As you know, just going outside and walking around here — as everywhere, probably — provides all sorts of opportunities to observe the strangeness of people and life.
Let’s take tourists. Yes, they’re back — not millions of them, but a choice assortment. The number is increasing as we approach the launch of the Venice Film Festival next Wednesday, September 2, but I don’t think that has anything to do with the glimpses I’ve had. This is not a screed about tourists, they’re just one part of the summer scenery.
It was nearing midnight when we boarded this vaporetto bound for home, and who should board but Hermann of the Teutoburg Forest, with his substantial wife and daughter (not visible here, but I can tell you she was feeling the heat and the trip, bless her heart).I turned the corner coming back from the supermarket and discovered visitors. The door facing them leads to an apartment rented to tourists, and we’ve just begun getting used to seeing them come and go again. But this was the first time I’d ever seen anyone imagine that they’d also rented the street, and its walls. (The green shutters to the left belong to our kitchen window.) There’s so much to wonder about here. Do they sprawl on the street back in their own city? I know that many men feel that the T-shirt is the emblem of freedom from the daily necktie. Street-sprawling is freedom from … chairs? I was wondering how to politely ask them to move, then realized that the sun would soon be taking care of that — it moves from right to left here, so before very long that refreshing shadow will have disappeared and the street will be broiling. When I glanced outside again, they had gone somewhere else.
Fun fact (that caption was already too long): I could only say “sprawl,” but there’s a great word in Venetian for what’s he’s doing: stravacar (strah-vah-KAR). It’s based on “vacca,” the Italian word for cow. Hence, lolling about like a cow in the field.
This bridge, which I cross many times a day because it’s the one nearest our house, exerts an occult force upon people, compelling them to stop at the bottom right corner. It’s usually three or four women, or a few men, with or without children, dogs, or shopping carts; they tend to cluster there for leisurely confabulations. Evidently this is a sort of intersection, but the fact remains that it’s pretty inconvenient for anyone trying to pass in either direction. Sure, I can make a wide turn, that’s not a problem. None of this is a problem (except for the really old people who need to hold onto the railing). But why a tourist would want to stop at that specific spot is a mystery. Photos — I understand that bridges are the perfect setting for photos of your girlfriend in Venice. But at the bottom of the bridge? Seated? In the shadow? And — may I repeat — at the corner where inevitably someone will be wanting to pass, or dogs to piss (not made up)? And if it has to be a corner, why not the other corner?
I know nothing about this situation; the clip was forwarded to me by a friend via WhatsApp. My friend says it’s not a joke, and frankly, it’s hard to tell anymore when people are serious and when they’re just fooling around (though the fact that her entire outfit is some shade of pink also deserves notice). It looks like the marinaio who is supervising the boarding is taking her seriously. Using both of his hands to indicate “The boat’s already full” means it’s seriously already full. Too bad we couldn’t have put her on the vaporetto with Hermann and his backpack. I could have taken bets, like at a cockfight.
This extraordinary boat was tied up here for a few days. I’ve seen boats in all the stages of life, but never one so gloriously unkempt and so proudly loved: “The most beautiful boat in Venice,” it says in Venetian. Its mother must have stuck that label on it one day as it was going to school.There’s something enchanting about this thing — it’s like it took a wrong turn on Reelfoot Lake and ended up here. The curious wooden seats fold outward in a cunning way to form a table, and the mini-motor is the perfect touch; normally, 40 horses are the fewest you’ll almost ever see on boats around here.Massimo and Luca have taken two weeks off, and they left their fruit and vegetable boat in a state of unprecedented order and cleanliness. The planter they keep on the bow contains some useful herbs, but this sturdy little sentinel rosebud seems to have been left on watch till they return. Perhaps on the night before they come back, all the petals will fall off, in a sort of “Mission accomplished” kind