like a pearl

January 14, 2012. Happy New Year, dear Reader! I am two weeks late with my greetings, but for me the New Year starts around now…

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I took a long passegiata all the way to Chioggia, at the southern tip of the Venetian lagoon. Vaporetto, bus, ferry, bus, vaporetto… over sea and land, along the thin strips of sand that separate the still waters of the lagoon from the Adriatic Sea.

The day was perfect – brilliant winter sun, cold, peaceful. The waters of the lagoon as still as a mirror. Like a pearl. The colors unbelievably THERE. The kind of day that cleans the eyes.

I leave the stone and water beauty of Venice behind. The Lido greets with empty hotels and the feeling of relief mixed with boredom that descends upon a summer beach hub in the winter. The Biennale film palaces lie shuttered, white and quiet. The occasional red lion logo reminds me of the day I almost saw George Clooney. Pellestrina, fishing community, lies a five minute ferry ride to the south. Another bus takes me along the murazzi (a kind of dyke wall) past the four villages that populate the island of Pellestrina: San Pietro in Volta, Porto Secco, San Antonio, and Pellestrina.

And then there is the vaporetto to Chioggia, maybe fifteen minutes more. Past fishing huts and reed and wood constructions in the waters of the lagoon. Birds fish there, too.

And then provincial Chioggia, on the waters, like Venice  - but here, cars are present, and everywhere. Aside from the occasional lead-footed driver, it’s quiet. Fishermen gathered outside a few of the bars. The boats and trawlers deep in their day-time siesta. A funeral at the duomo. Red cafe chairs wait for the first warm days. The sinking sun falls on a pair of slippers, drying on a line. A thick hot chocolate warms me in a cafe next to the vaporetto stop.

On the way back, I walk on the beach in Pellestrina, thick with shells and wood and garbage. A fridge, a shoe, a pile of clothes. The local teenagers are huddled on the caramel-colored boulders, smoking. The sun sinks in glory.

When I reach the Lido, it is dark. Venice has put on diamonds and garnets for the night.

an award – wow!

Maybe partly because I do not write much and therefore do not plug up my readers’ inboxes, Bine Winderl, author of the beautiful blog binewins bilder has awarded the VERSATILE-BLOGGER-AWARD to with the flow.

Thank you, Bine! I am honored – even though I am reacting a little late…

It’s my first award! (I think.)

This delightful award is given by bloggers to bloggers in a sort of snowball way.

The tradition is that the awardee tells 7 things about herself/himself, awards the award to 15 other fabulous blogs and lets the authors know about their great luck.

It seems that, should the blogger not do any of the above, she or he will not land in hell or have bad weather for 7 consecutive Sundays or marry the wrong person – but as it goes with generosity, it’s more fun to share!

So… here goes!

7 things about me

1 – I live in Venice.

2 – My shoe size: 38/8.

3 – I love grapefruit. Sometimes in the middle of the night.

4 - I get sweaty hands when people treat their children badly on the street.

5 – There is one word I simply cannot bear to hear, or write: maggot.

6 – I trust my destiny.

7 – I am quickly moved to tears.

I am herewith awarding the

to the following blogs:

Cristina Alaimo

Pane Miele

Venezia Nascosta

la cucina di calycanthus

John Thomson’s Standalene

These are 5. When I find the 10 others, I will let you know!

Sending love from Venice… Benedicta

21. More water than usual: Acqua Alta a Venezia

Photos from my passegiata at Acqua Alta this morning:

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Last night, the sirens woke me up. Something like a fire department siren followed by a different tone, several times. The warning for the Acqua alta (High Water), or high tide.

Acqua alta is the name for the exceptional peek tides that occur in the northern Adriatic. They reach their maximum in the Venetian Lagoon, where they cause partial flooding of the city of Venice, and also of Chioggia (at the southern end of the lagoon).

The Acque alte occur mostly during spring and autumn, when the flux of the tides is influenced by the seasonal winds. The winds involved are the scirocco (I mentioned it in an earlier post (#16), it is the moist-warm African wind) and the bora. The position of sun and moon also have an effect on the tide. Apparently (and you can read more about this online), of the three aspects that participate in the Acqua alta, two are very previsible (the astronomical and geophysical), even years in advance, and one (the meteorological) cannot be forecast for more than about 48hrs in advance.

