Sant' Erasmo | Venice: I am not making this up

bows of happiness

January 12, 2026 11 Comments

“Three things remain to us from paradise: Stars, flowers, and children.”

This enchanting statement is often attributed to Dante Alighieri; I regret to say that no evidence supports this. So rather than waste time grappling amongst a thousand footnotes for the truth let’s agree that the very talented Anon. wrote it.

It came to mind because of Sophie’s arrival across the canal from us on January 4. I don’t know her; I haven’t seen (and, strange to say, haven’t even heard) her. I only know that she’s a new neighbor and she has brought joy with her.

So in the spirit of Anon.’s poetic observation, here are a few glimpses over the years of these particular remnants of paradise scattered around here. Flowers and stars will follow.

CHILDREN

What a lovely thing to see when one looks out the front door.

I’m always on the lookout for the welcome ribbons. Pink for girls, blue for boys, as you know. They always make me feel a bounce of hope.

More twins! That was certainly a lively Christmas at their house.

I think her name is Roberta, but the big message is strung over the street. “E’ nata!” She’s born!

INTERLUDE: A summer stroll around Pellestrina, August 7, 2022. I was there on a typically sweltering summer Sunday to watch the annual local Venetian rowing races. With at least two hours to spare, I had plenty of time to lollygag. This was not at all my first time to this lagoon outpost of some 3,000 souls, so I wasn’t expecting surprises.

But surprised I was, to discover that the Stork had been working overtime. The number of ribbons I found tied to so many houses seemed almost like some sort of game. I won’t hazard any theories as to why a regiment of births had marched through this modest municipality in early August, though I’d like to know what had happened during the preceding November. Massive power outage — no TV but lots of candles? A village-wide festival of wine or grappa that got out of hand? Did a whole cohort make some crazy bet? Is it a cult? Articles continually come out lamenting Italy’s falling birth rate. Maybe they should come to Pellestrina and test the water?

This certainly cuts off the question “What are you going to name him?” Enea (eh-NAY-uh) is the Italian version of Aeneas, the Trojan warrior for whom *The Aeneid* is titled. A lot to live up to. I couldn’t even live up to this gate.

I notice that white ribbons from a wedding are also attached to the gate. Probably just coincidence.

One single bow seems a little sad somehow, compared to the extravagance of the other families. But wait! Another white bow? Has Pellestrina — or maybe the parish priest — gone mad?

Statistics reveal that typically more boys are born than girls, but Pellestrina appears to be taking the situation far too seriously.

You don’t even have to write a book — the whole story is right out in the open here. It looks like the set of a comic opera when the curtain rises. Those two babies are doomed (by their mothers, obviously) to marry. Either that or one of them escapes destiny by fleeing to the South Seas to become a pirate.

Years ago I read a little report in the Gazzettino. The parish priest of Pellestrina — I’m pretty sure that’s where he was — had just happily celebrated the baptism of a new arrival. And he asked, “Why do we ring the church bells only when someone dies? We ought to ring them too when a baby is born.”

He’s not wrong.

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Happy Easter

April 3, 2021 10 Comments

Easter chocolate eggs germinating sugar flowers.

Or to my non-Christian friends, happy whatever spring-time commemoration you observe.
The operative word is “spring.” As in “budding flowers and fruits.” We have them all over Venice and environs. So please accept these images in the spirit of reawakening, and let us continue to hope for the best.

Peach blossoms from Sicily. I watch for them every year.

Lemon-buds waiting to blossom, seen on a lemon tree in a big pot at the Rialto Market.

You don’t only see spring here, you eat it. Some of the earliest delicacies are (clockwise from upper left): Bruscandoli, or wild hops; carletti, the leaves of the unhappily named bladder campion; asparagus; and the slim strands of “barba di frate” (friar’s beard). Get them when you see them, because they’re not staying long.

A small fig tree getting to work on Sant’ Erasmo.

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True Love Street

October 12, 2019 15 Comments

The island of Sant’ Erasmo is the largest in the entire lagoon, which is the least of its appeal. It is a sort of antidote, if you will, to Venice, especially on a muted autumn afternoon. And if you love mosquitoes, you will have gone to heaven. So have the mosquitoes, come to think of it.

