Francine and Pippo came to visit us during Carnevale, from Geneva and Verona. I'd met them in 2011, during the year of travels, and we'd had a wonderful time, mainly laughing, eating and being blissed out by the Carnevale. Pippo doesn't speak much English, and Francine, fortunately, speaks everything. As soon as they knew we were coming to Venice, they promised a rendezvous here, and also to meet us in Varenna, in May.
Carnevale had been busting along in full swing, San Marco swirling with costumes, confetti, and cameraderie. After a few days we began to understand how the whole business worked. There were those who hired costumes, and paraded around rather self-consciously, paying exorbitant amounts to be perved at, in their plumed hats and lace cuffs, through the windows of the 19th C tea house, Florian. There were those who paraded before they attended grand balls, held in many of the palazzi that line the Grand Canal. They wore splendid costumes, made from luxurious brocades, silks, velvets: every detail historically perfect. They would have cost a fortune and were suitable for museum exhibits. There were the more inventive costumes; one in particular that left me speechless - a hand crocheted creation in vivid reds and yellows that made the woman look like a warm medusa. The super inventive creations, we later confirmed, were Parisian imports who used Carnevale to immortalise themselves - and to be hired out by photographers. On the last few days, when most of the spectaculari had left, the Queens from Queens - and Rio, (because I asked) came in their fabulous adornments, tripping over the diamante eyelashes and size 12 diamante buckled shoes. 
But then the weather turned brutal. Grim. Dire, as il Gazettino put it. The clouds blackened, the wind came up, the hail came down. What should have been a chance for the Four of Us to dance in the sun, and for my husband and I to parade, with masks, in our wedding clothes, could have become a dodge from the elements and huddling in our heated apartment sipping English tea. Instead, we faced it head on: bracing ourselves with gloves, scarves and umbrellas, and having the time of our lives. We went to our local trattoria in Accademia, where by now the owner calls us carisissimi, and gives us a good table. Wearing our masks, we had a glass of prosecco while waiting
at the bar for a table, then huddled together at a corner table. Francine started talking to the young couple
next to us, who were Sicilian and told us the box of tomatoes that had been
plonked next to him were grown by his father.
That opened up a riot of conversation between the three Amigos – I was
left out because I couldn’t understand – into which another couple joined. Reno
left our table to talk to them, and in a few minutes everyone in the bar was
talking to each other. Reno found that
one of the men was a research scientist into cancer: Francine immediately
suggested he contact her as her bank is always looking for people to invest in. We were making such a racket that the two
waitresses stopped working and stood by, listening. The owner came in to see
what was happening, shook his head, and walked out laughing. When the noise and
frivolity was at its height, Dante Alighieri, in velvet jacket, pantaloons and
bejewelled beret, walked in to go to the toilet, chatting on his mobile
phone. We were putting our masks and
coats back on outside, when the young tomato man came through the door and
started singing O Solo Mio at the top of his voice.A voice worthy of an opera singer. People smiled as they walked past him ... singing in the rain, masked ... naturally Venice.
We ate at a pizza place around the corner from our apartment
that night, huddling again from the rain as all the unfortunate carnevale goers
dripped into the grand ball at La Fenice; such a dismal entrance. But Francine
and I skipped and danced in the rain, just a quick step away from the
carabinieri who were watching us sternly with batons and guns ready in case we
were to make a dash for the inside, between the bedraggled counts, lords,
ladies, pompadours, bears and Casanovas.
A young Croatian man proposed to his girlfriend, the waiter cried, and when we asked him why, he said "but they are too young to marry!"
We walked to San Marco, along the semi deserted , misty, darkened collonades, and the piazza was filling with water along one side. The plastic boot vendors were out in full force, to the chagrin of il gazettino the next day. High tide splashed against the gondoliers, and fairy lights blazed from the ceilings. Francine and I danced “Singing in the Rain” wherever we could, to the embarrassment of Reno and Pippo. We’d packed so much into 48 hours that we were really sad to see them off at Ferrovia late on Sunday. They took our wedding clothes, to be seen again in Varenna in May.
