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.
What’s wrong with this picture? It’s not that there are no people, it’s that there are no fishermen on the fondamenta, snagging the seppie. The seppie are coming in now and there’s nobody welcoming them with hooks and buckets. That’s how bad things are getting to be.
I was all set — eager, even, sleeves rolled up — to weigh in on some important points about Venice as revealed by the current absence of tourists. But developments in the past two days have led me to reconsider the timing of those points. The situation here is not improving.
Schools will be closed for another week, theoretically reopening on March 16. Masses are still forbidden, and some sporting events are being held, but without spectators. We have been instructed not to shake hands, or even consider hugging or kissing any of our friends — so much for those hearty greetings in passing in via Garibaldi. Something called the “Wuhan shake” has been proposed as an alternative (touching opposing feet), or bumping elbows. I suppose those would work if your sense of human interaction is incomplete without some physical contact, but I think they would only make people feel awkward and self-conscious. Maybe after a few generations that would wear off.
What’s notable about this death notice? It’s not that Egidio has moved on (at 98 years old, it’s not exactly noteworthy). It’s the statement at the bottom, where the funeral details are usually printed. I translate: “The funeral will be celebrated in private form, according to the orders in effect by the Ministry of Health.” That means no friends, friends of the family, friends of friends; the rule is to limit the funeral to the strictest and closest immediate family members and THAT’S IT.Wait — now things are getting serious. The first virus victim in Venice is somebody I know! Danilo Carraro had the eyeglass shop in Calle de la Mandola, and he was a very good guy. He was also one of the last — perhaps the last? — of the members of the Querini rowing club who belonged to its most florid and glorious days. I would have gone to his funeral, but as noted, only family members allowed.
So much for the people who are here. But plenty of people are not going to be here — cancellations are flooding in (sorry). A potential tourist’s fear of being infected is realistically complicated by fear of not being able to return home. “Rooms are down to just 20-30 per cent occupancy,” said Claudio Scarpa, director of the hoteliers’ association, “and some are down to zero.” Ten hotels in Venice are beginning to consider laying off staff (with unemployment benefits, as appropriate), and perhaps even closing — temporarily, one can hope.
The airports of the Veneto region (not only Venice, but also Verona and Treviso) have registered a 30 per cent drop in passengers; Israel, Jordan, and South Korea have forbidden flights coming from the Veneto. Evidently people departing Italy are now regarded as hazardous material, and people wanting to go Italy aren’t much more appealing. I saw a photograph of the departure gates for flights to Italy at Sheremetyovo airport in Moscow — all the personnel were wearing hazmat suits, completely covered, as if they were dealing with a bioterrorist site. Gad. I’m starting to feel like some sort of leper.
But I still didn’t get a sense of how serious the situation was becoming until the astonishing news came yesterday that the Biennale (this year dedicated to architecture) is being sliced in half. It usually opens in May and runs to the end of November, and provides ponderous amounts of money to the city’s economy. Now, instead of opening on May 11, it will open on August 29. In 2019 the Biennale counted some 600,000 visitors (roughly 3,000 per day), plus several thousand journalists, all of whom needed to eat and sleep in some manner, and pay for same. A mere three months isn’t going to do much for the city’s coffers, though by now I guess we should say it’s better than nothing. The prospect of “nothing” is also sobering.
All those terrible things we got used to saying about tourists? I think a lot of people would love to have the chance to say them again.
