“BUONGIORNO BELL’ANIMA!!” Good morning, beautiful spirit! This ebullient greeting been up for several years, and it always gives me a boost, although I’ll never know how this relationship developed. The two persons involved know who they are. I do hope they’re happy.
There are 20,000 entries under “Venice” on amazon.com. (I’d have thought there were more, actually.) But that’s only the English-language site. Amazon Japan lists “over 6,000.” In any case, whatever your language, Venice is going to be there somehow. Histories, novels, travel guides, poetry, cookbooks, memoirs and, for all I know, limericks and postcards and old flight boarding cards.
Add to that mighty flood the tributary streams of academic studies and research and theses, the reports from national and international committees, the torrents of daily news and opinion pieces and blogs. Anyone during the past millennium with a brain and a pencil seems to have written something about Venice and there is no end in sight. It would appear that you cannot be a warm-blooded, live-young-bearing creature that is alive who has not written something about Venice.
But within this Humboldt Current of ideas and facts and fantasies there are plenty of other thoughts and feelings that flow through daily life here. Letters to the editor are fine, but it’s much simpler (and cheaper) for the vox populi to make itself heard through signs. These come in all sorts of ways, but they’re everywhere.
There are the personal messages from the heart. The heart above is in wonderful shape, but there are many that aren’t.
“Unhappy with a lamentable smile.” I wonder if the smile is easily identifiable as lamentable, or if it’s a cheerful smile hiding a broken heart (thus qualifying as even more lamentable). Cue the music: “Take a good look at my face, you see my smile is out of place, if you look closer it’s easy to trace the tracks of my tears…” Thank you, Smokey Robinson. It would be hard to get all that on a wall, so we’ll hope this person’s smile has improved.On a much less poetic note comes this rage-graffito that has been on this wall for a few years now. “Drug-addicted lesbian slut infected with nymphomania.” I wonder if it made him feel better. I can only hope so. Wow.
Neighborhoods bubble with exasperated reminders of some basic rules of civility, in varying degrees of sharpness. One eternal theme is dog poop.
The offended party has put this where everybody walking north (or, briefly, east) is sure to see it.“The campiello is not your dogs’ toilet. Be ashamed.” A common complaint, always heartfelt, always futile.Same problem expressed a little more elegantly here.“Do you love your dog? Take his crap home. We didn’t throw our kids’ used diapers on the street but we took them home. Think about it.” It seems odd to equate love for your dog with basic politeness to humans; the dog certainly doesn’t equate love and poop. But the emotion is the point and yes, it’s true, it would be just as bad to dispose of diapers in a similar way. But, unhappily, here public spaces don’t belong to everybody, they belong to nobody, so the good times keep rolling. Note also that this neatly printed message has been inserted into a sort of thick plastic envelope that has been nailed to the wall. Not for this person a few strips of tape — this reprimand is intended to last.The notice-leaver has made an equally eloquent point by creating and installing this wedge of wood. It needs no sign to get its message across: “This surface is no longer flat because if it were it would immediately become a mini-garbage heap.” I can promise you that if it were available, it would be stacked with abandoned Coke bottles, gelato-cups, crumpled napkins, half-empty cans of beer, maybe some squashed juiceboxes, a couple of candy wrappers, and whatever else could be made to fit until it fell over. The guardian of this space isn’t appealing to your better angels here, he/she/they are just getting the job done.It just never ends. “It was beautiful but unfortunately it lasted only a little while,” the notice begins. Evidently the previous appeal had some effect, but not for long. “To the owners of dogs … You are prayed” (literally — it’s like “prithee”) “to continue to collect the turds of your dogs. The streets also of Castello will be more dignified! Doing this will bring respect to your beloved dogs because you care for them even outside your house and you also respect the people who lived along your route. Thank you.” And just when you thought that defecation was the dog’s only transgression, just wait.The ladies who have taken our previous doctor’s space for their studio/workshop are also not amused by canine functions. And their approach leaves the homespun “Be ashamed” far behind as they prepare to throw the book at the guilty: “This is not a toilet for dogs!!! To permit your dog to piss on the walls of buildings could qualify as the crime of soiling (public walls) that is punishable under Article 639 of the Penal Code.” That’s quite a cannonball to fire at a dog-owner. The crime referred to here is the one usually committed by hooligans with spray-cans of paint, so yes, one could conceivably draw a certain parallel. But I have to stick up for the dogs here. Where are they supposed to go? I can understand owners needing to carry away their dog’s poop, but must they race to get their pooch to the nearest tree? The normal resolution of the dirty-wall situation is a bucket of soapy water, reinforced with bleach, if you want. I think the Penal Code has bigger problems to solve. Get a life, ladies. And a bucket, like everybody else.