At 9.30 on Monday 4th March, the last day of
Carnevale, when the city was packed and most had been saving their best
costumes for last, sirens and hooters blared across Venice. Aqua Alta. A phenomenon that I’d promised I’d fly across
the world to see. We rushed out before
the 12.30 high water mark at 120cm above the usual tide – extreme high water by
Venice standards – and I bought a pair of rubber boots. The water was gurgling
into San Marco, up through the bricks, like little geysers. Boot sellers were
doing a roaring trade, bringing boots in by the trolleyload. Thousands of people huddled along the
collonades, between which bewigged and be-costumed people tried to pose for
photos. Probably the most sensible were
those safe behind the steamed up windows of Florian, paying 100E for some prosecco
and ciccetti, although they were seen through the lenses of thousands of
cameras. |
| Wet and warm during Aqua Alta |
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| Add caption |
On the specially constructed stage, the organisers and performers were trying
valiantly to keep the energy of the crowd positive, but after hours of sloshing
around in freezing water, floating with confetti and caca del cane, with a
dreary photographic light, I was ready for carnevale to finish. I have
thousands of fabulous photos and memories of
Reno and I doing some beautiful
walks along darkened calli, and along the fondamente during the week. When Stefano and Carmen (Reno’s sister and
brother in law) were here for 48 hours, after exploring a small part of Cannareggio and the Ghetto, we went for what we thought would be a quiet walk
from Zattere but all the hired Carnevale models and hundreds of photographers
had the same idea. The restaurants were
overpriced, the lanes clogged, the boats filled to overflowing. Masked people appeared from every alleyway. Time for everyone to go home! But not before the final event
“spectaculare” – the flight of the winning costume from the Campanile .. which
happened without the crushing crowds … very much a whisper, not a bang, as the
whole final day had been a wet drippy “I’d rather be home dry and warm”
day. Under a cloud cover as dense as
smoke, the acrobat came down from the Campanile – the clock tower – scattering
confetti. The music stopped, the men
with their screwdrivers came out, and, just like that, the show was over.
Grazie dieu. We
breathed with relief. We rode the
vaporetto the following morning accompanied by elegant, well groomed men, willing crystal canes, who
looked at if they could be your lawyer or dentist, carrying large boxes that could have enclosed anything from a pink chandelier to a dandelion to a white dazed rabbit. A woman boarded
carrying an enormous white paper lantern and
a hooped skirt, stripped of its external coverings so that it now resembled a moth that had been left out in the sun. The woman in charge of the boat
squished herself between the packed feathers and the sequinned shoes, the bulging bags and
the faces with traces of glitter, to help the revellers off her boat and back to normal life. If there is such a thing, in Venice. 
For us, this meant a morning at Casa Pesaro, the 17th
Century palazzo that houses Miro, Klee, Kandinsky, Picasso, Pisarro, Monet,
Moore, Rodin, Munch, and Klimt. I called Liza from the cafeteria, eating
crostini and drinking coffee, with water lapping at our feet. All of this, and culture on overload, but I wanted to give her a hug.
We walked back through the calli, seeing how the window dressings have overnight been changed to spring fashions, and the mountains of carnevale sweet treats have been
replaced by bushels of Easter delights. At Rialto,
we walked into a church to buy tickets for Interpreti Veneziani who were
playing Paganini. As I put my hand on
the door to point to the photograph of the cellist I’d almost fallen in love with when I heard
him play the Four Seasons, Reno thought it a good idea to close the door. While my fingers were in the door jamb. I screamed for him to stop moving the door, and in his panic he moved it in the wrong direction. I screamed like a mama who realised her son was marrying the wrong woman, and for a moment neither Reno nor the poor guy selling the
tickets knew what was happening, but finally the door opened to release my squashed and bloodied, but unbroken, fingers. That particular church
had never heard such blaspheming, but hopefully the diety in charge only understands
Italian. The church cleaner rushed out to
find a hot pack for my fingers, while the ticket seller took me to the toilets
to run cold water over them. Tears
poured down my face, and I fanned myself with my Venice map and wrapped the
fingers around the hot pack. The ticket seller handed us a little bag. “Present
for you,” he said. “So sorry”. It was a recording of the Interpreti, playing
the Four Seasons. Definitely worth getting my fingers mangled for.
We walked home over the Rialto bridge, and through our
secret shortcuts, and played the music for the rest of the afternoon while I
recovered with my hand resting on a yellow brocade cushion. That evening we went to Accademia and
the church where they were playing, and were once again brought to tears by the
skill of the players. At the end, we
began talking to the man in front of us, who was greeted by each of the
players, who turned out to be their London recording agent;
who said we should come to their recoding concert in st John’s, in June. Why not! That's like, SO Venice.