of way.This woman knows her cat. I would never have thought that you could just open a carrier in a public (i.e., not safe and familiar) place and know that the feline would do nothing more than glare at you all the way home. The creature might have been on some tranquilizing medication, but if that were the case it doesn’t explain the glare. Supposing that this is her pet’s natural expression makes me feel uneasy, but not as uneasy as noticing that they’re traveling in what appears to be the my-mask-refuses-to-cover-my-nose section of the vaporetto.Let me set the scene: This is a four-oar sandolo, which for reasons of safety Lino always positions on its little cart with the bow downward.This is the same boat before it was repaired, in the same position in its shed. The bow is down, protruding just far enough outside the roof that it caught the rain from a recent storm. Rain has visibly accumulated, but rain isn’t supposed to accumulate on your boat, especially if it’s made of wood. In fact, a simple solution was discovered centuries ago: A little hole called an ombrinale. As long as gravity is still working, the water will drain out all by itself.But as you see, the water is just sitting there, because as you can also see, in this case the ombrinale was drilled on the OPPOSITE side of the little piece of barrier wood — a piece of wood that was placed there specifically to compel the water to flow out through the ombrinale.I am obsessed with this; It’s a perfect example of “You had ONE JOB.” These boats aren’t mass-produced, they’re made by hand, one at a time. I have tried to find, or even invent, an explanation, but I guess it will just have to continue to speak for itself.But let’s forget about boats and go ashore. Here is a fondamenta near our house. You can see, reasonably far ahead, something in the center of the walkway. Old Venice hands recognize it as sawdust, and the same hands know it’s there for one specific purpose: To cover an unusual quantity of dog poop, thus preventing an unwary person from stepping in it. So far, so good.It’s pretty big, hard to miss. And there’s clearly plenty of room to walk around it.But maybe not. I understand the bicycle treadmarks, at least they’re around the edges and besides, only kids are riding them. It’s the grown-up footprint smack in the center that makes me reflect on the person who did not see it coming. No sarcasm here — if you don’t see this from half a street away, something way more important is going on in your life, and I can only be thankful that the sawdust-distributor got there first.Meanwhile, there’s always this…And this…And, of course, this.
While some people have been working themselves up about the mobs of tourists in Venice (tourists in Venice? I’m shocked! Shocked!) our little lobe of the city has quietly tiptoed away, its denizens going to the mountains, Hammerfest, Saskatoon, the Tuvan Grasslands, anywhere but here where they can enjoy a little peace and quiet and — I hope — not to have become tourists in turn, if you take my meaning.
Between Ferragosto (August 15, as you know) and the onslaught of the Film Festival is this small sliver of time which is like a deep, peaceful breath. Even though the heat continues to enervate us, night and day —
If, for some reason, you lost your mind and decided to come to Venice in August, your main survival tool is liquids. Lots of them, as you see.
— there is an atmosphere of restfulness along via Garibaldi which is almost like vacation in itself. And that is because many of the shops are closed. Temporary inconvenience to the few remaining inhabitants is more than mitigated by the tranquillity, and besides, it’s not as if ALL the fruit-and-vegetable sellers are gone, and yes, there is one butcher left who can slice you some pork chops. In any case, we now have the mastodontic Coop supermarket to take up the slack (open every day from 8:00 AM to 10:00 PM, if you can believe it), manned by staff which does not always look happy to be helping, which I can understand even though they do have air-conditioning.
Let me take you on a brief perambulation of via Garibaldi, rejoicing in the “closed for vacation” (ferie) signs on the windows and doors. It’s as if the supposedly avaricious and insatiable merchants had all suddenly said, “Nah, we don’t care. We should stay here sweltering just on the chance that SOMEBODY might wander in, even by mistake?” Because most of their regular customers are also far away. I’m only here because I have to be, but I get to enjoy this moment and they don’t.
