I got to know Isotta when I first moved to Venice and would visit her mom, Eleonora, who has a B&B near where I was living (we also traded English for cooking lessons for a time). We hadn’t been able to get together nearly as often once I moved to Cannaregio, but when I did finally get by recently, Isotta (not the shy type) came out to say hello. Eleonora and I sat down with a caffè and began catching up, but Isotta disappeared…shortly before emerging in this stunning outfit, obviously a favorite of hers. Couldn’t resist recording it for posterity, so the rest of you wouldn’t have to miss out.

If you’re interested in getting to know this young lady, and it suits you to lodge in San Marco just behind the Teatro la Fenice, feel free to consider Eleonora Agostini’s Bed and Breakfast al Teatro. (Isotta’s blue plastic pumps do make a bit of a clicking sound as she scoots about the terrazzo flooring…but in the end it just adds to her charm. This, and the fact that all the rooms overlook the Fenice canal, makes a stay there very special in my opinion.)

Otherwise, feel free to keep Isotta’s photo handy should you need an effective pick-me-up during your day.

Did you know that once you’ve rinsed fresh asparagus, if you then throw it in a sink full of water with a little salt, any remaining sediment will filter into the water and to the bottom of the sink? Ergo, out of the asparagus.

I’m sure all the super cooks among you are already aware of this. I found it fascinating…and the resulting risotto was buonissimo, as always (I’m not complementing myself, by the way; but when I get really good at making risotto, vi faccio sapere, I’ll be sure and let you know).

What a stupendous day it was last Sunday for the Vogalonga, the “other” regata Veneziana, a maratona a remo. No costumes (well, non from the 17th century anyway), but something like 5,000 entrants in a marea (over 1400) oar-powered boats of every size and shape, with more than half heralding not only from outside Venice, but from all over the world.

You’ll see I went a little crazy with the camera; next year, you’ll have to take the photos, ’cause I’ll be the one rowing 34 kilometers (21 miles) out to Burano and back, vi giuro…mark my words.

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Bentornato! After ten years of restoration conducted underneath a series of imaginative scaffolding coverings that included depictions of the Eiffel Tower, Empire State Building and Tower of Pisa, the newly restored Torre dell’Orologio, or Clock Tower, was celebrated back into our company on May 27th, from 10p to midnight in Piazza San Marco. This photo of the moors here is from their web site, and is definitely a “before” image, as they’re gleaming now…

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Voga, voga cocola
Za che ti xe in gringola…

Canta e dopo basime, che_i to’ basi me fa tanto ben…
Canta e dopo basime, che_i to’ basi me fa tanto ben…

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One spectacular mid-October afternoon on my first trip to Venice in 1995, I, like millions of travelers before me, paused atop the Accademia Bridge to enjoy the view. I became mesmerized by a lone woman rowing toward me up the Grand Canal, in what I now recognize as a mascareta. She was standing, facing forward, arms crossed pushing the water competently and rhythmically with two long oars, one in each fist (alla Valesana). I was entranced by her motion and persistent advance up the Canal, and as she disappeared sliding beneath my feet, I took an unconscious vow: someday, somehow, I would try this myself.

Eleven years later and nine months after I first got my hands on a remo, I finally enrolled in the Società Remiera Canneregio and began taking lessons in the Voga alla Veneta, the traditional Venetian rowing technique. (This, after a brief run-in with a renegade pseudo-instructor last August: what an absurd, pathetic experience. It was a very short lesson that ended with me ordering him to return immediately to the cantiere: I’m sure it will come as no surprise to anyone that it’s neither customary or necessary for anyone to stand behind you while teaching you how to row. Che schifo, how disgusting. Please Lord, spare us from gli omini piccoli, the small men of this world.)

It hasn’t been easy finding the time for the lessons, but I’m determined…that is, obsessed. I don’t know how long it will be before I can be in a boat alone, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able capable of rowing with two oars, but I’ve made a start…and I must say, it’s as grand as I thought it would be.

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Whenever we can manage it, jazz pianist Max Bustreo and I commandeer the piano forte at La Cantina on Campo San Felice, across from the church there. We managed to convene recently on a relatively quiet evening, with pleasant, evening breezes swirling inside and out, along with the contented patrons enjoying Francesco’s gastronomic creations, Andrea’s wine recommendations, and I hope, our music.

