Another Easter

Really. Seriously. I do not understand this holiday.

All week long the shopping areas have hosted an enormous Pasqua mercato. One can only imagine that Venetians expect to receive gifts like bundles of crew socks and glittery Indian jewelry and big, gaudy palm leaf lamps and "Miracle" kitchen sponges and pro-cannabis
T-shirts on Easter Sunday.

Then there are all the pastel-colored, sugar-based egg and animal and combo egg-animal goodies (like these) in the pasticcerie. They're adorable - but am I supposed to eat them? And what about those gorgeous decorated chocolate eggs, about the size of a small toddler and double the price of dinner in the best restaurant in town?

OK. You already know how I feel about Easter... and spring. I'll just bite the ears off my chocolate bunny and be quiet. Buona Pasqua!

Sea change

Any sailor will tell you there is a perceptible moment when the sea one is navigating shifts, becomes different, changes color or temperature, takes on a new attitude, soothes or threatens in some unforeseen way. A sea change is a time for re-evaluation, for examination and adjustment of one’s course.

Many of you have let me know that you have missed my ramblings here this past month. I thank you sincerely for that. I have been experiencing my own sea change. Or perhaps it’s more like an undertow.

Midway through March I could feel a slight difference in the air, but I couldn’t… or I wouldn’t name it. The inevitable was drawing near. A certain wistfulness infected my daily round. Looking back, I was trying to accept the idea that my time here is ending.

Yesterday – finally – I learned for certain that I must return to New York next month: my subtenant has found a home of his own.

Yesterday – finally – I let my Venetian landlord know he can begin seeking a new tenant for my apartment here.

Yesterday – finally – I began the serious and unpleasant business of packing up for my journey back.

Yesterday – finally – I bought my ticket for May 4th.

Still… I have no idea how to leave this place.

“The Cure”

Behold the Testa d’Oro (golden head)! This serious character stares down on the entry to Rialto Bridge, San Marco side. Today there’s a junky souvenir shop below him. But if you look very closely, you can still see the etched traces of the 250-year-old sign: THERIACA ANDROMACHI. That shop’s original purpose was the production and sale of theriaca (or triaca), Venice’s mystery-shrouded, Orient-inspired, cure-all potion.

The recipe for this panacea originated in the apothecary of the secretive Greek Andromaco, and came to Venice by way of Arabs. It called for no less than sixty ingredients, a primary one being dried viper meat. They were pounded and mixed in heavy mortars, sometimes in full public view. (The stone pavement in front of a chemist's shop in Campo Santo Stefano, originally the site of a historic farmacia called “The Old Cedar,” still bears the round indentations of theriaca mortars.) There was even a special song to accompany the rhythmic blows of the makers’ pestles, and a special costume for the fellows who delivered the miracle drug around town.

Venetians relied on theriaca to relieve stomach and bowel ailments, toothache, headache, and fever, heal scorpion stings, dog and viper bites, and plague buboes, prevent contraction of the plague and other contagious diseases, ease the pain of childbirth, restore sight and improve hearing, and even drive out evil spirits. (Somebody get Merck headquarters on the phone!)

Pharmacy was, and still is, a very dignified profession in these parts. To understand how seriously Venice took the preparation of theriaca and other medicines, and how much the farmacista (pharmacist) was honored in the culture, think of this: farmacisti, even though of common birth, were permitted to cross social lines and even marry Venetian noblewomen. Not a bad career choice for a smart, ambitious fellow!

I’ve heard that Farmacia Ponci Santa Fosca (which is so beautifully preserved that it looks like a movie set) still has a few drams of theriaca on the premises. The pharmacist there could not be persuaded to show it to me, though. Indeed, I got the impression he hates it when people come in asking stupid questions.

Reserve now, Ladies!

This Sunday is Il Giorno della Donna – “Woman’s Day.” The celebration of womanhood, the wearing of the mimosa… The whole town is already trimmed in bright yellow.

You local gals who haven’t yet made plans might want to get in on this action. Dinner and festivities in the “Chippendales” style: the waiters will be stripping. “Tutto da ridere…!” – “All for laughs,” we’re assured. Looks like a pretty good menu, too (except maybe that "chocolate mouse” dessert selection). And just 40 euros!

I find it interesting that the sponsors produced this poster all in Italian, except for the title of the main event – “Venetian Waiter Strip.” Are there no words in Italian for the age-old tradition of striptease? Is this a new idea here? Or does the bold use of English in this context make the event seem slightly more naughty, or perhaps a bit more hip?