You’ll have to go somewhere else until August 21 to buy laundry detergent, lipstick, rubber kitchen gloves, or a bucket and mop — the everything-store is shut. You should have thought about needing that shampoo or scouring powder sooner.Now is not the moment to be caught without underwear or dish towels or handkerchiefs. The dry-goods ladies aren’t coming back till the 28th.No shoes, even on sale (“saldi”) until the 21st.Anything in the optical line, from high-class sunglasses to replacing a screw to a bottle of contact-lens wetting solution is unobtainable until the 21st. Still, he’s only taking a week. That seems very, very short to me. I could wait for the lens-wiping cloth a little longer.Just as soon as you got used to the fact that this hair salon was open only in from 8:30 – 12:30 in July and August, they go and close altogether. Still, they only took four days off, which I think is extremely strange and unreasonably short, and I, personally, would not have advised it.But we are evidently expected to walk around with our heads wrapped in scarves because, as you see, the OTHER salon (yes, there are two) has also elected to go relax everything up to and including their hair, somewhere else.The toys-and-school-supplies-and-paper-goods store is giving itself three weeks off. Once school starts again they’ll have more than plenty to do. If you need an eraser or some lead for your mechanical pencil, too bad.The butcher has put the prosciutto away, and if you’re pining to make fegato alla veneziana you’ll just have to wait. Eat some clams or some scrambled eggs meanwhile, or trek down the street to Alberto the butcher, who is hanging tough. Better yet, have some gelato. That’s one type of shop that couldn’t possibly close in the summer.Well, that settles that. You absolutely cannot have any problem either with your computer or your cell phone until Gianni gets back. There is no Plan B. The mere sight of this sign makes me cower.Want to play the lottery or buy some smokes? You’ll have to go back up the street to the other two places that will provide you with these vital services because the mother and her eccentric son in this emporium are somewhere else. They have helpfully given two alternate shops, but I can’t understand why they didn’t list the one two minutes down from the top of via Garibaldi. Perhaps they’re involved in a feud. It happens.The indefatigable Fabio at the Trattoria alla Rampa is off Work A (feeding people) but only in order to exhaust himself doing Work B, otherwise known as “maintenance.” He knows what it’s going to be like when the Film Festival starts and he’s going to be ready — to be precise, on September 4.Some shops don’t need signs. Everybody knows this is a pastry shop, and everybody knows that pastry shops pretty much close for some time in August. The reason: Cream just doesn’t have the same appeal at room temperature as it does frozen and sitting in a cone. Everything is hard to work with in the heat, from chocolate to your business partner.The faithful and doomed-to-be-photographed-forever fruit and vegetable boat. Massimo and Luca used to clear away all the boxes and crates when they went on vacation, and the sight of the bare deck was a strange and memorable moment in the waning summer days. But as you see, they just said the heck with it. Yes, there are two other produce sellers on the street, but I can tell you that they are nowhere near the same quality. So we soldier on……but not particularly encouraged by the ominous note at the bottom: “To reopen on 25 August. Maybe.”Giorgio’s boat might as well have a sign on it because when he’s in Venice he goes out fishing virtually every single day, barring typhoons of either the meteorological or domestic type. To see the boat tied up in broad daylight is to know that the world has stopped.
I regret the lapse in communication. The fundamental problem has been a dysfunctional computer which is still awaiting treatment. That’s supposed to happen tomorrow. So there will be no pictures on this post. I’m sorry.
But the morning is too beautiful to pass without recognition. I don’t mean “beautiful” as in meteorologically, though there is that, too. Light clouds, cooler air, gentler sunshine.
What’s beautiful right now is the entire atmosphere. If it were possible for a hapless seagull to pass through an airplane’s turbine and come out in one piece, that would be me. Apart from having guests coming and going, we have also been deeply involved in the Regata Storica and, yesterday, the Riveria Fiorita. (We still have to put the boat away.)
But there has been more, even if we weren’t directly involved: The Biennale of Architecture (August 29-November 25), and the Venice Film Festival (August 28-September 8) — two world-class events opening on essentially the same day — have created their own special wildness. Our neighborhood — that is, the world — is a major center of activity at least for the former event, what with exhibitions strewn all over the lot. The film festival is on the Lido, but that doesn’t mean we don’t get the collateral damage of troop-transport vaporettos and other issues resulting from attempting to fit 1X of people into 1Y of space.
To change metaphors, the sensation I had this morning, walking outside, was of having spent a month in a large pot of water which had been brought to a rolling boil, and which now had been put on the windowsill to cool down.
People have just gone away. Even the kids are nowhere to be seen, because they’re all getting ready for school to start on Wednesday (if children can ever be said to be ready). There is a pale, hushed, tranquil air enlivened only by soft voices saying indistinguishable, agreeable things. This is quite a change from the shouting and crying and assorted other high-volume communications that have been shredding the air at all hours and far into the night.
The procession of French tourists who rent the apartment up one floor across the street has ended. No more listening to their open-window 3:00 PM multi-course lunches, or dodging the dripping from their laundry stretched on the line from their wall to ours. No more (or hardly any more) heavy grumbling from the wheels of overloaded suitcases being dragged to, or from, hidden lodgings somewhere beyond us in the middle of the night (one group arrived at 1:00 AM, another headed to the airport at 3:30 AM. I know because I checked the clock). It’s not just the suitcases, it’s the discussions, though you might think they’d have settled the details before locking the door.
Now it’s just us here.
I don’t want to give the impression that I desire the silence of a Carthusian monastery to reign in Castello. I’m only saying that one savors this particular silence with particular appreciation inspired by having experienced its opposite for a just a little too long.