As we were getting started, a woman approached a patron in a tense, but seemingly well-rehearsed manner, to ask for a light. I don’t know what made me notice her particularly, but I remember her slightly disturbed expression, and thinking she must have fewer years than the look and lines on her face would imply.

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(I’d like to emphasize that although moving isn’t a simple thing no matter where you live, in Venice, it’s an incredibly stressful undertaking, especially considering that all the apartments above piano terra are for expensive, short-term rent to travelers, not reasonable, long-term lease to residents).

I got the call in late April, Jr’s made his decision. Dammit.

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I did finally manage to ask Giovanni — after waiting until after Spritz hour in the hopes of easing both my embarrassment, and his just in case he might have any — if he might not mind, at his convenience, to maneuver his sizable craft up to the palace next door and snag the ridiculous, cotton thingy suspended there. Non ho capito un ca**o di quello che stai dicendo, he said. I have NO idea what the hell you’re talking about.

Non ci sono. Boh. They’re not there. Huh.

Did the owner of the next building toss them? Did somebody stop by and grab them just for the heck of it? Did the skiff-guy keep them as a souvenire? Did a breeze blow them back into the canal? (Then what?) Dovrai andare a comprare delle altre, Giovanni tells me as we climb the stairs (it’s Risi e Bisi for dinner, I think). “You’ll have to get some new ones.”

Ah, Venetians are nothing if not practical. Thanks, Giò, that’s just what I’ll do.

I don’t have a clothes dryer, and not many people that I know do. My laundry hangs on a clothesline that’s right outside one of the three windows in my apartment, directly over a canal. Not a canal with a sidewalk (or fondamenta) mind you, just a big canal.

This morning, I find myself in a Venice-only sort of fix. I’d done some laundry and just pulled the sheets out of the washing machine, carrying them in the wash basin per stendere, to hang them on the line. Of course, I’m usually very careful to handle the laundry, clothespins, etc. so they don’t tumble into the canal below. Usually.

But today, without shaking it indoors first, I tossed the wet top sheet out over the line, which immediately loosed a tiny pair of white cotton underwear nestled inside so that they floated gently down to the canal surface below. Lovely.

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I have a tendency not to get too worked-up about things, good or bad, until they actually occur. Probably a product of laziness, of age, and living in Italy — but when you combine the them all, staying “in the moment” becomes a way of life, as opposed to something you must be continually be conscious of. So, when I went for the first time to practice my solos for the upcoming performance of the Pergolesi Stabat Mater, I wasn’t prepared for the flood of emotion that practically kept me from taking a breath, much less producing a acceptable tone.

Ten years after my first visit to Italy, to Venice, I’m living here, taking lezioni di canto from an exceptionally delightful and talented maestra, and singing Vidit Sum in the Chiesa di Santa Maria Formosa. Pinch me now, somebody, or just let me keep on dreamin’…

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Feast or famine, when it rains it pours, yada yada yada. I prefer to write SOMETHING when I post, and it takes time, and time is the thing that’s not been prevalent lately. My good pal Steve Coulter has helped me out here, however, by letting me know about Mark Helprin’s recent publication The Pacific and other Stories, which I’d love to get my hands on. The aforementioned Steve gave me a copy of Helprin’s A Soldier of the Great War for my birthday some years ago, an immensely satisfying read which introduced me to Helprin’s writing, such a pleasure.

It’s rare to find anything written about Venice today that’s both well-crafted and adds a novel perspective to the ongoing mystery of why this place fascinates so many of us to the degree it does. This piece is one of them, I think; but I’m going to let Mr. C present it to you as he did to me, then you can decide for yourself:

A little note: Andrea Zanatta’s show at the Galleria dell’Occhio has been extended. I’m not sure for how much longer, but if you’re sauntering between the Salute and the Guggenheim (you can’t miss it), you’ll enjoy taking it in. If you’d like to call first, the number is +39 041 522 6550.