The morning is still reasonably busy on via Garibaldi, but we’re not at a level I’d call “bustling.”Updates on the church notice-board: “The pastoral visit SUSPENDED postponed to a date to be decided.” The patriarch of Venice, Francesco Moraglia, was scheduled to visit the churches in this part of the city over the next few days, and a lovely program had been set up. But he could hardly plan a big parish visit if he’s forbidden people to gather for mass.Notices are just popping up everywhere. These two documents are taped at the entrance to the Coop supermarket.I translate: “Let’s collaborate together” (just go with it) “for the protection of our health. In the interest of everyone’s health, we invite you to avoid crowding, with particular attention to the service counters” (this refers to the prepared food cases and cold cuts where you order individually), “to the cash registers and the busiest departments, maintaining at least one meter of distance from other persons. In case the number of people doesn’t guarantee the respect of this indication, a system of providing access according to groups may be instituted. A responsible collaboration for the prevention of Coronavirus. In compliance with the Decree of the President of the Council of Ministers of 1 March 2020.”“Let’s collaborate together for the protection of our health. The cooperative has taken pains to make disinfectant gel available at the checkout counter for members and clients. The possible absence of this product is determined by the difficulty in finding it on the market.”A friendly wave from at least one meter away from you.
Zwingle’s Eighth Law states “The bigger your memorial, the less people remember who you were.” A wander around Westminster Abbey shines a blinding light on that truth. A black marble slab for Charles Dickens, a white marble meringue for James Cornewall.
In case anyone was wondering if there might be any memorials to the three patriarchs of Venice who became pope, the answer is yes. But you might not notice them, and if you did, you might not quite grasp who they were. Especially if the inscription is in Latin (grrr).
Trivia alert: Venetians refer to popes, especially the three that touched Venice, by their civilian last names, not their formal papal names. Also, the word for “pope” in Italian is papa (PAH-pah.) The nickname for your daddy is the same word, pronounced pah-PAH. If you mix them up, people will think the pope is your father.
Pope Pius X, “Papa Sarto,” was deeply moved on leaving Venice to go to Rome for the conclave of cardinals meeting to elect the successor to Pope Leo XIII. The throng which came to see him off at the station was exhibiting what we’d call intense separation anxiety. He reassured them by promising that he would return, whether alive or dead. Yes, he said those words. He was elected pope, and though he lived another 11 years, he never made it back. He died in 1914.
In 1959, Pope John XXIII (just coming up in our chronicle) — who knew of this unfulfilled promise — arranged for Sarto’s casket to be disinterred, organized a special train which left, in those days, from a station within the Vatican, and sent him back to Venice. The body lay in state in the basilica of San Marco for a month, then was returned by special train to the Vatican. Promise kept.
Footnote: Lino remembers the day the train arrived, not because he was present, but because all the employees of the Aeronavali, which maintained and repaired airplanes at Nicelli airport on the Lido, were taken in a bus to see where the new Marco Polo airport was going to be built on the mainland. The sacred and the profane just keep on running into each other.
Of the three papal memorials here, that of Saint Pius X is the most impressive by weight, but the least impressive by location: at the head of the Ponte della Liberta’ by Piazzale Roma, next to the Agip gas station. Lino says it’s because he’s there to guard the gate to the city. There may well be more to it than that, but I haven’t taken the time to root it out. That could be a project for my old age.
This is a crucial node in your arrival by car. If you want to park, you're now looking for the garage. If you're taking a ship, or the ferry to the Lido, you'll be taking the off-ramp at the bottom of the picture. If you're at the gas station, you'll be staring at the price on the pump with something like terror. If it's night, the light over the monument will never stand out in the intermittent illumination from the street lamps. Speaking of illumination, sorry I took this in the morning -- I didn't realize I'd be facing due east.
The inscription reads: "He returned (reference to his vow) with the halo of the saints. Alleluia!" And beneath the bust, "O holy father, bless Venice." I'd like to know if anyone ever puts money in the slot. It may be the most challenging place for a hundred miles to make a contribution. More people stop at memorials on mountaintops than stop at this one. The dates flanking his head (April 2, 1959 - May 10, 1959) refer to the period of his return visit. He was canonized in 1954, so his sainthood was official.
Pope John XXIII, Papa Roncalli, or “The Good Pope,” was known as a saint by anyone who ever met him, at least here in Venice. The beatification details that made it official were just extra.
