, the sun came out and we all dried off. As for overturned boats, if you ride a horse, what can happen to you? You fall off. If you’re in a boat, what can happen? You fall in. Lino’s fallen in countless times. I’ve fallen in, in January, no less. Get a grip, people.
That said, however, falling in isn’t equal for everyone. We heard later from a friend who had been rowing in a big Venetian boat that at Mazzorbo a rower in a single kayak decided to cross their bow at the last moment, got dinged, and over he went. But he couldn’t manage to come up because he had lashed all sorts of accoutrements, luggage, supplies, and even himself, to his kayak, which meant he couldn’t manage to right it and he couldn’t get out of it either. Think about it. Think medulla oblongata. Happily, the Venetian rowers managed to haul him back over and up into the air, but it was a very close call.
They also saw another boat capsize (the reasons for this aren’t clear — we weren’t in a hurricane) — it was a kayak again, this time for two rowers which, as our friend explained, also contained two very small children, one of whom was about three months old. The only glimmer of intelligence in that scenario was that the presumed parents had fitted their kids with lifejackets. People like this shouldn’t be allowed out of the house, much less into a boat.
There was the by-now traditional logjam in the Canale di Cannaregio, caused by the by-now traditionally inept, vision-impaired, brain-dead coxswains on the long rowing shells who seem not to understand that their boat needs to keep going straight forward and that their job is to see that it gets done. Big long boats slewing around slaunchwise and getting stuck are like big expensive beaver dams forcing all the arriving boats to jam up. It’s not just that they create problems — they don’t know what to do to fix them. As we see in the video by a certain Bas Schols; here’s the link for those who don’t see the clip: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qRyEnCKno3o .
A close second for the prize for Best Way to Create Problems goes to the people who just stop rowing and sit there in their boat, usually in narrowish spaces or at blind corners. You can hardly ever discover a reason for this. Of course they’re tired; we’re all tired. But when they’re driving in the center lane of the highway back home, do they just stop when they feel like it and sit there? I feel doubtful.
After the Vogalonga (and the rain), it was time for lunch at the club. The long table laden with food is concealed by Roberto Busetto, who isn’t really trying to strangle Ivo Bratovich. After all, Ivo’s smiling.
The Sunday before all this, May 12, was the Festa de la Sensa, and we participated in the commemoration of the “Wedding of the Sea.” We row out toward the Lido, following the big fancy ceremonial boat called the “Serenissima,” past the Morosini Naval School where the cadets are lined up along the embankment, as sharp as creases in starched organdy, shouting “Urrah!” when commanded to do so by the bosun’s whistle. That is absolutely the coolest thing about the entire event, though of course tossing the wreath into the water to commemorate the dead sailors is important too. And a ring-like object with ribbons tied onto it also gets blessed and tossed. Another chance to be crushed together in a boat-scrum, but at least here we all know each other and actually know how to move our boats around. That’s it for boats.
The rest of the month is a rapid unraveling of assorted appointments and events. For example, I sat most of the afternoon waiting for the long-expected boiler repairman to come replace the replacement washer from a few weeks ago. He was supposed to come in the morning, but only by calling up did we learn that he’d been moved to the afternoon. Dazzling efficiency! We could be in Sweden! Wait — it’s gets better. He phoned at 3:30 to say he couldn’t come because they hadn’t given him the part he needed to install. They thought they had, police said. (I am adhering to the practice recommended by the old city editor to the cub reporter, my former boss, who told him, “You can write anything you want to, as long as you add ‘comma police said.””)
At 6:00 it was off to the Generali Insurance Company’s boathouse for the presentation of the restored 8-oar gondolone. We needed to swell the ranks, it seemed, so we were there. We try to be good sports on land as well as sea. I was hoping they’d have cookies, but they got in a caterer and had hors d’oeuvres and asparagus risotto. I like being wrong like that.