Then, Google filled me in on this wonderful review …I’m speechless. Martha Bakerjian (of goitaly.about.com’s Italy for Visitors) has just chosen Italy: Instructions for Use as #1 of her Top Ten Guidebooks for Italian Travel. Gosh, it’s been a pretty good week so far…

If you’re a small-press author, you’re always grateful when someone acknowledges your work, even in the smallest way. The Instructions just got a teeny but thoughtful mention (appropriate to its own size) by Christine Delsol in the San Francisco Chronicle. The focus was the Eyewitness Guide to Torino and several other destination guides, but the Instructions slid in as a footnote at the bottom, being described as a

Tiny compendium of tips for avoiding or finessing life’s daily (and often unforeseen) little hassles.

A tiny mention for a tiny guide…what a nice way to start the day. Grazie, Christine.

It’s a brilliant day here; it’s also -3, or about 25 degrees Fahrenheit. I just looked out the window to the canal below, and noticed a film skimming the surface of the water surrounding the boat where some workers are loading materials for a massive garden they’re refurbishing. What, I thought indignantly, is that some sort of detergent residue oozing out of their boat?

No, it’s ice.

People sometimes ask if the canals ever freeze over. Well, I certainly have never seen it myself, although I know they have from time to time…but not often. There’s a depiction in the Querini-Stampalia of people skating on a solid-surface lagoon, so obviously, it’s gotten a lot worse than a skimming of ice! The lagoon is fairly shallow where the ice is showing up in the above photo, so I don’t imagine we’ll be frozen over here anytime soon. Supposed to snow on Thursday, though…

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Look, Andrea got a write-up in the Gazzettino, just in time for the gallery owners to return from the mountains:

VENEZIA - (G.B.) 18 Gennaio 2006

Dopo il successo del suo volume di fotografie artistiche su Venezia, Andrea Zanatta si ripresenta «in vivo» alla Galleria d’arte «l’Occhio» alla Salute, con una corposa serie di diciassette opere fotografiche intitolate «Visioni notturne». È una mostra molto interessante per due motivi: l’artista stampa per la prima volta su tela e poi indulge nel colore trattato in modo molto morbido ed equilibrato. Le tele, di ampie dimensioni illustrano momenti venziani volutamente minori: calli, sottoportici, particolari architetture e ambienti insoliti nei quali la persona fisica, stemperata in una continua dissolvenza, lascia il campo agli aspetti più significanti di Venezia nella sua essenzialità protagonistica. In effetti un tentativo efficace di avvicinare sempre più l’evoluzione della tecnica fotografica alla tecnica pittorica. Con risultati pur pregevoli, che impongono però una continua sperimentazione. Una mostra, dunque, viva e coraggiosa, che apre nuovi orizzonti. La strada è giusta.

The article says his show is interesting for a couple of reasons: because he prints on canvas for the first time, and he ventures into a treatment that uses soft, even coloring. “The large canvases illustrate intentionally small moments: calli, sottoportici, architectural particulars and isolated angles into which people seem to dissolve, leaving Venice’s most significant aspects to essentially remain their protagonist. In effect, it’s an an efficient attempt at getting a photographic technique closer to being that of a painting. With appreciable results, that impose continual experimentation. An exhibition, however, vital and courageous, that opens new horizons. He’s taken the right road.”

una parentesi: Venice has been cloaked in fog for two solid days now. Evocative enough in the day, in the evening, there’s simply no describing it. I won’t go into the disruption it causes to la vita quotidiana, but you might well imagine. Creates a great backdrop for Andrea’s photography though!

…tiny, tiny flakes, that seemed at first like light sleet; but now…it’s snow alright. All the guys passing down below in their motorboats and topo are bundled up pretty well, and some craft sport ingenious modifications to ameliorate the effects of the weather; but overall, nobody seems too perturbed. Doesn’t get you ver far here anyway, perturbation. Leave it for the acqua ondosa in the wake of the motor…

We’ll see if the snow is all for show, or actually hangs around…

Update, Wed, Jan 18.

The snow’s still here! Just a few centimeters, of course; but this morning, in a city where ci conosciamo dai nostri passi (we know each other by our footsteps), the sounds of a white-roofed Venice will be even more muffled.

I hope I still think it’s lovely later on, as I’ll be spending a good part of the day in giro, padding around in the cold…

Mountains aren’t a sight we normally associate with Venice. They’re there though, and a friend zipped up to ski among them on Sunday, as do so many this time of year. Che vita.