I’m sorry you can’t all be here to savor this delicate loveliness, disregarding the fact that having you all here would mean it wouldn’t be so delicate anymore, no offense. But in any case, nothing, as you know, lasts forever. And school, as I mentioned, will be starting in 48 hours. Tourists make noise? I challenge them to overcome the clamor of squadrons of children meeting their friends on the street at 7:30 in the morning. The winners will be decided by the Olympic taekwondo judges.
One of scores of winged lions stationed around the Lido; this one is at the vaporetto stop, on meet-and-greet duty.
It would appear that there is always a film festival going on somewhere in the world — 308 at last count, but no doubt the list is growing. That’s practically one a day.
And each one awards a (usually) golden trophy, The most famous give out lions, bears, and palm fronds but let us not disparage the Golden Crow Pheasant, Golden Pyramid, Golden Conch, Golden Frogs, Golden Space Needle, and even (I am not making this up), the Golden Calf, from the Netherlands. Did they do that on purpose?
Special buses start in the morning to take people from the vaporetto to the movies. As part of the multi-purpose art extravaganza known as the Biennale, the film festival is correctly known as the 'Exhibition of Cinema," as if the movies were hung on a wall.
Until September 10, here we’re focusing on the lion, naturally. For a thousand years the winged lion of San Marco stood for power, wealth, and glory, and struck fear, admiration and envy in the hearts of countless thousands. For ten days in Venice, it stands for movie tickets, daily updates on assorted stars and tiny asteroids, a constant drip of complaints and criticism of what there is and what there isn’t, and parties where countless thousands stand around and talk about how they’re going to make some more money, which essentially brings us back to the aforementioned power, wealth, and glory. Or maybe they don’t care about the glory.
The Venice Film Festival — 68 years old and still going strong, I guess — was the first of its kind in the world.
Back in 1932, the Lido must have seemed the perfect place to hold this innovative little event, seeing that in those days the Lido (well, Venice, but let’s be kind) indeed evoked some form of glamour. It’s a little hard to imagine now, because there was basically just an airport, a church, a few luxury hotels, and miles of artichoke fields. The people who came were mostly rich and did rich-people things, like spend a lot of money to drink, eat, and look at each other.
Reporters going to work, checking the paper for news on what they did yesterday, or what they have to do today. These are staying in Venice because there's no more room on the Lido. The symbolic winged animal on their bags looks like a GummiLion.
Now the masses on the Lido have almost no (actually, no) glamour, the artichoke fields are gone, and at least one of the luxury hotels is closed for semi-permanent restoration (Hotel Des Bains).
But the winged lions are posted all around the main streets, the phalanxes of photographers are in maneuvers, and, as usual, the vaporettos and busses are so full they’re practically shrink-wrapped.
Opening Day was George Clooney Day; his new film, “The Ides of March,” launched the ten-day marathon, and received a standing ovation.
Yesterday it was Madonna’s turn, here to promote her new film “W.E.” As I understand it, her goal is to “rehabilitate” the image of Wallis Simpson, and best of British luck with that. The Guardian’s report observes: “It takes a twisted creative genius to produce a compellingly bad film….and that is why Madonna, try as she might, will never make one of the worst films ever made. She just hasn’t got the talent. ”
The lions stand on pedestals which are four-sided billboards for beer, restaurants, and assorted Lido businesses. Wouldn't it have made more sense for some producer to have bought a batch to advertise the name of his/her movie? As in: Lion plus My Movie = Award me the top prize. But what do I know.
She reserved rooms in five hotels, to throw reporters off the track. This is something I wish somebody would explain to me. You come here because you want to be seen and talked about, then you put on this pantomime of craving solitude? Isn’t that why they invented Bhutan? Anyway, she ended up staying in Venice, not even on the Lido. Take that, Hotel Excelsior.
Now she’s probably gone, and so, day by day, the reporters too will shimmer away, leaving only the few hard-core journalists who actually write about movies, as opposed to people and what they’re wearing. By the time the Golden Lion spreads his wings, he almost seems to be an afterthought.
Then the film world will turn its attention to whatever golden creatures are next being shoved into the starting gate. Or at least who’s there and what they’re wearing.
Yachts are excellent places to give parties, and every year a batch of them tie up along the Riva Sette Martiri for exactly that purpose. Expensive but sort of generic, not unlike the people who rent them.The launch belonging to one of those yachts. Lino says it reminds him of a funeral boat. It doesn't cry "Party! Party!" to me, either.
But where there are films (or yachts), there are likely to be girls. These were seriously waiting for something, or somebody.