Tomorrow afternoon Lino will be at Malamocco for hours, as one of the judges overseeing the eliminations for the next official rowing race (Sant’ Erasmo, June 2). That evening, dinner at the Non-Commissioned Naval Officers Club, a cholesterol-laden thank-you from a group of young French students because not only did we pick up the dropped/lost wallet of one of their members (containing 70 euros and also an address) but thanks to Skype and the fact that little Pauline’s father was home when I called, we managed to return it to her the next day. And a big shout-out to Mrs. Rideout and Mrs. Gordon, whose draconian French courses in high school are still paying off, if only in fractured form.
Friday evening, the annual corteo to transport the statue of Our Lady of Succor (“Maria Ausiliatrice”) from the church of San Pietro di Castello to the church of San Giuseppe. This year we’re going to be carrying as many people as we can, hoping to transfer into Venetian boats many of those who usually follow us on foot along the fondamente.
Saturday, a batch of us are off to Burano to collect four of our tornado-devastated boats from the boatyard where they have been repaired. We’re either towing or rowing them back; it doesn’t seem clear yet which one. I’m for rowing, myself, not that anyone consults me. The forecast isn’t too pretty.
Some shards of frico, which I discovered in Gemona, deep in the heart of Friuli. I know cheese contains protein, but this can’t possibly be good for you.
Sunday, we’re going with a big group in a bus to Trieste to the annual reunion of the veterans of the Automobile Corps. Lino did his compulsory 18-month military service in Rome with this arm of the armed forces, repairing and maintaining Jeeps, trucks, and assorted ministerial vehicles. He recently joined the nearest chapter of the motorized veterans, and the big outing sounds like it’s going to be fun, except for the promised thunderstorms and drenching rain.
We’ll get to march around the Piazza dell’Unita’ d’Italia for a while, then go off to some countryside establishment to gorge on Friulian specialties (think San Daniele prosciutto and frico, or fried cheese) — possibly the true purpose of the expedition. Then to visit some famous nearby monastery blanketed by rose gardens. We’ll have to get up before 5:00 to get the train to Treviso, the starting point, but I’d walk to Treviso for a shot at a plate of frico.
Next week’s calendar is ominously empty. I say “ominous,” because you know how Nature feels about a vacuum.
One great thing about going to work every morning is that I got to see the city waking up.
At 7:45 the schoolbus pulls up at the Arsenale vaporetto stop. The bus is the #1 and all the kids are just as happy to be going to class as they are anywhere in the world.Sunrise makes some of the best shadows — in this case, from the roof of the Doge’s palace.A historic moment. On the morning of May 8, the boy with his froggie were still there…………and that evening, they were gone. I never thought I’d live to see it. Or not see it, whichever.I was surprised to see the commemorative wreath lying peacefully in the entryway of Ca’ Farsetti, the city hall, on the evening before it was to be offered to the waves in memory of fallen sailors at the “Sposalizio del Mare.” It’s not that I expected candles to be burning beside it, but it did seem so sort of ordinary there. “Yes, we always put a monster laurel wreath in front of the cash machine. Why do you ask?”A four-oar sandolo from the Morosini Naval School, rowed by four cadets taught by Lino, who are unfortunately, as you see, facing eastward. As we all were. That’s just one humble detail in this excellent ceremony — we’re all staring into the sun.Another boat with Morosini cadets — a six-oar caorlina rowed by five girls, steered by Gabriele De Mattia and overseen by Lino, seated astern, surveying everything.Aboard the “Serenissima,” the priest is reading the blessing of the wreath, as the admiral awaits his cue.The priest is evidently not a seaman; as he intones, he is steadying himself atop the waves with superb delicacy.The wreath is ready for its big moment.The wreath afloat, with the fireboats jetting celebratory water into the sky. You don’t want to be near them if there’s a breeze, I can tell you.Everyone stood at what amounted to attention as the music of the “Hymn of San Marco” was played. I wish I could tell you the sacrality of the moment was respected by everyone, but I can’t. I saw two men on a little mascareta rowing away with the wreath on the stern of their boat.And just think: At tonight’s party, we saw the commemorative wreath ever-so-attractively hung on the boathouse whose name I will not pronounce. But it’s pretty obvious. I’m sorry, I just can’t think of it as a decor accessory. But they do.
