Category Archives: Vita Venexiàn

Mi stago ben…

Stay away – don't – stay away – don't stay away!

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Somebody said that somebody said that Mayor Cacciari said that people should stay away from Venice, “for some incomprehensible reason tied to some presumed danger.”

He intended it, evidently, for those few hours when we were up to our earlobes in the marea, and the city was just struggling to address the situation. He didn’t really mean it as a long-term sort of command, and is calling for some sort of companion press releases in English to help avoid the situation in the future.

“Far be it from me and any intention I have to invite who-knows-who not to come to Venice; and even worse, to over-drammatize the situation.”

I translated his comments, of course.

New Sirens tell the Acqua Alta Story

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acqua alta - 2 I had heard the forecast in giro, and the howling scirocco winds as I lay in bed on Sunday night, but the new sirens confirmed it when all four pitches of tones were sounded this morning to indicate that, by 11:00, the water would be up over 140 cm…over 4 1/2 feet higher than normal. The northern bora had turned to southern scirocco, and acqua exceptionally alta was the result. [In fact, the maximum height eventually rose to 156 cm, the fourth highest high-water level in the last 135 years.]

I live one floor up…thank heaven, because when I went down to check, the water was already at the height of the realzata portion of the entrata, about 6 inches. By 9:00, it was four inches above that. At 10:15, there is a boat in the calle and bags of garbage that couldn’t get picked up were bobbing toward the fondamenta.

barriera.jpg

I am grateful I don’t have to go out this morning, and feel for the folks with two young children on the ground level below who, although they’ve installed the barriera at their door, have been hauling stuff off the floor since the wee hours, just in case.

[The response when I later asked them “how was it?” “A disaster,” he repled, skaking his head. “Disaster.”]

I leaned out the window to get a comprehensive look, and found my neighbors across and to my left doing the same. The couple across set their cocker spaniel (Marilyn, named after Ms. Monroe) on the window sill to consider the water below. “She hasn’t been out since last night, poor thing. I put some newspaper on the floor, but she can’t quite understand why she can’t go out.” The woman doesn’t like the new sirens, they sound to her like something from a science fiction movie. [Many I spoke to later never even heard them.]

There have also been loud-speaker annoucements all morning, most of which bounced off so many walls they were incomprehensible, but the last of which broadcast that the marea peaked at one meter and 56 cm…the higher than I have experienced since I moved here four years ago, and which I have now heard in fact, since over twenty years. “Avete finito coi messaggi?” I hear from somewhere down the calle. “Enough with the messages!”

acqua altra - 1I looked out onto the calle before noon and sure enough, the garbage sacks were bobbing in the other direction. Se ne va.

Acqua alta is so hard on the city. This is definitely one of the times that if we had the Mose in place, it would have been put through its paces. I am not a Mose proponent, but I do hope they finish it at some point, and when it’s in place, that it gives the poor Venetian infrastructure some relief from these high tides.

I have to head out this evening, and know that there will be some recurrence at the next tide, on my return. Boots are in the tote…

Casta Diva? No…castradina.

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salute4.JPGAfter a group from our remiera rowed three caorline and one sandolo to the Basilica della Salute last Friday morning, we gathered for lunch at the trattoria Palazzina, located at the foot fo the Guglie Bridge. The owner is a member of our rowing club, and had the idea to offer a traditional dish associated with the Festa della Madonna della Salute, the castradina.

There were several of us — Venetian and otherwise — who’d never tasted a castradina, which made it all the more attractive, of course; I’ll try anything once. The description is daunting: a stew that’s days in preparation, consisting of a rich meat, normally obtained from Dalmatia, from an adult castrato, usually beef, in this case mutton, that’s been smoked, salted, and dried in the sun, and verze (a type of cabbage), and maybe potatoes. Sounds more German than Italian…

salutec.JPGIt was a chilly day, and the caorlina is not a light boat to propel from the north side of the city, down the Cannaregio and Grande canals to the Salute, and back. So when we arrived at the Palazzina, we brought plenty of hunger with us. A hearty meat antipasto was served up in short order: salami feline (from near Parma, all pork, few spices, no cats), sopressa (the fattier, longer-aged Veneto salame), prosciutto, and mortadella con pistacchi…just what the doctor ordered, and frankly, what would have been enough for me.