On to the hazards of maintaining a small earthly garden in the street.
Did you know that plants can also create problems? Or rather, the people around the plants. It has not been a good day at the oasis.“Wreck the plants, tear off the flowers, leave the dog crap on purpose outside this door, I feel sorry for your sad life. (If you’re frustrated, I advise you to see a psychologist.”) Too bad the crap had to remain on the list of infractions, but there’s just no getting away from it, even in a dismembered conservatory.These little doorway groves have, not to put too fine a point on it, broken several ordinances, but “live and let live” has been the operating philosophy here for quite a while. Until one day, it wasn’t. Somebody didn’t want to let live.“For the thief (feminine or masculine forms of the word, just to be comprehensive) that steals the plants and flowers outside my house: The flowers can be replaced, but dignity NO! (You are) persons whose spirits are poor” (as in threadbare). I regret the flowers, but at least this time dogs aren’t involved.
On a happier note, there is a little old man named Valerio who continued to work in his carpentry shop for decades, or perhaps eons, considering how extremely old he looks. But he kept at it until one day…
A telltale blue ribbon appeared on his door, next to his workshop. A baby boy!It simply says “Great-grandfather Valerio Vittorio is born.”
Not many days later, a sign appeared on the workshop door:
“Carpenter Valerio is no longer working. PLEASE (literally, “one prays”) do not disturb. Thank you.” Yes, Vittorio was the signal that it was time to clean out the workshop and put away the tools. And Valerio has been doing just that. Great-grandfathering is a full-time job.
Tourists do not pass unobserved.
Not far from the train station is this remark, followed by two rejoinders. It’s probably a political statement of some kind. I can tell you that no one with a hotel, bar, cafe, restaurant, or shop selling anything would be likely to express this thought, especially after the months of pandemic lockdown. But free speech is thriving.If the tourist doesn’t know not to sit on a bridge to eat, this shop will make it clear. “No Pic Nic Area.”The fundamental problem is that there is are too few places except the 436 bridges on which to sit to munch your slice of cold pizza or assorted carry-out comestibles from the supermarket. It is true that many (not all) campos have at least a few benches, though it is also true that bridges are the ideal perching places. But you’re blocking the traffic, for one thing, and for the other, you look like vagrants, huddled on the steps wrestling with prosciutto slices and bags of potato chips.
So much for signs for tourists. For locals, almost no details are necessary for communication:
A few years ago this was posted at the door of the church of San Francesco de Paula. “Finished (or almost) the repair/restoration work. Monday 12 September the patronato reopens at the usual time.” That’s right: The usual time. If you don’t know when that is I guess you don’t belong there. Note: The patronato is what you might call the parish hall/playground/sports area of the parish. Every church has one, and scores of activities take place there for the children of the congregation. Not to have the patronato available after school is a major problem, so this is good news.
On a similar neighborhoodly note:
“On Sunday 30 morning we’re closed. You’ll find that Antonella is open.” There is no sign outside her tobacco shop that says “Antonella.” You just have to know.
Moving into the realm of city government, or lack thereof, the Venetians in our neighborhood (and others, I can assure you) have plenty to say. The comments tend to run along the following lines (and I’m not referring to clotheslines):
I have seen a man wearing a few of these; I am assuming he also made them. All hung out to dry together, they make quite a screed. Written in Venetian (L to R): “After the barbarians came to Venice the politicians arrived to destroy her.” “Long live motondoso thank you mayor.” “Topo Gigio Brigade.” You may recall the little puppet named Topo Gigio who appeared several times on the Ed Sullivan variety TV show. Gigio is the nickname for Luigi, which also happens to be the name of the current mayor, Luigi Brugnaro. He has no fans in Venice, let me just put it that way.Being compared to either a rat or a children’s toy is not what most mayors aspire to, I’m pretty sure.
