NYE about ten years ago.
There is a smell to New Years Eve in Venice, compounded of pizza, cooked fish, and freshly baked bread. There is another vital ingredient in the mix – the smell of black powder. Fireworks are available at our local mini mart, and the explosions started around dusk, about 5:00 PM this time of year, and continued until the small hours. Fireworks is really a misnomer – there were crackers being let off in San Marco about the size of a milk carton, which qualifies them as ordnance. I might mention that the entire population of Venice was in San Marco at the time, and so a little circle was cleared in the middle for the fireworks, displacing children, cops, prams and dogs – cleared by letting off fireworks.
And on a visit two years later.
We went to the Piazza for a look at the New Years Eve celebration put on by the Commune d’ Venezia, had a gelato, and ran away. I can’t believe that a shouting disk jockey, every second word being “allora”, with exhortations to kiss somebody, is the best that Venice can provide. No live music, too stage managed, people saying happy things while reading them from a script. The patrons of Florians, drinking tea, looked somewhat bored. I understand that the disk jockey is a leading radio personality in Italy; in which case, he must owe his job to having the dirt on Berlusconi, maybe some raunchy photographs of the PM. So we decamped to Campo Margerita, where a local civil war was continuing.
It could have been Dublin, the Rising, Easter, 1916, Patrick Pearse leading the defence. The boys manning the mortar battery on the steps of the Scuole Grande d’ Carmini kept up a sustained barrage, despite cracker attack from the lads at the Ex Scuole dei Varoteri, and Madigan’s bar coming under small arms fire from the crew at the adjacent pizzeria. The staff at Madigans are to be commended, Daniel Manin would have been proud of them, for the way that they continued to serve spritzes despite the odd grenade rolling in the door, fizzers and whiz-bangs exploding behind the bar. All the while the bar maid maintaining a conversation on her mobile phone, pouring spritzes one handed.
The cost of spritzes doubled at midnight, maybe a reflection that it was a holiday, maybe a surcharge for the fact that glasses were unlikely to make it back into the bar, or maybe it was an ammunition levy. Hostilities became one-sided when the pizzeria pulled down the shutters, and Madigan’s ammo was exhausted. The smell of powder drifting across the campo, the occasional “whoomph” of H.E. in the distance.
The combatants settled their differences after running out of crackers, but not running out of alcohol, by singing revolutionary songs, a guy on harmonica, and a couple of blokes on acoustic. Revolutionary songs like “Blue suede shoes”, “Twist-a and shout-a”, “Happy Birthday”, “Jail-a House-a Rock”.
A most good-natured bunch of people, I wish them all, I wish everyone, Buon Anno and Augeri. New Years Day is pretty quiet, a lot of shutters not yet opened, even at 1:30 PM.
