Frittelle and a timely reminder

Last Wednesday I got to the end of a planned lesson with some time to spare and I was beginning to run out of ideas so I asked my group to tell me about the festival in Venice (many of the students live in Venice and had attended the morning events before work.)  I knew that the festival of the Madonna della Salute was happening as we spoke but hadn’t thought about it too much or intended to go given that it was a ‘school’ night and that I had been once before.  My students started to tell me about the festival and the one thing they kept emphasising was that the festival wasn’t simply a Venetian festival but it’s “our festival.”  As if the Venetians; having lost so much of their city (and their quality of life) to uber tourism have managed to keep this one thing for themselves, something which they are loath to give up.

The festival of the Madonna della Salute was, as my students informed me instituted in the 16^th century.  Venice had been delivered from a devastating outbreak of the Plague and in thanks built a church dedicated to the Madonna.  The church is unique in that every statue adorning the facade depicts a female saint (a fact that my students were very impressed that I knew.)  During the festival a bridge of boats is built across the Grand Canal to the church.  On the morning of the festival there is a procession from St Marks to the church for a service then throughout the day people visit the church to light a candle and then walk across the temporary bridge and make their way to St Marks. 

There wasn’t much of this story that I didn’t know but I had forgotten one important fact which when I was reminded meant that I simply had to go to Venice that night.  That something was frittelle.  A frittella is dough that is deep fried and then covered in a mix of lemon juice and sugar and is a delicious as it sounds.  Carnivale has its own version which comes in a ball and is only available for those few weeks of festivities in February outside of Carnivale they are flat.  I hadn’t had a frittella since the end of Carnivale and couldn't wait until February for another one so as soon as five o’clock hit I hot footed it to Venice. 

When I arrived  I could immediately see why my students had called it “our festival.”  For once Venice seemed full more with Venetians rather than tourists and students.  Whole families were out not only to visit the church but to enjoy their city.  As I made my way to the church I made small detours to some of my favourite places.  The little bars were doing a roaring trade in spritz, cicchetti, and conversation.  The evening had the chill of impending winter meaning everybody was wrapped up warm and the bars looked more inviting than ever.  The whole atmosphere of the place was different and I remembered this was how it was when I fell in love with it a few years ago.

When I got to the church the festivities were coming to an end, the whole place smelt of candle wax and all the attendants hands were covered in the same.  As the final sermons were being spoken I headed out to the street selling nuts, dried fruits and other festival delicacies and got myself the biggest frittella I could find.  Mission accomplished I headed back home – with a brief stop for a spritz with a friend.

For me Venice is now at her best, the crazy hoards are gone and the icy cold winds are yet to start.  The autumn fog makes the city look magical and walking the empty streets is a joy. In the last few weeks I've been spending increasing amounts of time in Venice and of late J has joined me for the odd night out – she’s very impressed that you can still have dinner and a few drinks in the city for 10 Euros.  Having Venice so close does mean that it becomes - if you can believe it – one of the mundane things in your life.  It’s good to have moments like these to remind me how special it is and how lucky I am to know it so well.   

Writing Venice

Once again I found myself killing time in an Airport, given that I can’t afford an overpriced and let’s face it gaudy Burberry or Louis Vuitton bag or a Bulgari necklace I, as I always do, retreated to the bookstore.  There amongst the airport editions of the latest bestseller (is it me or should 50 shades of grey always have been a softback?) were a good number and by no means comprehensive display of Venice books.  I began to wonder if Venice is the most written about place in the world.  Do the books on Rome, London, Paris or New York even compare to the Venetian cannon?     

As well as travel guides there are; history books, sumptuous art books, architecture books, the expat replanted or fish out of water books, the come to Venice and fall in love books (which I stay away from being a cynic when it comes to romance,) cookbooks and novels set in Venice.  Very few of these books, certainly of the ones available in English, are written by Venetians.  Obviously there are more books in Italian and I am beginning to get to the point where I can start to read parts of them but the amount of English speaking Venitophiles are astounding.  There has always been Anglo Venitophiles, Brits, Americans etc who came to Venice and added their jottings to the literary story of the city.  People like Byron and Shelly for whom the decay and faded glory of the once great republic provided ample inspiration.  Or the venerable John Ruskin whose work documenting the beauty and uniqueness of Venetian architecture kick started the endeavour to preserve the city that continues to this day.  Ruskin was one of those people (a bit like myself) who was captivated by the place and famously spent his honeymoon in the city largely abandoning his wife to spend his days drawing and documenting city’s buildings.  The resulting “Stones of Venice” has become one of the classics of Venetian writing and something I can’t get through it.  I’ve tried a couple of times but so dry and humourless does Ruskin seem that he just comes across as a bit of an insufferable bore.