Continuing with the runic messages delivered by T-shirt: “Venice is an embroidered bedspread.” This one is complicated and I have no hope of clarifying its evidently metaphorical significance. I do know that there is a song that begins “Il cielo e’ una coperta ricamata” — the sky is an embroidered cover, which is lovely. Is the intention to say that Venice is as beautiful as an embroidered cover? I think there is some irony here, but it eludes me. Maybe I’ll run into this person again (I saw him at the fruit-vendor one afternoon) and I can just ask him. Meanwhile, on we go.
“Venice is a casin thanks politicians.” A casin (kah-ZEEN) is a brothel, where gambling also went on, and sooner or later tumult ensued. And not tumult of any polite, Marquess of Queensberry sort. It’s now the usual word for any situation that entails chaos, perhaps danger, racket and rudeness. It appears to many that Venice is speeding downhill with no brakes (again, motondoso comes to mind) and nobody at the wheel. Some people also refer to the city as “no-man’s land.” Literally everybody is doing whatever they want, and the result is pure casin.
Lastly, “Venezia is dead Thanks politicians and Gigio.”
While we’re talking about citizens’ discontent….
A group calling itself C 16 A (abbreviation of Coordinamento 16 Aprile) was formed to condense the general consensus of thoughts regarding the problems of the city. This was in preparation for a vast gathering planned for 16 April this year on the occasion of the 50th anniversary of the Special Law for Venice. The common goal was identifying the myriad ways in which the city has wasted its opportunities since then. “AAA cercasi” is the customary code for when you want to place a notice seeking something or someone at the top of an alphabetical list. These notices are looking for: “A mayor of Venice who lives in Venice.” (Luigi Brugnaro lives in Spinea, on the mainland.) “Businessmen who don’t behave like predators.” “Landlords with their hand on their heart and not only on their wallet.”
And this handwritten cri de coeur summarizing the profound crisis in the public health system. The people of lower Castello are persevering in their apparently hopeless struggle to obtain a reasonable supply of doctors:
Residents in Castello: “9354 and only 4 doctors. Age groups over 65 years old. (Note that there are 215 residents who are 90 or older.) People over 65 years old have chronic pathologies, are not self-sufficient, suffer from social isolation, economic distress, lack of family members, defective social services.” There are not enough “basic doctors.” The basic doctor is assigned to you by the public health service and is paid by it. Many doctors are retiring, so a huge hole is opening up in the near future. Let me say that there is a reasonable number of doctors, but the number of those that want to practice for the public health system is too small. A doctor with 1,500 patients assigned to him/her (it’s the case with our doctor) earns roughly 52,500 euros ($56,000) per year. They also usually have private practices, but still. One can see the lack of incentive. Meanwhile, the aging population needs more care than it’s getting. The city is trying to encourage doctors, I don’t know how, to stay on even after they turn 70 years old.
There are also signs without words that hint at approaching events or persons.
In a word: Carnival. It started early last year by the eager tiny hand of a tiny person.Did you know that Christmas is coming? These men know it, because this morning they began to string the holiday lights in via Garibaldi and environs. Exactly two months in advance seems like a lot of time, but if there are only four men assigned to it, better get going early. (If you don’t make them out, the strings of lights are being drawn down the surface of the stone gatepost in a triangular Christmas-tree pattern.)The strings of lights are another reason for the early start. You thought the tangled mass that lives in your basement or attic is an irritating start to the holiday season? These men have quite the little assignment facing them.
An approaching event I never thought I’d see. The city’s greatest housewares/hardware store having its final sale before closing. They tried to keep going after Covid. They stayed open all day (as opposed to closing in the early afternoon, like every reasonable store used to do). Then they stayed open all week. Unheard-of. It wasn’t enough. I can’t tell you how bad this is. I haven’t gone by recently to see what’s taking its physical place; not much can replace something so great. It used to be that useful stores (butcher shop, fruit and vegetables, etc.) would suddenly begin to sell masks or Murano glass. Now they will be either a restaurant or bar/cafe’. That’s my bet for the once-great Ratti.
“Selling everything! Discounts!” They make it sound like something wonderful. It was more wonderful without the “closing” posters. I have been informed by sharp-eyed readers that Ratti has reopened in not one, but two locations not far from the Rialto Bridge. This is news of a goodness one doesn’t receive every day, so I am really glad to know they have found a way to keep going. And yes, I should make a point of buying something there, otherwise all my glad words aren’tt worth the electrons they’re written with.The bar/cafe’ “Magna e Tasi” in Campo SS. Filippo e Giacomo near San Marco used to draw these lines on the wall with a Sharpie. They decided to make these indications of acqua-alta calamity more legible, and elegant. And waterproof.
