Saturday, October 21, 2017

Dante and Virgil in Venice

I've never felt the least inclination to form any kind of aesthetic opinion on this sculpture of Dante and Virgil situated in the lagoon between Fondamenta Nove and the cemetery island of San Michele, but I can tell you that its creator was a Russian sculptor named Georgi Frangulyan, that it was placed in its present spot in 2007, and that, considering it weighs 2 tons, any decision to remove it won't be undertaken lightly.

It's inspired by the two poets' crossing of the river Styx in Canto 8 of L'Inferno toward the flaming city of Dis.

Friday, October 13, 2017

3 Views of the Rialto Bridge in This Morning's Fog

It's not just that Venice looks different in the fog, it's that the fog, by blunting the city's visual assault upon a spectator, diminishing its usually staggering array of details, allows the viewer to look differently at Venice. You see more in less.

Friday, October 6, 2017

The Two Venices

As a Venetian friend told me soon after we moved here, "There are two Venices, one you see on foot, and the other you know only from a boat."

In Venice: The Tourist Maze, Robert C. Davis and Garry R. Marvin put it this way:
Enclosed and walled in rather than scooped out, canals have primacy in Venice, even when they have been whittled down to the narrowness of alleys by competing palace builders: the waterscape of the city is, paradoxically, its bedrock. Even with a good many of them now filled in [a favorite activity of the Austrians in the 19th century], they still represent the most direct way to reach most parts of Venice; unlike the contorted maze of calli, campi, and bridges just above them, they generally make sense, at least to those who have a boat handy to take advantage of them. Which is... to say that they make sense to Venetians, and indeed the canals of the city, or more precisely, getting around on those canals, could reasonably be called the last backstage left in Venice, the final spatial possession of the Venetians.
It should probably be noted, though, that this book was published in 2004, and since that time even this "final spatial possession of the Venetians" has become less exclusively their own. One spends years learning about the city's waterways and observing others in their boats before making one's own timid first ventures into the narrow rii, and you shout out the traditional warning as you approach a tight blind right-angle, receive no reply, idle into the turn and--encounter a pod of kayakers in town for the day. My hope is that the number of kayak tours and kayakers won't--like every other tourist venture in Venice--be allowed to get completely out of control.

Tuesday, October 3, 2017

Rio de Ca' Granzoni

When the water in the rii is still you're reminded that Venice is its own "sister city": the city and its reflection are twins joined at the waterline.

Saturday, September 23, 2017

Worth the Wait: A Titian Returns to I Frari

Titian's Ca' Pesaro Madonna newly re-installed in the church of Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari

Here's looking at you, kid.

After five years of intensive analysis and restoration funded by the American non-profit Save Venice organization, Titian's great Madonna di Ca' Pesaro is now back in its familiar spot in the church of Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari.

For a very interesting account of the particular challenges that the painting presented to restorers, and of the methods used to discover the factors (both recent and long past) that contributed to its deterioration, as well as the strategies to address and prevent future degradation, visit Save Venice's page on the work:

And then visit the work itself as soon as you have the chance. 

Tuesday, September 5, 2017

Six Views of Sunday's Regata Storica

It's the colorful pageantry of the corteo or boat parade before the races that draws most of the tourists, who then tend to disperse....
...and miss the excitement of races like the 6-man caorline (above), whose first 3 boats were tightly packed from start to finish.

On their way to their tenth Regata Storica victory, however, Anna Mao and Romina Ardit dominated from the get-go, leaving the rest of the field to compete for second place

The gondolier above appears to be the only one capable of besting the indomitable duo of Rudi and Igor Vignotto on their way to their record 15th Regata Storica victory. But in actuality, having inexplicably lost track of the race's progress, he's rowing as fast as he can to get out of the course. His passengers, however, as one can't help but often notice of tourists, have absolutely no clue as to what's going on just behind them.

Sunday, September 3, 2017

Too Close for Comfort at Today's Regata Storica

One agonista reacts angrily as the gondolino of two competitors interferes with his oar as they approach the Rialto Bridge
More images tomorrow.

