Piazza San Marco | Venice: I am not making this up

Reflections on water

November 7, 2011 1 Comment

There seems to be something wrong with the date November 4. And I’m not referring to the Unknown Soldier. I’m referring to water.

On November 4, 1966, the famous acqua extra-alta flowed over Venice. It was also the day on which the catastrophic flood of the Arno struck Florence. (Trivia alert: A similar flood hit Florence on November 4, 1333.)

And now November 4, 2011 has entered the annals of suffering in Genova, flooded by at least two of their rivers which were overwhelmed by torrential rains. http://youtu.be/0IUOI_xg62M

I mention this for several reasons, and not primarily to make you wonder what it is about November 4 that seems to make the firmament go feral.

One reason I mention it is because Venice usually gets the headlines, whether there is a real problem or not. The foreign press loves to dramatize us splashing around in the Piazza San Marco, but I’m not sure that it has drawn appropriate attention to the cataclysm which has driven Genova to its knees, so I am making a point of telling you here.

Another reason I bring it up is to repeat one of my essential points about water in Venice compared to water in other places, which is that you can’t compare them.

So I will summarize it here and — I hope — won’t drone on about it any more this year.

Acqua alta is not “flooding.” Flooding is what happened in Florence, and in Genova, and other places I won’t list, and it often involves destruction and death.

We get wet. They get killed. On November 4 in Genova, there were at least seven victims. One woman was crushed between two cars being swept away down what used to be a street. Another woman and her two small children were drowned when the crest of the flood caught them in the entryway of their apartment building before they could make it to the staircase. And so on.

These are utterly tragic stories which are — thank God — impossible to replicate with acqua alta.

IMG_5028 alta — Some "water on the ground" in the Piazza San Marco. The tide is coming in, as you can tell by the fact that the pavement to the left is dry. And then it will be going out again. It's hard to think of calling this "flooding."

Therefore I trust that any drama you may encounter in the upcoming months in the press, on TV, on tourists’ blogs, concerning water in Venice will not impress you. In fact, I hope you won’t even notice it.

To review: Acqua alta is tide. It comes in, it goes out. It does not destroy bridges, rip up trees, or make floating trucks smash into buildings. Or humans.

So please spare a thought for the people in Genova (and elsewhere) who are suffering hideously from this avalanche of water. Do not expend any thought whatever on whether people in Venice have to put their boots on for two hours.

Though if you think we ought to start a group to advocate the abolition of November 4 from the calendar, I’ll be ready to sign up.

9563c2c57f3912f32a41954425c20a7d genova 4 nov — Genova, beginning to dig out.

IMG_4968 alta — Venice, November 30, 2009. Not the same thing.

Venetian Events

The ramps return to Capistrano — I mean Venice

October 7, 2011 No Comments

Seasonal migrations (is that redundant? Sorry) are an excellent way to keep track of the year’s divisions, especially here, where you need a keen eye to discern that there is anything more than one season anymore, which is Tourists.

But at this moment, if you’re paying attention (and if you know, and if you care) you can detect a few important signs of autumn. I don’t mean the drying, yellowing, falling leaves — anybody can notice them, and besides, the drought began drying them before their normal time to drop. So leaves are out.

Torbolino — the first draw-off of the new wine. That’s an excellent indicator, though again, this year it’s somewhat early due to the unusually early harvest (see: “drought,” above).

Ducks are also useful heralds of the season — I saw my first one paddling around two weeks ago, This always makes me happy, except that I had seen my first duck hunter even earlier: The ducks began hitting the water on September 3. So much for enjoying their winter haven.

Seppioline — sepoine (seh-poh-EE-neh) in Venetian — are baby seppie, or cuttlefish. If “baby” anything on your plate upsets you, skip this paragraph. We are now in the period of the fraima, which is the annual passage of the fish which have spent all summer fooling around in the lagoon moving out into the Adriatic (or beyond) for the winter. The cuttlefish spawned months ago, and their small offspring are now in the process of making their first trip out into the world where they will become big, grown-up cuttlefish. Unless they get snagged before they reach the exit, in which case they will be sold at an outrageous price (there I go, being redundant again), grilled and eaten. Short migration.

IMG_1870 ramp — The ramps are used by thundering racers for a few hours, and by countless humbler folk dragging suitcases, shopping carts, or strollers laden with small heavy tired cranky children for six months. I would bet that the shleppers appreciate the ramps just as much as any Ethiopian champion. Probably more.

But the ramps are back. I saw my first one two days ago and it was like hearing a small, clear trumpet announcing autumn, winter, and early spring. The ramps are set up for the Venice Marathon (this year scheduled for October 23), and they stay up till the end of March. That’s practically half the year. Then they migrate back to hibernate in whatever warehouse keeps them till next October.

