As you wander back from your evening repast, or head for Campo San Margherita in search of a little nightlife, you may notice plastic bags that begin dotting the calli here and there. They’re not supposed to be out yet, as the people who will carry them away won’t be coming by until the next morning. But be there they will, and every single day.
I recently installed Fastweb for broadband internet service. As I was giving my information to the representative over the phone, she asked, “Indirizzo?” My address is San Marco, 1662. “E la via, Signora?” She wants to know the street name.
There’s not one, I tell her; it’s Venice. I live on a piscina — once a stagnant pool that’s since been filled-in — but it’s not my address. My official address is San Marco, 1662, and although the postino will be able to find it easily with this notation, no one else could.
The largest bell in the San Marco campanile — there are five, and they each have a name — is called la Marangona. There is certainly no mistaking that superb, resonant, all-encompassing BONG, in distinct contrast to the chorus of energetic chiming from around the rest of the city at any appointed time. This largest one rang out in the past to time the work-day, the smallest to annouce an execution. (It’s been while, yes.)
At midnight, that massive bell resounds da sola, proudly, from high in the Piazza, and can be heard from almost any point in the city. Sometimes I call friends in the US so they can hear, especially the ones who’ve been here before. I just open the window and stick the phone out in to the calle. Che nostalgia.
If you’re out and about with a Venetian and the bell sounds, Aaaa, they’ll say with a glance and a nod, La senti? È la Marangona. If you allow it, you’ll be reminded just how often, on how many midnights, and for how many centuries, this small scene has been repeated.)