The arrival of certain foods are reliable harbingers of seasons or events, though seeing clementines for sale in October is not normal. But this is absolutely the moment for torboin (tor-bo-EEN).
This is Venetian for “The torbolino has arrived white and red.” In Italian it would be “E’ arrivato il torbolino.” This is a sign of the progress of autumn, as demijohns arrive from Sant’ Erasmo loaded with the first drawing-off of the new wine (otherwise known as “must”). One expert explains that “It is usually from white grapes, not completely fermented, turbid, lightly sparkling and amiable.” It is the classic accompaniment to roasted chestnuts. So it’s good news!One of my all-time favorites was this sign in a window of a bread bakery in Campo Santa Margherita. The owner is making this retort in Venetian to his cranky customers who annoy him with complaints that he (like many merchants) had begun to charge a pittance for the once-free plastic shopping bag for carrying their purchase. “Notice to my clients: “The shopping bags are terrible-as-the-plague expensive and don’t hold up worth a dry fig. So if you put in your purse a shopping bag that lasts a lifetime, 10 cents here and 15 cents there at the end of the month you’ve saved (money). THANK YOU.”
In a class by itself is this astoundingly inappropriate offer of a room with perhaps an undesirable view.
“A 50-year-old man will share with a girl or working woman a sunlit apartment near the Santa Marta vaporetto stop, a single bed in a small room. The place is made up of a liveable kitchen” (meaning large enough to eat in), “a little living room and two bedrooms of which one is already occupied. Contact Francesco…”. Cringe! Unless you’re a student and really, really need to be near the University of Architecture, which may be what Francesco is counting on. Someone has added the word “porco” — pig. Went without saying but it’s still good to see. I wonder if he just forgot to mention a bathroom, or if it’s down the hall. Of the building next door.
Above the chorus of voices on the walls there come a few magical notes from mysterious poetic souls.
“I dreamt I could say something with words,” wrote someone who either is from England or was taught by someone speaking the King’s English. The answer is strangely poignant. “Yes.” I love this person as much for having to squeeze in the last-minute “g” as I do for the response. One sometimes wonders why certain places are chosen for these messages. Behind a fountain at the Rialto Market doesn’t immediately suggest poetry, but fish and mushrooms don’t seem to clash.“I love you for all of my life.” Dez and Ruez plighted their troth near the Rialto Bridge and while graffiti aren’t to be encouraged, this is really nice. Far better than the “Bomb the multinationals” sort of thing that students like to spread around.On a wall near the church of San Isepo. Not quite this faint in real life, but pretty near. And to the right of the design you can barely make out an important three-word message.“Gioia per tutti.” Joy for everyone.
So by all means stroll through Venice looking at palaces and canals. Just don’t forget the walls.
This image of one of the “surfisti” was published in La Nuova Venezia. Fun!
Here’s something I learned today: Electric surfboards exist. They don’t literally go in the surf, but are big rectangles of plastic with a battery-powered motor and a cord to hang onto, and you just zoom away having the water-skiing time of your life without having to bother with attaching yourself to a motorboat. I guess it could be compared to an electric scooter, but on the water. Or a jet-ski that you stand on. Or a turbo-charged paddle board without the paddle.
This much is news to me. What isn’t news is that somebody (two somebodies, actually) decided to bring their toys to Venice and try them out on the Grand Canal. It happened this morning (Wednesday, August 17). What also isn’t news is that imbeciles have some primitive instinct that compels them to come to Venice in the summer, like the wildebeest have to surge across the Serengeti in May. If you are an imbecile with money, you will get there before all the ordinary, common-garden-variety idiot tourists who do mundane little stupid things like jumping off the Rialto Bridge, or cooking your lunch hunkered down around your camp stove in the Piazza San Marco.
Two men aboard these entertaining vehicles suddenly appeared in the Grand Canal, as I said, and after zooming from Rialto to the Salute they somehow managed to disappear before anybody had means, money, or opportunity to nab them. Mayor Luigi Brugnaro was livid and posted this on Twitter (translated by me): “Here are two overbearing imbeciles who are making a joke of the city … I ask everybody to help us identify them and punish them even if our weapons are blunt … there is urgent need for mayors to have more power to ensure public safety! To whomever identifies them I offer dinner!”