They’re only installed on the race route — logically — which conveniently passes the Piazza San Marco and other heavily traveled tourist routes. I bet the people up in Cannaregio and along the northern edge of the city really envy us. I know they don’t envy us the tourists, but we get the ramps.

Uncategorized

Intimate in Venice

July 8, 2011 7 Comments

Immag022 jt — I hope nobody has told him people are expecting to spend an intimate evening with him. He'd be in for a shock.

There’s not much I can say about the poster on the trash can near the “Giardini” vaporetto stop.

Of course that’s not true. I could say all sorts of things, but there are two main observations that it inspires, which is why I’m mentioning it.

First: Once again, as at the festa the other night, it’s written in English. I guess they don’t believe any non-English-speaking Italians/Venetians/miscellaneous foreigners are going to be interested. Or they don’t want non-English-speaking I/V/mfs coming to this event, even if they did happen to be interested.

Or maybe it’s in English because there’s not enough space on the poster for “nan yon aswe entim ak ekselans nan” or “ng isang kilalang-kilala na gabi na may ang quintessential” or even “একটি বিশুদ্ধ সঙ্গে অন্তরঙ্গ সন্ধ্যায়.”

Second: It’s not that it promotes a mere concert.

It’s going to be “an intimate evening” with James Taylor in the Piazza San Marco, a event which, on the intimacy scale, certainly beats the stuffing out of Bobby Short at the Carlyle, Sally Bowles at the Kit Kat Klub, or Noel Coward anywhere.

The Piazza San Marco cannot in any way be made to look, sound, or feel intimate, any more than can Beaver Stadium in State College, Pennsylvania, which it resembles more than you might think. Go Nittany Lions.

But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the next time you want to savor an intimate evening with your personal heartthrob, you should plan a candlelight dinner in the Piazza San Marco. If the racetrack at Belmont isn’t available, I mean.

Immag023 jt — Sweet Baby James is going to have to work some kind of magic to keep this intimate. Or even quintessential.

History, Venetian Events

Happy Birthday, Italy: Part 2

March 18, 2011 1 Comment

All three flags, each flying its own way. It's very Italian.

At 10:00 AM yesterday — as you recall, the 150th anniversary of the Unification of Italy — I went to the Piazza San Marco to watch the ceremony of the alzabandiera, or flag-raising.

Or, I suppose, flags-raising, since there are always three: The gonfalone of San Marco (the historic flag of the Venetian Republic), the Italian flag, and the flag of the European Union. There is a rule now that the national flag can’t be displayed without the EU one by its side. That’s your bit of useless information for the day.

This is probably a larger flag than Lino carried when he was this boy's age, but it may be that he carried his with more emotion.

Most of the Piazza was cordoned off, so the spectators were pushed far to the edges. I was around the corner, in front of the campanile entrance, where the procession of veterans representating each of the armed forces was forming up.

There were a few distant speeches from the invisible platform bearing the mayor and other notables. There was lots of music by the band of the Bersaglieri (bear-sahl-YAIR-ee), who as always arrived and departed at a brisk trot. This, along with their extraordinary feathered helmets, is their trademark.

And there were flags of all sizes carried by people of all sizes. Not thousands of either, but a comfortable amount that made it clear that the spectators cared. The band played the national anthem, and some in the crowd also sang it, though there wasn’t exactly a roar of a myriad voices, swearing the oath of the Horatii. Oh well.

The bersaglieri play even better than they run. Or the other way around.

A bersagliere, whose steel helmet is covered with wood grouse feathers. If he's not trotting, this is how you can recognize him.

Half an hour later, the bersaglieri went trotting out, followed by their confreres in approximate formation. The rest of the uniformed participants — assorted notables of varying grades of notability — wandered away in little clumps. This is typical. I realize that we’re not at a state funeral, or some other occasion that calls for sharp edges and crisp behavior. But the formless wandering always does something to reduce the atmosphere of the event in a small way.

This is what a procession looks like, leaving a ceremony.

And this is what wandering looks like, though if you're a carabiniere in full dress uniform you can do anything and still look amazing.

In the afternoon, a large procession formed up at San Marco, dedicated to around the carrying of an improvised longest (perhaps) -tricolore-in-the-world. This creation was borne along the Riva degli Schiavoni, up and down bridges, along the Riva dei Sette Martiri, and ultimately came to rest at the monument to Garibaldi. They strung it around the fence that encloses him, his faithful soldier, and the regal, if wingless, lion at his feet.

The three long strips of cloth were more or less the right colors. The important thing was that it was long.

That was it for any public activities that I was aware of. There may have been others elsewhere, but I was cold and tired of standing up. I realize that Garibaldi’s indefatigable troops wouldn’t have succumbed to a few drops of frigid rain and a gray, determined breeze, nor did they ever complain about their feet, at least not around him.

I didn’t complain. We just went home.