The city of Venice sends out warning text messages to cell phones (upon request), and has a webpage dedicated to the current previsions (click here to see it). Acqua alta can interrupt certain vaporetto lines – when the water rises certain bridges cannot be passed under anymore.

I remember Acqua alta from when I was a little girl. We had a friend who lived in an apartment on the Canal Grande, and the water would enter her hallway, where a gondola was placed for decoration. There is a picture of the palazzo, the Ca’ Pisani Moretti, in the slide show for today. You can see the water washing up under the doors.

The wonderful Miroslav Saşek paints Venice during Acqua alta beautifully in his book This is Venice:

From Miroslav Sasek's THIS IS VENICE

 If Venice loves the water, the water is crazy about Venice…

and demonstrates this love every now and then.

The Venetians are always ready to face these marks of friendship.

From Miroslav Sasek’s THIS IS VENICE

Sometimes the Adriatic exaggerates!

For a few weeks already, the wooden gangways have been at the ready (nowadays they have metal legs). City workers place them along the strategic walkways through the city. On Saint Marc’s square this morning, the ganagways were filling up. The city police is there, with their fishing boots, to shoo the toruists forward. No stopping! Keep moving! Forza, avanti!

Many tourists are not prepared for water in the streets and piazzas, rubber boots are not usually part of the packing list. So even today I saw people barefoot… brrrr!

So… I hope you enjoy the pictures of the passegiata I took this morning! I left just after 8am, which was the high point of the morning tide. You can see from the Venice website that it was a medium alert Acqua alta, so, no gondolas in Saint Marc’s square – yet. But it is still exciting to find the city even closer to the water than usually. What a difference just a few centimeters can make…

The picture book This is Veniceis by Miroslav Saşek, Casterman editor, is one of a series of books about cities of this world. There is a website for this poetic genius of a painter and storyteller: www.miroslavsasek.com

I gave this book to my 8 year old niece, after finding at a antiquarian bookstore here, not far from where I live now. Now, she wants to live in Venice. 

Copyright Text & Photographs Benedicta Bertau 2011Ⓒ

20. And the world kneels down: on saying yes.

autumn in the lagoon

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Hello there, dear Reader!

Remember me?

Today, I thought I would share a little big experience from my world with you.

Autumn has come to Venice. It has been unusually dry and beautiful for the most part, but today, it is raining, and the water level in the canals is rising.

Last Sunday, my friend R and I went for a Sunday walk in the Sunday sun. Towards the end of the afternoon, we stopped at a restaurant to greet a friend who works there. In the bar area at the front of the restaurant, where the display case with the tramezzini (sandwiches) and cichetti* shines, we were drawn into a lively scene:

A tiny little boy was taking his first steps. His name was Cesare. With him his father, mother, and what might have been an uncle or friend of the family. Cesare was squeaking with delight as he walked to and fro, or rather, lunged himself from beloved person to beloved person, with complete trust that they would catch him. His tiny feet were still moving like hands, grabbing the floor, not knowing yet how to be feet. Cesare was teetering on his toes, still dangling from heaven, drawn upward and forward by joy.

After watching for a little while I crouched down like the other adults. Saw the mini moment of hesitation in his eyes – and then he lunged himself into my arms! I saw how he chose to say yes. Another child might have said no, I don’t know that person - but he said YES and squealed with sheer pleasure. The absolute enthusiasm…

Then my friend knelt down as well – Cesare went through the same moment of decision making. But he loved his activity so that no doubt had a chance. Not even the fact that he had just hit his cheek on the metal corner of the display case. Not badly, but badly enough to warrant crying. But no, he was WALKING! Flying, actually. Towards the open arms of a stranger. Just beautiful.

It just feels like such a picture for the rest of life. Can we say YES like that and do what we love and trust how the world kneels down to catch us because we love what we do?

•Venetian style “tapas”, see previous post

19. BB cooks in Venice. Or: If I were thou, I’d call me Us.

See pictures of this adventure – down below! Find the hidden quiz. Answer the question correctly. Win… something.