Today the process of foreigners writing about Venice continues and I wonder if the likes of Byron and Ruskin began a process of intellectually taking Venice away from the Venetians and turning the place into a museum.  So much has been written about the place that I wonder if you really need to get on a plane, and pay inflated hotel rates to experience it.  When you do make it there will your romantic expectations leave you disappointed with the reality of crowded streets and tourist menus.  People who set pen to paper tend to do so out of love or curiosity so there is a tendency to over romanticise the city.  Maybe that is what the public wants – the fantasy of gondolas, glass and masks.  Perhaps that’s why there aren’t or we don’t read so many local voices. 

The reality of Venice is much more fascinating than the romanticised version and I find that the city has a host of delights and pleasures that no writer that I have as yet read has captured that.  I would love to read something that explores the mundane and even the sheer bloody annoyances of the place but maybe that’s not what we want maybe we need Venice to be our fantasy.

15 go mad in Venice

Was tagged in Osteria ......... 

It used to be a case of wake up, see how you feel, drag yourself out of bed, mainline coffee and slowly piece events together.  Today thanks to facebook by the time your bleary eyes open the previous nights antics have probably been shared with a good couple of hundred people.  It’s with a very real sense of trepidation that you log on to the net, navigate to facebook and get ready to remove tags from photos your friends have kindly uploaded.  Last Sunday I woke to find my facebook page looking something like this:

Thanks to modern technology creating phones smarter than me every moment of the previous night seemed to have been documented and the list of bars I’d been tagged in was embarrassingly long.  Last week it was J’s birthday and in honour of the event a gang of us went to Venice.  The idea was a tour of bacari (traditional Venetian drinking establishments) and seeing that I am famed for knowing Venice I was entrusted with navigating the 15-20 of us to the best spots in town.  As ever getting more than four people together and on the same train is a feat of organisation and we were no different resulting in two of us arriving in Venice a full hour before the main party (we got the intended train I may hasten to add.)  When we did all meet up it quickly became apparent that everyone in our party was intent on having the same good time although I was dismayed to find at our first stop the British half of the table ordering prosecco and Italian side coffee – I mean geez guys. 

Taking in the beauty between bars two and three

Now to give you a bar by bar account of the night would be a little boring but as ever I was in my element taking people around this incredible city and Venice is the perfect place for a bar crawl – small enough to not need public transport, yet big enough to sober up between bars, in fact the only real drawback is the risk of falling into a canal.   This was the first time that I had shown locals around their own back yard and my Italian friends were most impressed by this Brit’s knowledge of Venetian topography and more importantly the best places to get a drink.  Venice is so full of history that inevitably almost every building has a story attached to it and one of the fun things about bar hoping in Venice is that you get to say things like “the next bar’s near Marco Polo’s house.”  I always get a kick out of saying things like that.    

    

The achievement of the night was getting our entire party on the last train back to Treviso – no small feat and although we all got on the same train we were not exactly together but that’s just a detail.  Arriving back to Treviso at 12.30 the sensible option would have been to wish J a happy birthday say our goodbyes and head home but we had been drinking for the best part of 7 hours and we all know ability to reason is directly linked to blood alcohol content so we carried on. 

Between bars five and six, err I think

Now let’s face it Treviso is not what you would call a twenty four hour city and most late night places close by two and by the appointed hour when most people called it a night there were three of us left standing and I found myself in Treviso’s very own slice of crazy.  They say that when you make it to the No1 bar you have been in Treviso too long.  It’s the only place to go if you want a drink at 7am.  Stepping into No1 bar is akin to walking into a David Lynch movie it is at once suburbanly normal, freakily nightmarish and surreally banal.  The decor is white- white walls, white floor, large white sofas.  My companions informed me that the place had recently been refurbished – prior the floors were covered in a red carpet that made the place feel like the red room.  The walls are decorated with cheap pictures on a native American theme in the corner entertainment is provided by an aging crooner singing hits from the 80s (that night it was Phil Collins and Peter Cetera)  with a tinny old casio keyboard that looks to be of the same era as it’s player.  As for the clientele, well that was the depressing part.  Sad middle aged men and over dolled up women for whose company payment is required.  There’s been a few times when I have felt myself straying into David Lynch’s world and I always try to attach the place to one of his works (thankfully I’ve never encountered easerhead and hope I never do.) No1 bar I would put somewhere between Blue Velvet and Twin Peaks.  