Friday, September 1, 2017

Day For Night

A huge lightning flash (out of the frame at left) lights up the Grand Canal during a tumultuous storm in the wee hours of this morning.

Tuesday, August 29, 2017

Dog Days of Summer, This Afternoon

Though the days of the Dog Star, Sirius, actually stretch only from July 3 to August 11, the star's influence on certain people seems to extend beyond this period, judging from the two pictured above.

Sunday, August 27, 2017

Nourishing Local Life: Disnar per la storica 2017

Preparations for next weekend's Regata Storica kicked off last night with Disnar per la storica, a wide-ranging event consisting of free community dinners (what are called "pot lucks" in America) in fourteen different locations around Venice, including Lido, Sant'Erasmo, and the mainland. (Disnar is a Venetian word for "to eat").

The dinner for our neighborhood was held in the Rialto Pescheria and it was pleasant to see so many residents gathered to enjoy an extended meal, with live entertainment and a film of Venetian rowing, in a place so often over-run by mordi e fuggi (bite and run) tourism.

Any song about living in Venice, as the one being sung above, can't help but include among its frustrations (as you can see in the projected lyrics) the waves, litter, human waste and diving that spoil the canals and the dog crap in the calli.

Saturday, August 12, 2017

An Outsider's Guide to Secret Venice, Part 3: The Emergency Lagoon Drainage System

A large floating buoy attached to one of the Emergency Lagoon Drainage Plugs in the basin of San Marco

The most visible element of the 45-year-old Emergency Lagoon Drainage System floats for all to see in the middle of the Bacino di San Marco, its primary function unknown to and even unsuspected by tourists and most Venetians alike. 

If anyone, besides my son Sandro and me, gives it much thought at all, they do so only when it's being utilized in its secondary function as a mooring place for a large, important ship, such as the Italian destroyer the Luigi Durand de la Penne.

But the primary purpose of this large floating buoy (at least as far as Sandro and I are concerned), and the others like it in the waters around the city,* has to do with an elaborate anti-flood system designed and implemented in the first years after the catastrophic deluge that struck Venice in 1966. It was this "perfect storm" that called international attention to Venice's susceptibility to being abruptly submerged by the sea--rather than merely subsiding into it--and which led 10 years later to the plan for a system of flood gates situated at the three mouths of the lagoons.

As noted by Salvatore Settis in his book If Venice Dies, in 1986 then-Prime Minister Bettino Craxi announced that these submerged flood gates (known by the acronym MOSE) "will definitely be operational by 1995." Instead, 22 years after this promised date, MOSE shows no signs of being operational any time soon--if ever--and has functioned only to transfer over 6.2 billion euros of public funding into the hands of private construction companies and corrupt politicians. Of course, in Italy, as in America, this is considered a laudable achievement in itself.

But for all its fame and infamy, MOSE was the second engineering solution devised to protect the city against catastrophic flooding. The first was the now-forgotten, though still partly visible, Emergency Lagoon Drainage System.

In contrast to the no-bid contract that was gifted to the Consorzio Venezia Nuova to construct MOSE, in the immediate aftermath of the great flood of 1966 an international engineering competition was held. The winner of that competition was, to hardly anyone's surprise, considering the country's long history of hydraulic engineering, a Dutch firm.

This firm's solution to catastrophic flooding was both simpler and far more radical than the later MOSE proposal. It called for a vast drainage system to be installed beneath the lagoon, with a series of "plugs" located at the periphery of the city. The plugs themselves, situated snugly in massive drainage ports at the bottom of the lagoon, are invisible; we see only the large buoys attached to each of them and floating above them.

Each buoy, as you can see in the image at top, has a large steel ring in the center of its circular platform. In the event of extreme flooding, a fleet of massive helicopters known as "sky cranes" (with which Sandro was familiar from his then-favorite educational video series Mighty Machines), and currently stationed nearby on the mainland, would lower a hook into these rings, then haul them and their attached plugs into the sky.