Although still illuminated for the holidays, Venezia è una tomba — completely shut down except for the main thoroughfares around San Marco, the Rialto, and Strada Nova, for example). Now’s the time to close for maintenance and renovation, or just go in ferie — grabbing a little R&R before the season cranks up again, beginning with Carnevale in late February. Except for the post office, banks, and retail establishments (where everything’s on sale! Yay!), I wouldn’t think of stopping by a business without checking first; anything privately-owned will be iffy at best (the American who has the squero, the guy who cuts my hair, caspita, and even the gallery where poor Andrea’s photographs are hanging unattended is closed till the 17th - sono in montagne, they’re in the mountains). But then the Cantina itself won’t re-open ’til the next Tuesday either…

I have a host of deadlines looming, lots to tell and no time! More soon, though, e nel frattempo, in the meantime…

Buon Anno a tutti voi.

I’m headed to an opening of Andrea Zanatta’s photography show at the Galleria d’Arte l’Occhio in Dorsoduro (between the Salute and the Guggenheim) this evening. His evocative and haunting images of after-midnight Venice, photographed in the wee hours and often cloaked in fog, mist, and rain, make an even stronger impression as some are printed on canvas and are three by four feet in size.

If you’ll be in Venice this winter, stop by to see his work; or review it on the gallery web site where you can learn more about him as well. (FYI, the work that was selected for hanging in the gallery is not actually posted on the site.)

http://www.gallerialocchio.net/sito.htm

In the interest of full disclosure, I have NO commercial interest in this artist whatsoever, he’s just a dear friend. However, if you like his work, stop by La Cantina on the Strada Nova (where he’s the co-owner), and tell him so!

Andrea’s show will be up until January 31, 2006. The Gallery is on the Calle del Bastion, Dorsoduro 181, between the Salute and the Guggenheim: here

7:10 a.m…it’s a 5-siren, acqua alta morning.

It’s the first time I’ve heard the sirens this winter, in fact, which is a bit unusual (I remember hearing sirens for days in a row before this time last year) but welcome. Peak was forecast for today is 120 cm (1 meter, 20 cm), due before noon. Thought I’d try to make it to the market before then, but I can already see the water’s up over the external door jams on the rio below…

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Shannon Essa, who just sent me the yummy Chow! Venice she co-authored with Ruth Edenbaum, wrote a passionate essay on Our Fair City for SlowTravel: Venice is Not Disneyland.

(First of all, I’m for anyone who spells Katharine Hepburn’s name right. Brava.)

For me, of course, she’s preaching to the choir. Venezia is not for everyone. And if what you do is get off the train, head for San Marco, hang out there for one day, maybe two, what you’re going to experience is throngs of tourists, long lines, overpriced food*, a kitch/glass/mask/designer clothing overdose (FREE taxi to Murano…) and draw your conclusions from that. Aiuto.

I’ll be the first to encourage you not to bother coming at all unless you can spend a minimum of three full days here. It’s just not worth it. If you do come, include lots of time away from the center, or to return there after the marauding hoards re-board their cruise-ships (the ones Mark Twain never saw); and then, see what you think. If you don’t care for Venice then, you never will.

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After a week here a Venezia, my friend Cheryl headed back to Paris today on myair, one of those great, intra-Europe discount airlines. She recounts that when the plane pulled up to the gate at 7p, the captain’s voice came over the PA announcing that the ground crew was on strike until 7:10 today, and until then there would be no one to open the door of the plane. Everyone remained in their seats, and at ten after, the doors were opened and the passengers disembarked.

Point taken.

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It hardly ever snows in Venice, and when it does, it certainly doesn’t snow in November, for crying out loud. We’re all complaining because fa un freddo cane, which loosely translated means it’s just too cold, too soon. I scooted out this morning to Fondamenta Nove to meet Valentina, a Russian woman who keeps house at a friend’s B&B, and who’s also an expert seamstress. She’d altered three pairs of pants for me (I’ve lost a a few chili, or kilograms, in the last year, and they don’t appear to be coming back. Yay!)