Instead, we befriended the cellist Davide Amadio, whose concerts I attended whenever I could on my first part of this Venice journey, on Facebook, who by
morning had friended us back. And who
wrote on my facebook page:
Grazie Susan è un
grande onore contribuire a lasciare un bel ricordo di Venezia, perchè Venezia
non avrebbe bisogno di me quindi è una soddisfazione doppia..vi aspetto quando
tornerete!
What a way to end another
remarkable week.
There's a myth - or fact - in Italy, that you never risk asking someone about their health, or the weather, for both means that you're likely to be held in a conversation far longer than you want to. That you could miss your plane, boat, ferry, appointment, concert. I like that you get to hear about the workings of people's lives, and I have been known to eavesdrop in the queue at the supermarket, and learn another way to cook my fungi or that Gabriela at the Lavanderia has had another grandchild.
However I realised the truth of this myth when I was fluent enough to start reading the Italian newspaper, which discusses any and all of these subject with equal gusto.
High water in Venice, illegal vendors of boots Carnival 2014
High water and nothing walkways . A mix that has made the happiness of illegal vendors that have flooded the old town of boots in order to overcome the peak tide recorded around 23 on Saturday . Were 105 cm , as reported by the Gazzettino , but many tourists despite the forecasts announced early in the morning there has been no surprise defenses. Even some young people from St. Mark's Square had to reach the Arsenal to make the night.
Nothing . O -paid fifteen Euros (even twenty) to abusive or was the victim of del'assenza runways ( in the period of Carnival nothing "pose" ) . Unless, like two Roman tourists have had the good fortune to obtain , the holder of a few bars not regalasse some garbage bags . Or you can not find some generous knight " equipped " who could carry on his back those who were devoid of boots.
But the business for the squatters is not finished here. The Calatrava bridge and the train station area Sunday was full of sellers of Maghreb origins ready for any weather condition . The morning rain again . So umbrellas at will. Then time is strained to beauty . Then appeared the usual darts of light. Disappeared in an amen when the municipal police transited to the controls . One of the sellers, however, would be blocked by agents of Finance .
Venice Carnival 2014, all appointments of Shrove Tuesday March 4
"Rain, wind and high water can cause problems, slow down traffic and make (literally) to pieces on the streets of the province, but they can not stop in Venice to have its Carnival, especially when we talk of Shrove Tuesday, the day of closing and highlight of the two weeks the most colorful of the year. Hence, despite the dire weather forecast, list of events planned for March 4 in the lagoon and the mainland is always longer, and between entertainment for children and dj-sets more transgressive, everyone will find that fun. "
High water and weather today Venice Carnival Mardi Gras March 4, 2014
"The weather does not seem to want to help this year, the Carnival of Venice. After the hail and storms Saturday that put the masks on the run from San Marco, in the day of " Fat Tuesday " forecasts do not bode well . At least for the morning . According to the meteorological center Arpav , in fact, the probability of precipitation widespread in the province is high. But finally the time has altogether righteous."
ALL THE EVENTS OF FAT TUESDAY
At the same time the tides of the City Centre at 9.30am ( when the sirens are sounded in the old town ) has revised its forecast of the previous day , announcing a peak of tide at 12.30 120 centimeters ( 24 hours before they were announced 105 cm to 12.15 ) . It is then repeated in all probability the peak tidal last Saturday , with some discomfort more. Blame It on the bora wind that has " reinvigorated " the tide . A level of 120 centimeters ( code orange ) determines the flooding of approximately 28% of the national territory . As the weekend, also in this case there were no pedestrian walkways to ensure paths " dry " for locals and tourists . At the stroke of half-past twelve then , the actual level of the water has settled at around 110 cm .
The laying of the catwalk during Carnival is not guaranteed. " Manna " for the illegal vendors , who last Saturday did brisk business by offering those who have been surprised by the high tide boots rubber twenty euro . For the arrival of good weather stable will arm yourself with patience and wait for Thursdays."
Yep.
And the sun shone like there was no tomorrow.
And the sun shone like there was no tomorrow.
Ohhhh. I love Italy
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