The antipasto interchange was lively, fueled by the requisite prosecco. Once relieved of its consumed contents, the large wooden platter was whisked away, and the bowls of castradina began to appear. We peered at the first ones, and a German (married to an Italian and here for 28 years ormai) rowing companion and I made a pact that we’d take a stab at it, but if it wasn’t to our liking, say we had overdone the antipasto and leave it there. Oh, please let me like it…

My terra cotta bowl of castradina arrived, along with a basket of buttered crocanti for crunching over the top. Encouraged by the positive reactions issuing from those who’d already dug in, I did the same. The rich aroma belied nothing about the marvelous flavor: che bon! No trace of stringy, salty, smokey meat, just a flavorful stew with the vegetable and meat flavors that just hit the spot. I felt my toes warm as the rich concoction began to take effect, like some nutritious banned substance. No reactions to fake here…whew. I glanced just in time to my rowing companion polishing off the last spoonful of hers.

A grappa for the more robust among us, a caffè topped off this Salute lunch, and we all headed off back to work, restored and renewed.

Another successful research project completed.

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salute5c.jpgThe glorious Basilica is never more luminous than during the annual Festa della Madonna della Salute (salute means health in Italian), celebrated every November 21. Hourly masses are held, and long, white candles a blaze as prayers for health are offered. The ropes that protect the center area of the church are removed, and the front doors are open for the only time during the year.

A votive bridge is constructed across the Grand Canal at San Giglio from the night of the 20th til when it’s taken down on the following Monday. (The bridge was once supported by lashing large boats together, as the Ponte Accademia was not in place until the mid-1800s.) There are also booths with fritelle and balloons for kids, adding to the festival atmosphere.

Venice was hit by a devastating plague in 1630 that ended in 1631, following an equally devastating one just over fifty years prior (which corresponds to the Redentore festival). The Longhena Salute basilica was built in thanks to the Madonna of Good Health for ending the plague in 1631. Read Alvise Zen’s historic recount on the Comune site.

 

You might be Venetian if…

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fondamenta.jpgYou have a dog.

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You have a dog, and you take it everywhere in giro: to the post office, in your boat, to the fresh market, into bars and restaurants, where it sits at your feet or on your lap as you chat.

You don’t walk the city with a camera or a map.

You give directions that include the bridges to cross but rarely the name of a calle or campo, and likely couldn’t name many unless they are principal thoroughfares or something you walk yourself on a regular basis.

You don’t try and board the vaporetto before the other folks have gotten off.

You don’t throw trash on the ground, but you throw your cigarette butt in the canal.

You never use the term Zanipolo to refer to SS Giovani e Paolo.

You’d never consider sitting on a bridge, a fondamenta, any steps, or in general eating anything anywhere except your house or a locale that serves food, and although are horrified at people who do, but would never consider saying anything to them.

You have no problem, however, informing someone in no uncertain terms that it is not acceptable to place garbage on the calle or fondamenta on a Sunday, knowing full well it won’t be picked up until Monday, and that we will have to smell your refuse all day long. It’s simply bad manners, maleducato. (Hanno anche ragione poi, feel free to follow their lead).

You know exactly how long it will take to get from San Stae to Rio Terà Secondo, from Via Garibaldi to Campo S.M. Formosa, from the Fondamente Nove to the Miracoli, and so on.

You’re rarely, if ever, late.

You have your own approach to navigating past endless groups of visitors who saunter 4-wide across narrow calli (as they don’t understand that there are people behind them that have to be somewhere).

You not only wear brightly colored pants of orange or green, you look good in them.

You’re familiar with the city, but with few of the hundreds of hotels and ad-hoc lodgings that have sprung up (and continue to spring) in recent years.

You look at a €100 price tag and think, “200.000 lira!?!”

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(Hoping this will be an on-going list.)