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Published: October 3rd 2006
26th, 27th, 28th of February 2006.
Venice, Italy.
I was originally drawn to Venice by shockingly wicked stories and accounts of
Carnivale in the 17th and 18th centuries; of unapologetic decadence, debauchery, depravation and degeneracy conducted openly in the streets, and far exceeding the supposedly "scandalous" dramatics of modern society's silver-screen aristocrats. Of a time and place which could create and nurture such personages as Casanova and Lord Byron (English-born, yes, but a Venetian at heart), not to mention the scores of lesser-known but no less unique libertines and wantons. Drawn, too, by the memory of mysterious, labyrinthine streets full of hidden alcoves and delicious conspiracies and more secrets than could ever be told. But most of all, I was lured to her festivities by the age-old thrill of donning a bewitchingly beautiful mask and becoming another person, free of inhibitions, released from the sorrows and troubles of the world. Dedicated, for a bright and shining moment - or week, or two - to the charade, to the masquerade, to the joy of being effervescent.
Today's politically correct, uptight society will never see a true return to the days of old - and as one of those uptight modernists,
Wow
This chick must have been freezing! I'm reluctantly thankful for that, because it requires a return to extremes of wealth and poverty, for a start.... besides, who wants to see people coupling in the streets, anyway? And of course I couldn't afford a ticket to one of the ultra-amazing Masquerade Balls wherein everybody is dressed in truly elaborate 17th-century costumes and dancing the waltzes and such of the time.
But
Carnivale in Venice is nonetheless still an incredible and unforgettable experience, to be savoured and delighted in. Crowding every piazza, bridge, alley, street, cafe and shop are thousands of fellow revellers, both Venetian and foreign, all united in the spirit of the holiday. Most are wearing some concession to the masquerade, whether it be a stunning Venetian mask, a brightly coloured outfit, a wreath of tinsel or flowers draped about the shoulders, face painting, a jester's hat, or a strange variety of plastic masks, Spiderman costumes, kilts, swords, and so forth. What truly quickens the breath, though, are the exhibitionist Venetians and richer American tourists who have gone all-out and parade about the city in full-body costumes of the most luscious colours and fabrics and baubles. Envy and praise compete at the sight of these
True Venetians!
The Italians sure know how to impress! bright butterflies in their astonishing and often regal garb, surrounded by admirers armed with the ever-present camera.
I could never find the time to attend most of the scheduled performances, with the exception of the daily parade at 4pm, when the best of the costumers would parade along an elevated catwalk in San Marco's Square. Designs ranged from traditional costumes in just about every century to birds and other winged creatures, to the austerely elegant, to floral concoctions. One woman was even dressed in a blend of lace, tulle, flowers and face paint, which must have been terribly cold in that weather - most people were wearing jackets, myself included after the first day's experience.
Another exception to missing the scheduled entertainments was on the first day, when after wandering about the canals with some Romanian girls from my hostel I managed to catch a Tango show (after the parade). The dancers, some semi-professional, some apparently three months into a dance course, and all of varying ages, put on a fantastic spectacle and had me adding tango classes to my to-do list. But by 10pm the cold was too much and my body was sliding past numb into
Butterfly Costume
The Italians sure know how to impress! scary territory, so I left the partying to the better-dressed and boarded the wrong train back to the mainland and my hostel, which ended with me stuck in the middle of nowhere on an abandoned train and having to beg a lift home from a friendly railway employee.
The following days passed in a blur of blissful festivities and in happily wandering about the myriad confusion of canals and alleys in a carefree and often distracted search for family pressies. I ended up avoiding the hotel, who's receptionist had appeared at my door on the second morning in a pretence of wanting to see if there was a spare bed in the one-bed room, invading my personal space, insisting I kiss him several times (I submitted to giving cheek kisses in order to avoid a confrontation), and all the while complimenting my soft skin and so forth. From then on I returned late, left early, kept requests for my key brief, and slept with my luggage and a chair against the door.
But even that couldn't dim the joy of
Carnivale. Of soft sunlight and the babble of laughter and the invigorating chill of the breeze as you
ride the water taxis with no particular destination or purpose beyond the enjoyment of the moment. I even discovered a growing humour, rather than disgust, in the ridiculousness of older men asking me to go home with them. That's how lovely and otherworldly the days were; life became wonderful and reactions to every aspect of that life were ever more likely to be humour.