A floating drainage buoy used for its secondary function by the Italian Navy
That is, just as we're in the habit of pulling a plug out of a sink or bathtub to let the water drain from it, so a fleet of massive helicopters would de-cork the lagoon.

By 1972 this Emergency Drainage System had been completed and was, according to computer analysis and a series of tests (extensive in number but necessarily limited in scope), fully functional.

Venice was saved.

Or was it?

For even as the system was being installed a multitude of scientific studies were arguing that just one use of the system would cause massive and irreversible damage to the lagoon itself. The rapid and violent emptying of water from the lagoon would result not only in a staggering loss of animal, plant, and probably even human life, but widespread destruction of the lagoon's ecosystem.

The shallow, rough, irregular terrain of the lagoon bed itself, with all its sedimentation, sub-acquatic plant life and mudflats (barene), would be sucked down with the swirling mass of water rushing into the drains installed in the lagoon.

To save the built structures of the city, in other words, the lagoon itself would be sacrificed.

Indeed, a heated debate over the ethics of what critics described as the sacrifice of Nature for the sake of Culture appeared across a number of issues of the obscure but influential International Journal of Hydraulics in the first years of the 1970s, reaching such a pitched state of contention that a fear that the hitherto scholarly debate might break out into the broader public consciousness caused it to be purchased by an unknown buyer and promptly shut down.

Some have identified the Italian government itself as the buyer; others, the Dutch engineering firm responsible for the drainage system. Whoever it was, they did an admirable job of suppressing the content of the debate and purging all traces of the journal from libraries. To this day, single issues from this contentious period have fetched bids in the low six figures, and a multi-copy set said to contain the complete series of exchanges garnered a million dollar bid from the famous Ransom Rare Book Collection at the University of Texas Austin. But in every case the proffered publications have turned out to be fraudulent. 

Equally troubling, though, was the fact that a single use of the system would, by scouring the lagoon clean of its wave-buffering natural features, leave the city significantly more susceptible to disastrous flooding than ever before. A single use of the system was likely to turn what had long been a lagoon into what was effectively a shallow bay, through which water from the Adriatic would rush in with unimpeded force.

According to some it was this realization that ultimately led to the decision in 1976 to go ahead with the mobile flood gates.

While others more simply, and cynically, say that the decision to go forward with the MOSE project was less about impeding the flow of dangerous tides than about diverting a massive flow of public money into the "right" (ie, well-connected) private bank accounts.

Whatever the reason, Venice now has one almost 50-year-old system of flood prevention that is theoretically still functional but that it dare not use, and one "new" one (originating just 10 years after the former) which it's supposedly clamoring to use but seems unlikely to ever be functional.

And, alas, because some municipalities, like some people, never seem to learn from their mistakes, the use of the MOSE system--if ever it does function--raises as many questions about its own disastrous effects on the lagoon as the old Emergency Lagoon Drainage System.

In truth, considering the long ineffectual history and deleterious consequences of each system side-by-side, the real MOSE one (with all its corruption and incompetence) and the one imagined by Sandro and me, I can't quite ultimately decide which of them stretches credulity more.


*There are a few such floating buoys and Sandro and I were inspired to look into the mystery of them after repeatedly passing a particular one of them that lay--like the subject of Part 2 of this series of posts--on the vaporetto path between his pre-school and our home (specifically, between the San Pietro di Castello stop and that of Bacini).

Wednesday, August 9, 2017

An Outsider's Guide to Secret Venice, Part 2: The Regional Weather Control Center

The aggressively unassuming Regional Weather Control Center

As is the case for any number of our society's most venerated Truths, the origins of the Regional Weather Control Center in Venice, or RWCC, are shrouded in mystery, and are admittedly rather dubious.

Located in the waters just a short distance off Fondamenta Nove, the discovery of the top-secret site by my son Sandro and I was spurred by a long unbroken string of oppressively gray days during the second winter we lived in here.