Lino had two encounters with him. One was by surprise, crossing the patriarch’s path as he left the basilica of the Salute. Lino was strolling with his girlfriend, and Roncalli stopped to say hello. “Are you two engaged?” he asked in a friendly, if generic, way. “Yes, Your Eminence” — Lino repeats this in a tiny abashed voice. “Love each other,” he said, patting each of them on the cheek. Evidently his charisma marked this little event in a powerful way, because on paper it looks like nothing.
The second encounter was at the airport, where Lino worked as an airplane mechanic. Patriarch Roncalli came to celebrate mass there for the workers, and he was lacking an altarboy to assist him. Lino volunteered.
My favorite bit of Roncalli lore is the nickname the gondoliers gave him: “Nane Schedina,” or Jack the Lottery Ticket. When he chose the name John XXIII, to the wags at the Molo stazio the Roman numerals looked like the pattern of the numbers on a lottery ticket.
If you needed any further evidence of his qualities as a patriarch/pope/human being, the nickname says it all. Gondoliers bestow them spontaneously, and only when they really want to. In fact, if there is any category which comes equipped with a built-in automatic crap detector, as Hemingway put it, it would be the gondoliers. The fact that Roncalli would sometimes walk over to the Molo to say hello, and even sometimes take them up on their offer of going to get a glass of wine at the nearby bar, obviously had something to do with their feeling for him. He’d play cards with the staff in the evening, too. Not with the majordomo, with the cook and the cleaning ladies.
He’s the only patriarch of the three that has two memorials. That doesn’t earn him any bonus points, I merely mention it.
This bust of Pope John XXIII faces the side entrance to the basilica of San Marco. It looks well-lit from this angle, but if you see it straight on it's always in a sort of muddy little area of wall that makes it hard to distinguish. Not to mention makes it almost impossible to read the fulsome Latin inscription over it. I think that's pretty funny, considering how he moved the liturgy from Latin to the vernacular so it could be understood by everybody. I'd be willing to bet that this inscription really annoys him. If saints can get annoyed.
I was thinking of getting a translation of the encomium above him, but I resisted, on principle. Anyway, the inscription doesn't add anything you can't get just by looking at his face.
Pope John Paul I, “Papa Luciani,” was smaller and, it turns out, more frail than his two patriarchal predecessors. But Venetians loved him, and not just because he came from the mountains just up the road. In his mere 33 days on the throne of St. Peter he earned the sobriquet “The Smiling Pope.” Venetians already knew that.
So far, no bust of him has been made, or if so, placed anywhere a human can see it. But he is remains an extremely tough act to follow, as his successors have amply demonstrated.
The patriarch's palace faces the Piazzetta dei Leoncini, joined to the basilica of San Marco. The two memorial plaques are between the two windows on the right and left of the entrance.
"In this patriarchal seat Cardinal Albino Luciani lived at the head of his flock in goodness and hard-working humility from 1970 to 1978 when elected Pope John Paul I for thirty-three days as father and universal master opened the way to a new hope."
"In this patriarchal seat in the spirit of the mission of Venice illustrated by Saints Lorenzo Giustiniani and Pius X Cardinal Angelo Giuseppe Roncalli shepherd and beloved father from 1953 to 1958 in fruitful thoughtfulness prepared the ecumenical vastness and innovatory ferment of his glorious pontificate."
Mons. Francesco Moraglia's coat of arms, now in place over the entrance to the patriarch's palace. Its symbolism, from top to bottom, is: The patriarchal hat, the lion of San Marco, a star representing the Virgin Mary, its eight points denoting the eight Beatitudes, a battlement (a pun on his name -- "muraglia" means wall), and the sea with an anchor, freely borrowed/interpreted from the crest of Pius X. The motto reads "With Mary mother of Jesus," a phrase which among other things, was used by Pope John XXIII on presenting to the Curia the Apostolic Constitution. Tempting fate?