On the last day I left the main hub of 'Venice' and ventured to one of the outer islands, Le Lido, which had a lovely beach and was a calming break from the hubbub of the party crowds. Then it was back to Rialto Bridge and a drifting with the crowds from there to San Marco for the "End of Carnivale" spectacle, which involved acrobatics and performers and a giant papier-mâché bull, the symbol of Carnivale, being slaughtered in a lumbering bullfight.
Of course, the celebration didn't stop there. Seeing the symbolic end of the party only seemed to spur everybody on to a higher frenzy of dancing, just as no doubt calculated all those centuries ago. The music went full blast and everybody tried to dance in front of the television cameras. I,
for one, definitely appeared on somebody's television program somewhere, though I doubt any Aussie crews were there. I was claimed by a German guy called Evan Evanocovich (is that fake?) while loitering by the hot
vin (wine) stand, and laughingly coaxed into joining his group of mates. They turned out to be more interested in drinking and talking than dancing, which was a bit irritating, but it was nice to be part of a group again. Young Mr Evanocovich, whose English was halting at best, managed to request "lots of sex" - cheeky bugger! - but it was all over when I saw his friend Nicolae, who was gorgeous, with lovely wide shoulders and a solemnly engaging face.
The dancing was unbearably tempting and I, who had never stopped bouncing, became sick of conversing and abruptly joined in a tango line that was dancing past. But eventually I returned, another drink in hand, drawn by a half-tipsy longing for Nicolae and the fun of shared laughter. I managed to coax a little flirting and some secret smiles from Nicolae, but by then it was obvious that Evan had staked a claim (what am I, property?), and I guess he
didn't want to intrude. Consolation came in the form of more alcohol, though by now they'd run out of the yummy, warm, rummy
vin, and in the distraction of trying to dissuade Evan without losing friendship with the group.
Suddenly high tide began to flood the square, and everybody traipsed down to the Grand Canal to crowd about the bridges and waterfront in anticipation of the fireworks. I deliberately lost Evan in the crowd because he'd said he was also staying in the Mestre district and though he was a sweet and happy-going guy, I didn't want to deal with a formal leaving later in the night, no doubt accompanied with more "lots of sex" requests. Luck (for I was too tipsy for deliberation) was with me, and it was Nicolae who surfaced beside me. I made a shy pass at him and we walked holding hands for a minute or two, but when the other guy with us noticed, he let go and I faded backwards again into the crowd, accepting it.
The mask was liberating, and I pretended to be tipsier than I was, laughing and greeting strangers happily with "ciao!" as we squished and pushed
and wobbled our way along the dockside. When the crowd had effectively settled I found myself somehow by one of the stone stairways descending into the dark waters of a canal. Becoming fascinated by the water slapping angrily at the steps, sunk a little into the sorrow and yearning of wanting Nicolae, and perhaps tipsier than I'd thought, I wandered too close, slipped stepping backward from a wave, and ended up flat on my bum. This seemed at the time the funniest thing in the world. To their credit, some people tried to get me to stand up, but one or two were rude enough to take photos with their mobiles. I decided I was too happy to care and, afraid my legs wouldn't work from this angle, I waved away the hands that kept appearing every minute or so and laughed up at the happy, smiling stars above their heads.
But eventually the tiles were too wet and cold to stay there, and I very carefully made my way up, pretending again to be very drunk so that nobody guessed that I was just a weirdo who'd prefer to stay on the cobbles than attempt a normal rise
when not guaranteed to achieve it with poise. The fireworks soon started, drawing attention away, but they weren't that great so toward their end I stumbled to my quay for the boat ride home, again unsure as to how much was pretend, and how wobbly I really was. But strangely, I felt deeply happy, irrespective of anything or anybody. And blessed to have experienced
Carnivale, which should be on everybody's "Before I Die" list.
P.S. I have many more images of the
Carnivale to see below, if you wish to (new site designing techniques). Just click.
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carlo
non-member comment
Carnevale
Ciao,sono Carlo, di Roma. Solo una cosa: la parola è carnevale non carnivale. Bel blog, scusa per la correzione. L'Italiano non è la tua lingua, comunque è tanto per avere un'accuratezza perfino maggiore carlo Hi, I'm Carlo, from Rome. Just one thing: the word is Carnevale, not Carnivale. Nice blog, sorry for the correction. Italian is not supposed to be your language, but is just to be even more exact carlo