We usually have no problem with sunless days during the winter; we expect them. But this particular stretch had gone on for far too long, without even a brief tease of sunlight, and with no hint of ever ending. So long, in fact, that Sandro and I couldn't help but start to wonder if something had jammed up the gears that usually kept our weather systems moving through at a slower or swifter pace, and if the person responsible for minding them had fallen asleep at--or even vacated--his or her post.

For elsewhere, as we could see on national news reports, meteorological conditions varied at least a little from day to day as usual. Only here in the lagoon had everything seemed to stall.

We pondered the question of why.

But we didn't hit upon any kind of satisfying answer until we stumbled into thinking about it in terms of where. Where did weather patterns originate?

Well, as it turned out, from a shabby little structure we passed nearly every day on the number 4.1 or 4.2 vaporetto line, while going to or coming from Sandro's kindergarten.

Indeed, one might take it as concrete evidence of the sheer brilliance of the RWCC creator (or creators) that it is essentially hidden in plain sight.

Like the earliest dwellings in the lagoon, as described in a letter to Theodoric the Ostrogoth by his prefect Cassiodorus in the year 523, the RWCC is stilted just above the surface of the water. Though it, in contrast to those sea bird-like homes of the earliest inhabitants, is constructed not of "osier and wattle" but bricks and cement. While the earliest lagoon structures must have been quite susceptible to drafts, the windowless RWCC appears impervious even to light.

No image of the interior has ever been disseminated, but according to those who have studied, or at least speculated on the matter (my then 5-year-old son and myself), the RWCC is manned by a solitary occupant who tracks national and regional weather conditions on a bank of computer monitors--many of them displaying a live feed from a far-flung battery of surveillance cameras--that nearly fills the small space.*

Based upon these regionally-oriented screens, along with a constant stream of information on broader weather conditions (both in Italy and internationally), the indefatigable controller adjusts meteorological conditions in the lagoon (temperature, cloud cover, precipitation, wind, etc) with an extensive array of levers--rather like those used backstage to raise the curtain or dim the lights for live theatrical performances. For finer adjustments there is also a selection of precisely-calibrated dials.

The fact that the RWCC bears a very general resemblance to the larger, windowed, wooden tidal monitoring (or hydrographic) station you can see near the Punta della Dogana has led to speculation that it was built around the same time. But there is no other evidence to support such a conjecture and, indeed, such a notion raises more questions than it resolves. Chief among them: Where was the RWCC previously located?

Moreover, the differences between the two structures are far more striking than any vague similarity. Unlike the tidal monitoring post, the RWCC is aggressively plain, even downright forbidding: it is both inscrutable and impregnable.

Which, of course, makes perfect sense. For while nobody ever complains about the tides, everyone--as the old saying goes--complains about the weather, though no ever does anything about it.

The appearance of the RWCC--at once inconspicuous and off-putting--seems specifically designed to forestall the possibility that anyone might even be tempted to try.

Not that Sandro and I haven't once or twice over the last few years been driven by a particularly nasty stretch of weather to talk about taking our little boat to the RWCC and pounding on its door to complain. But the consequences of such a rash and unprecedented action are unknown, and, moreover, the power of certain mysterious truths depends upon them never being put to the test.


*Though interior space is limited, it is not so cramped as a purely external perusal of the structure would suggest: the shape, proportions, and materials of the structure's exterior being cleverly designed to appear substantially diminished in the particular lighting conditions of the lagoon.  

Tuesday, August 8, 2017

An Outsiders' Guide to Secret Venice, Part 1: The Cannaregio Gondola Factory

The Cannaregio Gondola Factory (aka the Associazione Remiere di Punta di San Giobbe)

There are countless "insider's" guides to Venice available, with new ones appearing regularly, but sometimes the perspectives on the city I find most interesting come from those who appear to have little if any familiarity with it.

In fact, seemingly unencumbered by any knowledge of Venice whatsoever, the minds of the best of what might be called Outsider Guides to the City are free to drift up to dizzying altitudes, where oxygen is scarce and falsehoods abundant.