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Norberto and I have been trying and trying to coordinate our schedules so that I could to go out with him to the Murano fornace when they produced his work. First, the factories were closed for August, then I was gone, then he was in Tunisia, then the right colors weren’t available…I was beginning to think it would never happen. We finally managed it one morning last week, and although I’m fairly familiar with Murano and glassmaking, it’s always a fascinating to witness this process, and watch the pros at work.

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My San Marco apartment was just the ticket for the first year: small but well-appointed, A/C, utilities paid, central location…and perfect for taking the time to decide where I might like to be for the long-term. Little by little, I gravitated toward the sestiere of Cannaregio, removed but still handy to both the center and the station, with its long, open, fondamente, everyday grocery stores and residential atmosphere. After much searching, I was delighted to find an airy, top-floor unit that, while not nearly as well-appointed, has a stupendous view, a real kitchen, and not one, single soul being paid to sing O Sooooooooooooooo-le Mio all the live-long day.

Of course, to carry out any trasloco in Venice, I’d need a boat.

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I never thought life here would be particularly easy. I don’t think Italy is a perfect country, nor am I in search of one. And although I haven’t written about them here, there have been some extremely trying, difficult, not to mention humiliating experiences in the process of adjusting to a foreign culture in a famous, yet ultimately small, remote island village…difficulties to be expected with such a drastic change, in fact.

But then, along comes a singular type of experience that you understand can only happen here, now, with these people, in this in this place, completamente al improvviso (without any semblance of planning); and you also understand that to become a part of the flow that creates these occurrences is precisely one of the reasons you’ve been willing to move heaven and earth in order to live here.

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OK, call me the Venetian Curmudgeon, but why would anyone want to choose lodging anywhere near Piazza San Marco? The Piazza, the Basilica, the Palazzo Ducale, these are all things to come to see, enjoy, and then leave to go to back another sestiere, any other sestiere, all of which are far more personable, pleasant and interesting for exploring, enjoying, and getting to know a bit of Venezia vivibile (live-able Venice).

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My appartamentino is not very tranquillo these days, given that there’s a 4th floor restoration going on across the calle, and work in progress to correct water problems in the building, The latter was discovered when I returned from grocery shopping one day and was immediately bagnata by a steady drip-drip from the light fixture overhead. This time, the water amassing on the stone floor in entry way wasn’t from rising acqua alta, but from parts unknown la su, up above. I put a bucket under the drip and called the Signora to give her the bad news.

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I’ve done quite a bit of voice-over work in my time, and I did a promotional video for GE Energy about two years ago; a very nice piece in the end.

I’m working at home this morning (I need to stop for lunch…now), using ITunes to stream Living on Earth from WNYC in a feeble attempt to drown out the third rendition of O Sole Mio within 30 minutes. About half-way through, I hear a familiar voice: Wind is the world’s fastest-growing power resource, and part of GE Energy’s commitment to creative energy solutions for the future. I couldn’t quite comprehend all the dimensions across which this curious little moment was stretching me…

Is this the 6 degrees of separation people always speak of?

If I could ever find good live jazz in Atlanta without having to by a ticket (and I did), it wasn’t always possible to actually hear it, in that it was rarely performed in a venue made for listening. If you ask me, Venezia is just such a venue, with its intimate ambience that amplifies and enhances acoustic sound naturally, as it reflects gently off water and stone, echoing an impromtu invitation to a passerby around a blind corner or over a bridge.

Venezia Suona takes place every summer, on a Sunday. Beginning in late afternoon and continuing throughout the evening. musical groups from gypsy jazz to classical to ethnic and beyond are peppered throughout the city in outdoor venues, playing for listeners as they meander through campi and along fondamente, sampling the variety of superb aural wares.

Once a year??? It should be every week, for crying out loud.

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Everybody knows, the only true way to enjoy the Festa della Redentore is in barca, in a boat. Expertly provisioned to the brim, boats of every size and shape head out at the first weakening of the sun’s heat, to vie with the VIP yatchs for that perfect spot in the lagoon to view the fireworks at 11p: the Dogana, the Salt Warehouse, up and down the Giudecca Canal; every Venetian has his preference. Lashed together improvisamente creating instant party barges, the boats are decked out with stringed lights, candles, and all the trimmings; and as the light fades the lagoon waters darken, and begin to bubble with bustling, bobbing buoys of energetic conversion and the allegria fueled by the flow of cool summer wine. Forget the fireworks…just enjoy watching the spectators.