To descend, as I enjoy doing, from the sublime to the quotidian, on Tuesday morning a barge was called to the service entrance of the basilica to take away a rack of vestments. I don't know if they were used at the big investiture ceremony two days earlier, or are being sent to the drycleaner to be ready for Palm Sunday and/or Easter. But off they go.
Venice doesn’t have a bishop — you may be fascinated to know — it has a patriarch. And as of last Sunday, it has a new one: Francesco Moraglia, who has now been launched to a higher sphere from modest but reverendable monsignor to patriarch and, very soon, to cardinal. Next stop? We don’t speak its name, but we know it’s there.
Three patriarchs of Venice in the 20th century were elected pope (Pius X, John XXIII, and John Paul I). Which means that one reason — perhaps the main reason — why it took six months to decide on the new occupant of the patriarch’s palace could be that the man needed to be considered papabile, as they say: “pope-able.”
As you can imagine, his welcome ceremony was a many-splendored thing, but the centerpiece — and the piece feasible only in Venice — was a corteo, or procession, of boats in the Grand Canal.
Corteos, if you do them right (as in: have lots of participants), are impressive when seen from the shore/bridge/parapet/balcony or wherever the viewer may be positioned. Certainly they’re impressive as seen from the vessel carrying the person being corteo’d.
The corteo finally begins. Some rowers, like the ones on the green boat, evidently have a different idea about what "dressing up for company" means.
Corteos, as seen from the boats involved, have a much different character. They are composed of friends — or people who know each other, anyway — and what may look like a stately progress is actually a continual jockeying for position in a limited space complicated by vaporettos, gusts of wind, and tidal forces. All of these factors conduce to moments of vivacious confusion which most of the rowers astern, responsible for steering, know how to navigate. I can promise you, however, that there will be at least one boat whose poppiere has a very uncertain grasp of the connection between the action of the oar and the reaction of the boat. Fancy way of saying: helplessly wandering hither and yon like a rudderless boat on the high seas. This person, whoever it may be, is always happiest right in front of us.
Don Marcello, the parish priest of San Giobbe, showed up to row in his cassock, just as he did for the previous patriarch, he told the Gazzettino, as well as Popes Benedict XVI and Paul VI.
The Gazzettino reported that there were some 200 boats in the procession, and I can believe it. I think most of them, though, were there for the event in its Venetian, rather than spiritual, aspect. I’m not saying rowers are godless, I’m just saying that the mass of participants seemed to be divided into two groups: Bunches of people along the fondamentas with welcome banners who were singing hymns , and us in the boats who were living another sort of moment.
The routine usually goes like this: The boats gather in the Grand Canal at Piazzale Roma. We go to the command-post boat if we’re due any bonuses (T-shirts, bandannas, small bags of rations usually containing a sandwich, bottle of water or carton of fruit juice, a small pastry or piece of fruit.) You lounge around and keep track of your friends. At this point in my evolution here, there’s quite a list.
We must have waited half an hour in front of the train station for Mons. Moraglia to conclude his prayers ashore. Half an hour is a long time when you're doing nothing.But hanging around did give me time to admire this young woman, seemingly no more than 15 years old, who was the master and commander of an 8-oar gondola from the Canottieri Mestre rowed entirely by people her age.
Small organizational point: Unlike most processions, which are in the morning, we were summoned to appear at 1:45 PM. This seemingly innocuous moment effectively wipes Sunday off your calendar, when you calculate the time needed to get to your boat, row it to Piazzale Roma, do the corteo, and row home. The fact that the timing effectively wiped your lunch hour off your calendar was also noticed. That’s why they gave us sandwiches. Not much to keep you going till dinnertime, but if you came, you’d already accepted this fact.
We get the signal to start, and we proceed down the canal to the bacino of San Marco, dodging taxis and vaporettos and gondoliers and each other’s oars. The principles of defensive driving all come into immediate play for the half-hour or so it usually takes to run this 3.7 km/2.3 mile route.