I suppose there's an invigorating sense of freedom to be found in not knowing the first thing about the subject on which you're pontificating. And if stated with enough force--or vulgarity, or shamelessness, in the case of major politicians in the US and UK--these utterly false assertions can end up being more compelling to a surprising number of people than statements of easily verified or even readily observable fact.

The other day, while riding in an Alilaguna water bus from the airport into Venice, I heard a particularly inspired one of these Outsider Guides announce the following to his wife and teen-aged daughter: "Hey, hey, look there," he said, pointing out the window to a building on the western end of Fondamenta Nove, "there's a factory where they make gondolas! Wow, look at 'em! They've made a bunch of green ones that they've got stacked up in the yard."

Now, you don't have to be a native Venetian to know that gondolas aren't green, or that their shape bears little resemblance to the shape of the much smaller boats to which he pointed. And, more simply, there was even a large sign posted in the center of the facade stating (in Italian) exactly what the building was.

But his wife and daughter nodded and looked suitably edified and I--as this particular lie was not uttered in the service of more tax cuts for the rich and poverty, gratuitous hardship, and early death for everyone else--was thoroughly entertained, even charmed.

I would have thought that the fact that what this Outsider Guide was pointing to was actually a traditional Venetian-style rowing club association (remiere) would have been exotic enough to satisfy most visitors from afar. But I admired the leap his imagination had made, and I wished I could tag along with him for the rest of the morning to see what other misbegotten nonsense the sights of the city in combination with his ignorance might inspire him to spout.

But we were on the Alilaguna boat from the airport with family arriving from out of town and, instead, I turned my attention elsewhere.

It occurs to me now that there might be some value--if only of the entertainment sort--in compiling an Outsiders' Guide to Venice, and I wish I remembered more of the falsehoods I've overheard in my 6 1/2 years of living here: such as the three tourists on a vaporetto one time who speculated that the church of San Giorgio Maggiore was a hotel (and not even in the French sense of hôtel, or city hall).

After all, one way to make a famous city so heavily visited (and over-visited), and so much remarked upon as Venice, into one's "very own" is simply to get as many things wrong about it as you possibly can.

For the old Mary McCarthy and Henry James observation that "nothing original can be said about Venice" doesn't quite apply to those whose remarks upon Palladio's famous church across the Bacino di San Marco are based upon their mistaken belief that it's a hotel--or that, say, the Palazzo Ducale is a basketball arena.*

In this spirit, in parts 2 and 3 of this post I'll finally share a couple of (alternative) facts about the city that you won't read in even the most authoritative guidebook or hear from the most knowledgeable personal tour guide. "Facts" that my son and I happened upon while still getting acquainted with the city and which I hope will merit a place in any Outsiders' Guide to Venice: secrets of this famous city that are so secret I think it's safe to say that we two are the only ones who know anything about them. 

* As, incredibly enough, the Scuola Grande della Misericordia actually was for a time:

Sunday, July 30, 2017

A Little Night Music, With Oars

The scene at last night's live musical event Serata a Remi: Musica dal Palazzo Papafava, hosted by Row Venice and Viva Voga Veneta.

Monday, July 24, 2017

Disneyland on the Adriatic

Disneyland on parade, yesterday

Okay, I might as well admit it up front: in my opinion there's nothing more unsightly to be seen floating on the small canals (or rii) of the historic center of Venice than some moron on a standup paddle board.

I'm sure that on some beautiful Hawaiian beach at the right time of day a paddle board can appear picturesque, that in some upscale Caribbean resort they're absolutely adorable as a vehicle for family frolics on pricey private waters, and that they're just the thing for drunken sunburned Spring Break celebrants in Fort Lauderdale or Lake Havasu. 

But in Venice they strike me as just plain ugly. An impression not helped by the fact that any adult atop them is almost invariably dressed as if he's a young child outfitted by his mother for an afternoon at some water park just off the interstate in Orlando, Florida. Not that there's anything wrong with such water parks, but Venice--as a fairly surprising number of visitors seem hardly to notice--ain't merely a water park.