I had several gracious and tempting invitations by generous Venetian friends to join them for the lagoon celebration…but I couldn’t commit. Qual’era il problema? What was my problem?

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There’s a tiny store, about six feet wide — I don’t even think it has a name — on the Calle dei Fabbri between Calle San Gallo and the Hotel Noemi. Tutto per pulire, niente per magnar, says the owner. “Everything for cleaning, nothing for eating.” I’m very grateful for it, as it’s one of a vanishing number of stores in San Marco and throughout Venice that doesn’t sell glass, masks or high-fashion clothing. I popped in on the way home the other day for laundry detergent, and as I was paying for I noticed an oddly-shaped wooden thing on the counter. “E questo?,” I asked. “And this is?” Per riparare le scarpe, Signora.

Cleaning supplies and shoe repair. Boy, am I in luck.

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These penguins began to appear on balconies throughout the city shortly before the opening of the Venice Biennale: dedicated to showcasing the most avant guarde of contemporary art and architecture from all over the world alternatively each year (this is the year for art: http://www.labiennale.org/).

Aren’t they great?

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In Atlanta, I sing (sang?) in a Sanctuary Mass Choir at Oakhurst Presbyterian Church. Last Saturday night, I went to a concert at the first annual Venice Gospel Festival at the site of the Venice Film Festival on Lido. WHAT a trip.

http://www.veneziagospelfestival.it/

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The unique construction of the city and the Italian inclination to adapt rather than control, makes it impossible, impossible to separate yourself from Venice, and all that goes on around you, in any way. If you live here, that’s the way you like it.

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Perhaps the solution for obtaining a visa for residenza elettiva is to first move within the jurisdiction of the Italian Consulate of Miami.

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I guess it was inevitable…and an opportunity for another cross-cultural experience. I got my first viable illness out of the country: strep throat. I frutti della stagione — fruits of the season — says the check-out lady at the supermarket.

After realizing there was no getting better on my own, I stopped by a pharmacist (5 minutes on foot), and he recommended a doctor nearby (another five minutes on foot). I entered a small waiting room where there were two other people, and sat down. There was no receptionist, nurse, nothing; just a room with people sitting patiently (no pun indended). The next person who came in greeted everyone, Buon giorno, and they responded. I must have seemed like a bit of an ogre walking in in silence.
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My tiny apartment is perfect. It’s luminoso abbastanza and tranquil during the day, and off the main tourist drag, so I don’t have murmering throngs streaming by non-stop (although the new, sleek, chic restaurant across the way is one of the few in the city open until 2a. Beato me…lucky me). I only wish there was a small terrace for plants and such. Piano, piano).

But the sound. All sounds, transported along by water, stone, plaster, and tile, with barely a shread of fabric anywhere to absorb any of them, are effectively endless…and make the confines of one living space and another seem very, well, indefinite.

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Ciao Bei,

I am such a sucker. One of Venice’s newest citizens (self-proclamed, of course), I go to every shop owner, the grocery, the internet café, and tell them, “I just moved here. Isn’t that great?” It’s sounds a little less silly in Italian, but silly nonetheless. They all agree, it’s great, and congratulate me heartily. Ti piace Venezia, sì? Venice is senza paragone, they say, in a class by itself. They complement me, and tell me it is to my credit that I have recognized this. Brava, brava..

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On one spectacular day in May 2004, after coming and going to Italy continually for almost ten years, I was sitting with a small group of travelers on the Zattere at the waterside snack bar, al Chioschetto, enjoying a panino, limonsoda, and the visitors’ own fascination with this enchanting water-city.

I looked beyond them for a moment, down the expansive riva, with all its saunterers, servers, and scintillating conversationalists, to the shimmering Giudecca Canal that could barely contain the massive cruise liner being tugged out to the Adriatic, then up to a brilliant sun that’s at least partially responsible for the intoxicating luminescence of days like these. That was the moment I gave in, che ho ceduto, when I faced the undeniable realization that strolled up and sat itself in my lap. “These people are travelers,” I said to myself. “I live here. This is where I live.”

Oh, dear. Now what?