Anyone going to the center of town on the island of Sant’ Erasmo (which is redundant — the town is nothing but center) has the option of changing vaporettos at the first stop (“Capannone”) and proceeding to the next stop (“Chiesa”), or spending a tranquil 30 minutes walking from C1 to C2.

The first time I did this was unintentional. Years ago I was voyaging toward the center of town to watch the three Venetian rowing races held there every year on the first Sunday in June. But bad timing on my part meant that I was stuck ashore, because I had had no reason to know that service on that part of the vaporetto’s normal route would be suspended; for a few shining moments each year the vaporettos are banned from what is essentially the racetrack, watery though it may be. This is one of the few occasions in which a Venetian boat being rowed gets to tell a motorboat what it can’t do.

Trekking along among the fields, I discovered I really liked going that way. So a few weeks ago, on the way to the early October races, I happily set out on my pastoral excursion.

It doesn’t look very far, when seen on the map, but when you walk this route you have the sensation of having been transported extremely far from Venice in every way. That’s part of its charm, naturally.

The road is officially named Via de le Motte, which roughly means “Street (or Way) of the Small Artificial Islands Constructed at Convenient Points for the Fishing Valleys.” Man-made hillocks, basically, which makes sense considering how much work has been done during the centuries to make the lagoon useful to people. But it wasn’t long before I discovered that the impending matrimony of two unknown lovers had inspired at least one friend (possibly more than one) to offer a series of dire, last-minute warnings spray-painted onto the asphalt.

For all I know, though, they might have been sprayed on in the dark of night by the groom himself. Or best man? Matron of honor? Mother of the bride? Her father? Her father-in-law?

The very soul and spirit of rural tranquillity. But soon the scene will unexpectedly shift toward drama, imagined or real.

“Evviva ea sposa”( Long live the bride). Note for anyone interested in the Venetian language: You do not spell “la” as “ea,” you just pronounce it that way. This spelling is a fairly recent aberration, but it seems to be taking hold. Anyway, the sentiment is charming.

“Torna indrio” (torna indietro): Turn back! Me, or the bride? Walk on…

Sweet. Now we’re back in lovebird territory. Here’s to C + F. But below the initials are two mystic symbols, one which appear to be pliers or shears or wirecutters, and a turtle. The turtle, I am informed, represents the value of not rushing to the church but taking one’s time, and the shears stand for the groom’s nickname. Read on.

“Sei sicura?” (Are you sure?). The use of the feminine gender here is a bit ominous, though I guess it’s not a totally unusual question to ask the bride on the cusp of the great day. One has been known to ask it of oneself, I’ve heard.

“Stop” needs no translation. “Fermite” repeats “Stop” as directed to a person.

“Dimentica” (forget) followed by “NO.” Pretty clear meaning, but I have discovered that there is a rock song entitled “Dimentica,” sung by a man known as Raf, which is devoted to the melancholy delight raised by the recollection of a love affair which is no more. If this is a veiled reference to lines such as “Forget my words if you can forgive them,” it doesn’t bode well, except for the emphatic “NO.” Maybe I’m overthinking this. On we go.

I’m not completely alone with this disembodied duo (or trio?). People have places to go even on Sant’ Erasmo and this is a main road, after all.

“Rinuncia a Trancia.” (Renounce “Trancia.”) This isn’t a command to quit using shears/wirecutters/pliers, but an admonition to reject the groom, who happens to go by the nickname “Trancia.” Things are getting a little tense?

“Sei ancora in tempo” (you still have time). I’m beginning to tend toward the best man as perpetrator. A rejected lover? It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Fai inversione” (make a U-turn), with a helpful arrow. Bear in mind that these admonitions are spaced reasonably far apart, enough so that as you walk along you don’t see the next one coming up. Of course this adds to their increasing intensity.

“Stai superando il limite” (you are passing the limit). As one approaches the town center — you see that lagoon has taken the place of the artichoke fields — the message seems to acquire a certain force. Last chance, babe. You’ve been warned.