Moreover, if the paddle boarder in Venice is unprepossessing at rest, he or she becomes even more so in action. At his or her most adept a paddling paddle boarder appears to be sweeping out a kitchen. But more typically the best that many of them can do is to hack at the water as they struggle to keep their footing--a series of short, clumsy, seemingly random strokes, like an ungainly gardener taxed with hoeing an impossibly overgrown plot.

Even on a Sunday there's no shortage of water traffic on the Grand Canal, its usual path narrowed by the paddlers

In a city whose lissome rowing style has been quite literally admired for centuries, paddle boarders appear especially out of place. It's not just that the paddle board itself is foreign to the culture of the lagoon, even the movement needed to propel it appears distinctly alien in this context.

Aside from how it looks, though, the paddle board is ill-suited to what are still the working--as opposed to leisure or theme park--canals of Venice.

Paddlers drop to their knees to deal with the wake of a slowly passing taxi
Unwieldy, unresponsive, and slow moving, it's far more likely to create dangerous situations both for its paddler and others than it is able to avoid or elude them. In contrast to the long stroke of a skilled Venetian rower which shoots his or her boat out of harm's way, or to such a rower's ability to pivot his or her boat almost in place, the paddle boarder can only hack and splash.

Even the growing numbers of inept, vacationing kayakers in Venice's waterways can do more than that.

So, given all of the above, what do the venerable leaders of Venice do? Why, they sanction the private event you see pictured above. As I've no interest in publicizing this event, I won't name it, but I can tell you that yesterday's mass outing was, according to its organizer's Facebook page, it's 7th edition, in which 100 lucky registrants were able--for the price of 50 euro (60 for later entrants)--to participate in "a unique experience, a huge media happening, [and] the most popular SUP [standup paddle board] event ever."

I suppose it's the second phrase within that last quotation that bothers me. Should the city be encouraging more standup paddle boarders to come and flounder in its canals?

But who can object to a local club putting on a big event? you might ask.

Smile and say "Marketing!"

The aim of this event, however, is not local. Its goal is to draw more paddle boarders to Venice, to publicize paddle boarding here to a world-wide audience, so that you needn't do much searching on the web to find devoted standup paddle boarders from all over already enthusing about what a great personal experience it will be (or already has been) to paddle in Venice--where, invariably, they haven't the least knowledge of the rules governing water traffic.

But, like the kayakers before them, why should standup paddle boarders worry about that?

The commonly-held opinion--rarely undercut by the actions of the city's venerable leaders--is that Venice is not a real city, so its canals aren't real functioning arteries of commerce and transportation. It's a theme park, a setting for one's own personal "peak experiences", a great backdrop for selfies, and a stellar addition to one's personal "bucket list" (ie, shopping list of experiences to be consumed).

And it's the job of a theme park's personnel--in this case, the residents of Venice--to watch out for the well-being of its customers (though the city's venerable policy-makers rarely seem to do this themselves: witness the wretched overcrowding of vaporetti). If a standup paddle boarder doesn't know the rules of the waterways, work boat drivers, vaporetto drivers, taxi drivers, all the people who depend on the waterways for their living will simply adapt to them.

What could go possibly go wrong?

But of course it's always the newcomers to a place that are most protective of its "traditions" or "traditional culture." And by Venetian standards, even after 6 1/2 years here, I'm well aware that I'm still very much a newcomer. After all, it took at least 10 years of residence to be eligible for citizenship in the old Republic, and I think it's safe to say that to be considered a Venetian by the dwindling number of native Venetians today takes far longer than that (if ever). 

I'm also aware that with my whole "get off my lawn" stick-in-the-mud attitude I may, as they say, be missing the boat.

Which is why, after careful consideration, I've decided to start my own new water-going venture in Venice. Like kayaks and standup paddle boards my enterprise will devote itself to a
"green" environmentally-friendly mode of getting around, which uses no fossil fuels and creates no pollution, nor any damaging moto ondoso.
I'm still working out the details, but I think I've already found my supplier for my fleet of craft, one of which you can see in the image below:

With these inflatable human hamster wheels Venice's ancient tradition of rowing will be updated for the ultimate 21st-century tourist experience of this magical city! No skill or knowledge required!