The next morning I work after a couple of hours sleep feeling a lot better than I deserved to (thanks in part to the drink ease and bottle of water I had left out for myself.)  Sunday would be about recovery.  Everyone seems to have their own recovery ritual and for me it’s coffee, water and a big bowl of nasi goreng.  There’s something about the greasy goodness of the fried rice, the chilli kick of the sambal oelek and the protein in the egg that makes the dish perfect after a big night.  My Italian friends can’t understand how I can eat such a meal at breakfast but it’s served the Indonesians well for years. 

Logging on the net to begin the remove tag ritual I was amazed to find that I’d slept through a rather significant earthquake.  The first of the (at rough count) 100 pictures of the evening were emerging as were stories of the morning after.  I spent the day much like everyone else snoozing, drinking lots and lots of water and declaring getting dressed a significant achievement.  That evening as many of us reconvened most people were accounted for and only one was missing in action that is, unable to get out of bed and all of us were operating on a low blue flame.  While I don’t think I can do a night like that again for a very, very long time it is worth noting that we only got through three of Venice’s sestieri so the crawl is only half done...

Masks and Music

The scene in San Marco

This week my attention has been taken up with two very different Italian traditions.  One is famous the world over and the other I had no idea of until I came to Italy and both have left me somewhat bemused.  It’s well known that I’m a bit of a Venitophile and there’s not much I don’t like about Venice but when it comes to Carnevale I’m on the side of the neigh sayers.  I’m not sure why but the idea of Carnevale has always left me cold.  As I’ve found myself in the vicinity of Venice for this year’s festival I thought I’d give it a go and see if it was just mere snobbery that had me turning my nose up.   Most of the sources I have read attribute the origins of the Venetian Carnevale to 1162 and a military victory over the Patriarch of Aquileia.  The Patriarch was forced to send an annual tribute of livestock to Venice that was slaughtered in San Marco on Shrove Thursday.  As for masks their history seems to begin in the thirteenth century when men used to use the anonymity of masks to throw eggs at ladies.  I’m not sure why Venice took to mask wearing but the practice had a life outside of Carnevale with many histories recording mask wearing as a day to day occurrence.  It was certainly widespread enough for the authorities to legislate their use.  One theory to the masks suggests that in a society as codified as Venice wearing masks allowed people to interact with those outside of their social class – who knows?  After the fall of the Venetian republic Carnevale fell out of favour until the 70s when it was revived.  

   

Playing dress up

Carnevale today covers the ten days or so prior to Shrove Tuesday or as its known here Martedi Grasso (translated means fat Tuesday and from which we get Mardi gras.)  While the city is full of cultural events commemorating the history of Carnevale.  Piazza San Marco sprouts a big stage which hosts cultural entertainment (if you call the birdie song culture – and yes I did say the birdie song,) grand old buildings host musical events and then of course there are the balls.  But the main aim of Carnevale seems to be walking around with a mask.  Last night (the Saturday before Martedi grasso) was the big night and seeing as I had things to do in Venice I stuck around and had a look. 

The decadence of Cafe Florian

For anyone with a romantic idea of wondering down a dark Venetian calle only to find a mysterious masked stranger coming out of the shadows I fear you will be disappointed.  Last night Venice was rammed – hell I wondered how the city didn’t just sink into the lagoon under the weight of people.  Everywhere you looked there were people, people in masks.  There’s no denying the power of a mask, they are other worldly things.  Put on a mask and people walk differently and have the confidence to look a stranger in the eye.  Can you imagine being surrounded by hundreds of people in masks?  Well this is one of my problems, to pull off a mask you need to go the whole nine yards.  The drama of an ornate gilded mask is lessened when accessorised with the latest in sports casual wear.  There were people who did go all out with the dressing up and cafe Florian was full of them, having paid who knows how much for a ticket.  As I watched the spectacle of wealthy people dressing up and playacting seventeenth century Venice while the crowds gazed at them through the window I wondered if it was always thus.  Some things never change I suppose.  The locals seemed to have eschewed the mask and use the night as a big dress up party.  They, I’m pleased to say did put in an effort; endearingly their costumes were homemade and had a character and humour so lacking in San Marco.  On my journey through the city I came across; Alex and the droogs, various muppets and the ghostbusters (complete to ectopacks that looked a lot like vacuum cleaners.)  Of course the night was a big piss up and the streets and bars where full of rapidly inebriating people.  This inebriation has to be the reason why people were dancing to the dj tunes at the rialto which is where I gave up – look if you’re going to have this party and you’re going to hire a dj why hire one who thinks it’s alright to play cotton eye Joe?  Why? Where on this planet is that ok? 

The crowds outside waiting to gawp

Having had enough of the reverie I turned back to the little bar run by my friends F and H where you wouldn’t know it was Carnevale.   After couple of hours chatting it was back on the packed train, home to Treviso and the other great festival that was coming to a climax.   