Well, they got caught, and it didn’t take more than a few hours. Bulletins didn’t name who gets the credit — and the dinner — for tracking them down, but it may be a while before these two bright sparks will be feeling that rush of adrenaline and endorphins and serotonin and oxytocin and dopamine they were savoring this morning.
They are two Australians who now, at nightfall, have had their boards confiscated (total worth 25,000 euros, or 36,662 Australian dollars), and been fined 1,500 euros each (2,344 Australian dollars). It’s only money and they almost certainly can afford it, but the mayor has initiated legal proceedings against them for “damage to the city’s image.” I don’t know what that is likely to add up to, but I can see lots of lawyers’ fees and whole lots of time being spent on making an example of them.
Naturally I’m as glad as the next person to know that they have been hauled away in chains and leg shackles, but my gladness is curdled by the thought that if it seems incredible that somebody would do this, it is equally, if not more, incredible that they weren’t stopped in flagrante. Along the entire stretch of the Grand Canal (3,800 meters or half a mile) there was not one carabinere, state police, local police, lagoon police, firefighter, dogcatcher, anybody at all with a badge and a walkie-talkie who was on the scene, ready to intervene.
I know it’s an old joke to say that you never see one when you need one, but if I were the mayor I’d be spending less time dudgeoning about these two cretins, and instead be chairing a serious meeting to find out where the hell everybody was. It’s invigorating to want — what was his phrase? — “mayors to have more power,” but it seems to me that if people were on their assigned jobs at their assigned times and places, the mayor wouldn’t need more power. The mayor’s supposed to make the system work, not BE the system.
I can imagine scenarios more serious than electric surfboards that would have had urgent need for a rapid intervention (baby falling into the water comes to mind), and yet, nobody’s on hand. “Please leave a message at the tone….”
Oh wait. The shell-game shysters have returned to their traditional places to pluck the unwary tourists ready to gamble. Maybe that’s where the police were. If not there, they must have been out patrolling the myriad motorboats causing extreme motondoso this year, though the waves make me doubt it. If not there, maybe they’re going around checking store-owners’ certificates of fire inspection.
The Grand Canal is Fifth Avenue! It’s the Champs Elysees! You can’t have Fifth Avenue with no police officer in sight. Something goes wrong on the Champs Elysees — there must be at least one policeman patrolling. But here in Venice we have the Grand Canal with nitwits running wild in broad daylight and the mayor has to turn to Twitter to ask for help finding them. Am I wrong, or is that just a little bit dumber than speed-surfing on Main Street?
Waiting for the fireworks. Last year, this looked like a party. This year, it looks like a public health nightmare. I hadn’t ever thought about it, but fireworks manufacturers must be hurting this year along with everybody else.
This just in: The bridge is already under construction, and I’m sure the fireworks are already on the way, but like a launch at Cape Canaveral, mayor Luigi Brugnaro has scrubbed the mission.
This year, there will be no fireworks for the Redentore (July 19). No fireworks, no party boats, no “notte famosissima.” It’s a blow, but there were already signs that caution was going to rule, beginning with the new regulation that spaces along the fondamente were going to be assigned only by booking. But in the end, it was obvious that safe social distancing was going to be impossible to plan, much less maintain, on water or on land.
It seemed like a good idea at the time. “Festa of the Redentore, on the embankments only by reservation.”
Here is the mayor’s announcement (translated by me):
“I do not have good news. I have been awake all night, but unfortunately I’m forced to tell you that we are annulling the fireworks for the Redentore. I can’t bring myself to make it work, I have tried everything. In conscience I just don’t feel like it, for me it’s the most beautiful festa of the year. We set up an incredible system for booking for the boats, we even invented a series of plans for limiting the flow. It’s my decision, I take responsibility for it, but I cannot bring the city to risk it. This is a safe city.”
If you come for the fireworks, you’re almost certainly going to want to eat something somewhere. Not a scene that bears repeating this year.
No news at this moment as to whether the races will be held on Sunday afternoon, or the mass.
However, I think it’s unlikely that the festal mass on Sunday afternoon is going to be permitted to proceed as in days of yore.Winds of change, as the cliche’ goes. Hang tough, Venice.
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.