“Ormai ci siamo” (by now we’re there, “there” implying a conclusion but not a geographical point. It’s as if something has been settled, not that you’ve just about reached the municipal swimming pool).

“Specialita’ del giorno tartar di trancia” (Daily special tartare of Trancia). You either have to be a relative, or at least a native of the island, to get the nuances here, but I imagine it’s hilarious.

And so the weird seer fades into the boggy marshes, his/her/their exhortations exhausted.

“The course of true love never did run smooth,” Shakespeare averred. Who’d have thought he’d seen the road on Sant’ Erasmo?

Food

Locavore on the loose

August 1, 2018 2 Comments

Eggplant from Sant’ Erasmo — in season, looking good, and all’s right with the world.

We have been gasping under a suffocating heatwave for at least two weeks (months, years…losing track of everything), with temperatures in the 90s (F) and humidity beyond calculating.

My vital functions are down to the minimum, and evidently my brain isn’t on the “Save First” list, so my posts will also be at the minimum for a short while.

But there was a lady the other morning at the fruit and vegetable boat who gave me an unexpected little jolt.

I had just begun to tell Massimo and his cigarette what I wanted when the lady came bustling up behind me. She already had her vegetation in a thin plastic bag, but she announced that it was threatening to give out at any moment.

Without so much as a by-your-leave (I guess when my brain disappears, the rest of me goes with it?) she extended the bag toward Massimo to demonstrate its fragility and asked him to give her another one. She spoke in Italian but I couldn’t place the accent — it seemed to come from somewhere in the central regions. But I could tell by her behavior that she wasn’t from around here.

“A stronger one,” she added in a way that blended a whiff of anxiety with a strong gust of busybody. “You can see that this one isn’t going to hold out. It really is too thin. Just think if I were to try to take it onto the vaporetto and it broke, I don’t know what I’d do.” She did seem a little keyed up. “So another bag, please. I’ll pay.”

“You know, you could also carry your own canvas shopping bag,” Massimo remarked in a noncommittal way. (He said “canvas,” although everybody uses ripstop nylon these days. Anyway, she knew what he meant.) It was very nice, the way he accommodated her without creating any further anxiety while at the same time letting her know that her fate, where her fruit was concerned, didn’t have to depend on him, or the firemen, or the police divers, or anybody but herself.

“Oh no, I don’t like those bags,” she quickly replied, implying that he’d suggested something her mother had warned her never to be seen with. My own mother was certainly implacable where it came to some things, such as my walking barefoot in the summer on the sidewalk just in front our house, because people would think I belonged to the Jukes and the Kallikaks.

Massimo handed her the never-fail sturdier green plastic bag. “Ten cents.” Asking for the money confirmed that she isn’t from around here; I think he was making a point.

She paid. She left.

This is a shortish-lived fruit that could well be from Sant’ Erasmo, or environs. The sign bears the magic word “nostrane” — “local.”

“Wow,” I said as he turned his attention back to me. “No canvas bags.” He gave a little shrug and an even littler smile.

“Yesterday she asked for lemons from Sant’ Erasmo,” he said. “And bananas from Sant’ Erasmo.” (To any reader who might not remember that these delicacies do not, are not, and could not be grown on Sant’ Erasmo — well, maybe the lemons could, I’m not sure — it would be like asking for mangosteens or manioc from Sant’ Erasmo).

“They’re really good,” I said, smiling with fake sincerity. “A lot of people don’t know that. Did you give them to her?”

“Of course.”

What is more treacherous than a very thin and overloaded plastic bag? A tiny bit of information that you don’t understand. Just because she had seen “Sant’ Erasmo” listed on various signs stuck into piles of local produce — eggplants, string beans, leeks — she interpreted this as “best” because it’s right next door, the closest loca that a vore could want.

I was sorry that she’d let herself improvise, because she was clearly so sure of herself in every way. Food for thought. From Sant’ Erasmo.

These plums have no visible provenance, but they’re looking very tempting. I wouldn’t insist on knowing their hometown.

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