Just imagine scores of these on the Grand Canal!

What a unique and beautiful experience that will be!

Monday, July 17, 2017

Navigating the Festa del Redentore 2017

When the unregulated crowds of the city become all too much there's still some relief to be found on the water. Even, or especially, during the Festa del Redentore.

We didn't eat dinner on our boat, as many people do for the Festa, but puttered up and down the Grand Canal and a rii or two, taking in the sights, our son blasting (in a very small way) his favorite dance tunes from a little battery-powered wi-fi speaker, smaller than a soda can. It wasn't the booming stereophonic splash he fantasizes about making in his teen years--no more than our boat was the fast, stylish, red cofano he imagines piloting during that glorious period of life--but it was the closest he'd ever yet come to realizing such things and he was thrilled. We idled all around the mass of larger boats--pretty much every boat is larger than ours--anchored in the basin of San Marco. As I was driving our boat I took no photos.

To get the best vantage point in the bacino for the fireworks we should have settled ourselves into a spot there at least an hour before the 11:30 pm start time. But after heading back down the Grand Canal for a while we returned at 11 to find a lot of other boats jostling in the dark to find places within the designated zone delimited by police boats, their blue lights flashing, their officers filling the air with referee's whistles and shouts, directing traffic.

You'd have been excused for expecting chaos at this point, this being Italy, but it all went surprisingly smoothly. Next year I'll know to motor into the first open spot we see and ask to tie ourselves up to a boat already anchored there--or, as the case may be, itself tethered side-by-side to a series of boats roped together in place. But I dillied, then I dallied, and by the time I worked up the nerve to venture indecisively into a smallish open space it had become smaller still and I found myself on the verge of nosing or backing into any number of already anchored boats--each of whose occupants, fortunately, responded to the imminent prospect of my broadsiding their own craft with quick hands and good-natured forbearance.

I retreated back into the mouth of the Grand Canal in the screech-filled darkness. We saw a broad opening in the water alongside three boats tied together neat the Punta della Dogana. We approached--they said they were waiting for another friend's boat to arrive. We retreated.

Well, why even bother to tie ourselves to another boat, when we could simply drop anchor where we were?

This we did. Then we set about taking down the tall poles and festoons with which we'd decorated our boat, as they'd block our view of the fireworks. Then we settled in to wait excitedly for the first explosion of light.

But, wait a minute, were we moving? The wind was blowing hard out of the east, the current was strong, but maybe it was just an illusion created by the movement of another boat nearby motoring to a new spot.

No, we were definitely moving.

We were no longer near the tip of the Punta della Dogana as we had been. Those anchored boats that had once been our near neighbors were growing distant as memories. Our anchor, not exactly massive, must have been dragging, if not skipping, over the bottom of the Grand Canal. At this rate we'd end up foundered on the dock of Ca' Barbaro by the time the 45-minute firework extravaganza was done.

I tugged our engine to life again and we motored alongside a boat solidly in place near the spot from which we'd just drifted. We asked its occupants to tie up to them, they kindly agreed.

We settled ourselves in again inside our boat, finally secure in our spot amid a little flotilla. Another boat arrived and asked to tie itself to ours, to which we of course agreed. A short stone's throw away, from the fondamenta of the Punta della Dogana, a couple of guys shouted out the offer of a jug of sangria to anyone who'd motor over and take them on board for the pyrotechnics, but it was too late for that, and no one really had room anyway (or if they did it was "solo per le donne," as one boatload of young men replied), and in a minute the fireworks began.

Our view was partially obscured by the Punta della Dogana, but it didn't matter. At that point there was no place else we'd rather have been.


For an account of what it's like to watch the fireworks explode directly above your head from a friend's boat in the center of the bacino di San Marco see this post: Festa del Redentore 2014: Seeing, Feeling, Breathing Fireworks.