Italians use the English word “sexy,” both in conversation and in print. I once asked my Venetian friend if his mother tongue lacks a corresponding word for “sexy.” He told me such a word does exist in Italian. “But,” he added, “it isn’t very sexy.”

OK.

“Go” fishing

Tuesday mornings when I go over to the mercato in Lido, I sometimes run into this fellow, patiently dipping his line into a small, murky canal that looks very unlikely to yield any fish. We meet and greet as I come and go on my shopping expedition.

The first time we met, I was curious to know what he was angling for, and he told me: “Go.” We have a real language barrier. He only speaks what I believe to be pure Venetian dialect, because I can barely make any sense of it. Still, I have gathered that the little fish he catches – goby – are bony but very tasty when fried and served red-hot with just a sprinkling of salt and pepper. (I have since learned from other Venetians that they are also good cooked in risotto, to which they lend a yellow tint.)

By the time I finish up at the mercato and make my way back, the go fisherman has usually caught enough for a decent little lunch. He doesn’t mind showing me the reward for his morning’s efforts; I admire his catch with a big smile. And then we say, “Ciao!”

My question is this: who in the world do you suppose he thinks I am?

Calle Stretta

Venetians often gave colorful and mysterious names to their streets. Those names endure today, on the painted street signs called ninzioleti, or "little sheets." I'm thinking now of Santa Croce's Fondamenta di Tette ("Canalside Way of Breasts"), San Marco's Calle dei Assassini ("Street of the Assassins"), Dorsoduro's Calle del Sangue ("Street of Blood"), and Castello's Calle delle Moschette ("Street of Little Flies," referring not to insects but to the beauty spot patches that were once designed and sold there).

But I believe sometimes they just plain ran out of ideas. For example, here is San Polo's Calle Stretta. Can you guess what that means?
Yup. "Tight Street."

Donning the tricorn

Lent is underway. Here is the Carnevale wrap-up...

I confess I feel a tiny bit sad because the season was more satisfying for me this year than last. I'm sure that's because I made a costume, and costumes enhance any event, in my opinion. I admit it was much easier to get into the spirit of the games in the guise of La Piratessa (the lady pirate).

Months ago I had asked my friend "G" (a veteran costumer whom I call “Pirata” because he looks just like a pirate, and he surely has the spirit of one) if we might be pirates together during Carnevale season. He agreed... and I faced my challenge!

Being short on cash, I was concerned about what kind of get-up I could possibly create on my own. But it turned out my regular wardrobe held many piratessa-like items already: a black velvet buccaneer’s coat, a black satin lace-up corset, black wool stockings and garters, a long, red, fringed sash, turn-down boots, and a lovely tricorn hat. I had only to purchase and cobble together a couple 10-euro dresses from the boxes at Laura Crovato’s secondhand shop – a flouncy organdy Scarlett O’Hara number to serve as the blouse and petticoat and a dreadful black-velvet-and-gilded-gypsy-print one that came apart to become the overskirt. Add to that big gold hoop earrings, some over-the-top make-up, and a handbag made from the bodice of that second dress, and my transformation was complete.

It had been a while since I had played dress-up. Almost immediately I re-discovered how one’s outer garments and trappings permit one’s “inner pirate” to emerge. I guess that confident, Grace O'Malley-ish gal had been near the surface for some time because I had no trouble imitating her strut and swagger. I swear to Heaven – in La Piratessa’s boots I actually felt inches taller and many times tougher. In fact, I enjoyed that part of the masquerade so much that I went out in costume a few times just by myself. And while I had fun with other costumed friends, it was even better to feel the freedom of really letting loose on my own. That was, in fact, a magnification of a lesson I have been learning here these past eighteen months: change the body, change the wardrobe, change the attitude, and you change the woman forever.

There is one piece of Carnevale that I cherish and keep enjoying, even beyond the festivities. That is my tricorn, which I purchased early last year from Giuliana Longo, Venice’s best loved, most authentic modisteria (milliner). It is a cocky, smart-looking hat, my preferred headwear for the Venetian winter. All the masking and seasonal silliness aside, when I don my tricorn to go out for ordinary things – just to run to the bank or pick up some groceries or meet a friend for a drink – I always feel a little historical thrill, a thin sense of belonging to this place. A pale, ghostly shiver goes through me as an invisible thread connects me to thousands of Venetians who have walked these streets just as I do in these precious days.