            

For the majority of this week the Sanremo music festival has been in full swing.  Many countries have a popular music institution, the Christmas Number one in the UK or the Triple J hot 100 in Australia well Italy has Sanremo.  For the uninitiated, imagine the Eurovision song contest held over five days, consisting of entrants from one country and without the hours of voting.  Personally I find the Eurovision voting the most enthralling part of the competition and have often said that it is the best indicator of the current state of European relations.   Sanremo is Italy’s premier music competition and many of the names in the Italian charts and on the X factor judging panel are past winners.  My Italian is good enough to understand the content of most of the songs and it has been a predictable swamp of emotion sung by people who use vocal theatrics to cover the fact they’ve never experienced the emotions they’re singing about.  Talking to Italians I am unable to decide if the competition is taken seriously or is looked at with the same sense of bemusement that the Brits view Eurovision but I do remember when I first arrived being told by more than one Italian that the nation doesn’t take Eurovision seriously because they have Sanremo – but I thought surely no one takes Eurovision seriously?  It’s a curious experience watching Sanremo.  Not that I need any more evidence that Italian television is bad but the main talking point of this year’s festival was whether one of the presenters was wearing knickers  – I never thought it would be possible to actually feel your life ebbing away but Sanremo well done.    

A difference of opinion

Having dealt with an as per usual late train, the lack of air conditioning in the hot and humid summer heat, the army of travellers crowding the carriage brandishing oversized luggage (seriously how much do you need to take on holiday?) I had come to realise that this evening was probably not going to change GMs mind.  There’s one place here whose fame and reputation looms large over all else and my chum hates it.  Yes Venice, in most other places cities like Verona and Padua would very rightly be the major attraction but when you have Venice down the road all else pales in comparison.  So much has been written about Venice that I don’t feel that I can productively add anything.  The idea of a beautiful city built on water is so crazy and dreamlike that if Venice didn’t exist someone would have to invent it.  It seems to me that no one has an indifferent view of Venice – you either love or hate it, me and GM are on opposite sides of the fence.  From my first moment on the lagoon I’ve been hooked.     

When I compare the glorious Venetian past to the Venice of today I can’t help but feel a little sad at the decline of the grand city.  From being “Lord of a quarter and a half a quarter of the Roman Empire” with a population of 180,000 at its height to the Venice of today its population down to 59,500 and shamelessly pimping its past glories out for the tourist dollar.  The city is a work of art and when not overrun by visitors it’s a joy to wonder and explore.  In an almost Faustian pact the tourist is both Venice’s survival and its death.  Without the money that visitors bring the city would have no hope of keeping financially afloat (bad pun I know) but their numbers make life almost impossible for Venetians to live.  Prices have risen so much that many can no longer afford to live in the city and chose to leave, with them goes the infrastructure such as schools and hospitals needed in a functioning city.  If the population decline continues at this pace in 20 years there will be no Venetians left and the city will have become the theme park many already think it is. 

While it would be lovely for Venice to return to being a living and working city I fear it may be too late.  Why would you spend the money and put in an infrastructure to support a living population when you have the guaranteed income from tourists.  The Venetian authorities themselves do this cause no favours.  When I arrived the cities’ residents were fighting proposals to extend the capacity to accommodate yet more mega cruise liners.  The proposed changes would have seen the closure of one of the last living pieces of Venetian heritage; the Rialto markets which have been trading in their current location since 1097.  How could Venice’s politicians possibly consider such action?  A big fat load of cashola that’s how.                       

GM and I first met in Venice in the autumn of 09, he was doing a favour for a mate offering to say a hello to me and show me around.  Well after a gap of a year and a half GM again made it to Venice. Food was our mission and Venice’s only Indian restaurant.   We were on public transport as parking near Venice is, like much else in the lagoon outrageously expensive.  Stepping out from the train station in high season is not the most pleasant of experiences.  You need to keep you elbows out and your wits about you to dodge the suitcases, backpacks and lost looking people.   The city drowns in tourists thus rendering any walking pace above snail like impossible.  A carefully chosen left and we had left the crowds for the relative quiet of the ghetto.  Over the course of the evening GM regaled the many reasons why he dislikes Venice – it’s expensive, crowded, dirty, a nightmare to get to and when there to get around and so on and on and on.  A lot of what he said cannot be argued with but much as I mentioned the beauty and peace of the place at night, the sheer glory of the grand canal he was not to be budged.  Sadly the restaurant only served to confirm GMs views and for once I was in agreement the food was bad and overpriced.  On the train home to Treviso and once safely off the lagoon GM noted that the best thing that could happen to Venice is for sea levels to rise before the completion of the flood barriers – Wow, he really doesn’t like Venice.