I’d never seen so many boats in a procession, not even when we put on the same event in 2002 for the recently-departed predecessor. The sun was shining, the breeze was generally docile, and we were going mostly with the tide.
The only drawback was the long wait for the patriarch to finish his invisible ceremonies ashore, board his boat, and get going. When the tide is pulling you along and large public conveyances keep jostling for space, you don’t really feel like hanging around, even for an Eminence. Rowers began to murmur and to comment.
But finally we were on our way. We managed to put on a burst of speed to get past the small boat slewing around in front of us. We waved to Lino’s sisters on the fondamenta. And when we passed under the Rialto Bridge and saw the straight stretch of Grand Canal covered with boats spread out before us, Lino actually got a little choked up. I can’t remember what he said, but I looked up and his eyes were wet. Just in case you think we get all blase and jaded about everything.
As the patriarch debarked at San Marco, the gathered boats gave the customary alzaremi, or raised-oar salute. It’s spectacular when done right, or even just sort of right. The annoying part for the executors of this feat isn’t the weight of the oar as you haul it upright (I discovered a trick) — it’s the way the water runs down the shaft and onto your hands. I have no picture of it because I was busy with my oar.
Then we row back to the club, across the bacino of San Marco, which will always be full of big heavy clashing waves. You may well also have the wind and tide against you, so by the time you get the boat ashore you’ve forgotten how much fun you had.
The prow of a mega-gondola is a magnificent place from which to view the corteo. But I still can't figure out how the man is sitting. There's exactly the same area available on the right as you see on the left of the little flag. Where are his legs? Are his feet trailing in the water?
But enough about me. I can tell you that the new patriarch has already remarked that he believes one of our main priorities needs to be to make children happy. He put that in his short list of things we need to take more seriously, like create more jobs and be more just and fair in our dealings.
My inner Protestant (I.P.) finds this an amazingly dim recommendation. If making children happy is a goal, I can turn over and go back to sleep, because that must be the easiest thing on earth to do. Unload a dump truck full of sugar and fat and iEverything and then leave them alone. My I.P. — who is as devoted to children and their well-being as anyone, even him — would have preferred to hear something a little less fluffy. If happy children are what we want, I think our mission should be to make sure they’re educated, healthy, disciplined, kind, at least bilingual and don’t smoke. I suspect that happiness would be within their own grasp at that point, and wouldn’t have to be provided by a squad of round-the-clock muffinbrains.
Feel free to pass this observation along to him.
More hanging around waiting, this time in front of the basilica of the Madonna della Salute, while the patriarch went inside to pay his respects to her. The golden curly thing is the stern of the "Dogaressa," the ceremonial boat that carried the pope last May. A good sign?
Some of us managed to find a parking place in front of the church, so we could relax during the interval.
Lack of food? Overcome by emotion? Meditating? Or just saving his strength for the next leg of the journey?
The "disdotona," or 18-oar gondola, belonging to the Querini rowing club, is easily the most spectacular boat in Venice and is always the sign of a Truly Important Event. The only drawback is finding a parking place.
The patriarch comes out of the basilica to wild acclaim. Wild, anyway, to everyone except the woman seated with her dog on the steps, reading the paper.She’s probably reading the big article about the patriarch's arrival and wondering when he's supposed to show up.I love this woman! She is totally impossible to impress! She's looking at her DOG.
"Just be patient -- he'll be along sooner or later."Setting off on the last leg of the trip, across the Grand Canal to the Piazza San Marco. The police escort is an impressive touch -- we never see these zippy little craft except on big occasions. The firemen have them too. The men probably draw lots because everybody must want to drive them.
He looks happy and that makes me feel good. And he gets ten bonus points for standing up in the boat, a position he maintained, according to the Gazzettino, for the entire corteo. I have to say, that's cool.