I suppose real bloggers write all the time. And short bits. I am just getting used to this. I am still nervous every time I press ”publish”. And I have this back log (or back blog) of things (or should I write things*?) I want to share with you…  

I have been cooking! Not like Julia Child when she came to Paris, or Julie Powell when she started her blog about cooking Julia Child’s cooking… but I have been cooking!

For one, I have a little more time on my hands. For two, I have appreciative audience. For three, I am living in Venice, Italy.  This is not going to turn into a food-only-blog. But there is such joy in discovering a country through its food… and through preparing its food.

A word of warning. This post is probably not for vegetarians. It is probably not for the faint of heart. I myself almost did not make it through this experiment. But, if all else fails, remember: you are reading this, and are at a safe distance!

This took place last week (I am getting faster with catching up with the events of my life!). I was given a plastic bag with a piovra inside of it. Fresh from the big wholesale fish market at the Tronchetto. I was happy. I put it in the fridge, to give it attention at a later time.

Let me backtrack for a second. In Venice, the aperitivo is accompanied by cicchetti. These are probably best described as the Venetian version of tapas. Little bites of delicious things. Fish. Seafood. Meat. Vegetables. Fried bites of heaven. Wrapped and marinated pieces of paradise. And some salad-like things. All of this goodness is mostly meant for creating a bridge to the real meal, be it lunch, or dinner.

Being of true sanguine temperament, I adore the cicchetti. (Meaning, I get to try a lot of different things at once.) And one of my favorites is the insalata di piovra. What is “piovra”? It is octopus, the “cephalopod mollusc of the order Octopoda”. Octopuses have a beak, two eyes, and four pairs of arms. And I highly recommend looking them up online, for example through this link. They are fascinating creatures!

Now, I had an octopus in the fridge. I also had the red, green and yellow bell peppers that complete the chilled salad I was going to make.

The recipe could not be simpler: put the piovra in boiling water for about 30 minutes, together with a few bay leaves and a couple branches of celery (which also goes in the salad). Check that the octopus is cooked. Let it cool. Cut it into pieces (the size is your choice). Make sure you remove the octopus beak. Cut the veggies into the same size. Salt. Pepper. Olive Oil. Let marinate a little for extra joy.

OK. I could do that. I put the water to boil. And when it did, I took the plastic bag out of the fridge.

Don’t worry. The piovra was dead, it’s not a lobster. But when I took it out of the bag – oh my God it was HUGE. Probably about 20 inches across, and that is, of course, just the blob of … octopus – without unwrapping the arms! And it was SLIPPERY. And it had A LOT OF ARMS. With SUCTION CUPS on them.

I couldn’t help it. I screamed. I apologized to the creature. I threw it in the water. I took a picture. And put the lid on.

Those of you who have seen the movie Julie and Julia probably remember the lobster cooking scene. Whatever else you may think of the movie (which I did enjoy very much), the scene is hilarious. Julie (Amy Adams, actually) struggles with the live lobster, he jumps back out of the pot. Her husband needs to come and help, and basically sit on the lid. Which he does.

None of this of course happened to me, not only because the octopus was not a lobster and I was cooking by myself. But I felt quite as triumphant as Julie’s husband.

And then the piovra boiled for 30 minutes. And turned a deep beautiful purple (it’s a lighter color when raw). And I needed to check whether it was done.

Apparently, the way to tell that is if “the arms break”. Okay. Well, they did not really break. The skin broke (and sent a few more shivers down my spine). I gave my Venetian cooking coach a call. And he said: “just taste it”. So I decided to be courageous and try a little piece. I really experienced the transition from the “this is an animal that was alive not long ago”-stage to the “this is food (and I have eaten meat, fish, and seafood for as long as I can think and with delight)”-stage.

I decided that the piovra was done. And the last step (for now) was to dump the beast into the colander, like you would with pasta. (By the way, I learned the word “colander” in January 1993, when I first moved to England. And I just now learned how to spell it. Almost 19 years later. It’s never too late for anything.)

I dumped the beast in the colander. And hollered a little more. Partly in delight at having done it. Partly because the octopus was still… bouncy.

And here comes the confession.

I did not cut it into small pieces. My Venetian cooking advisor, or maybe I should write my Venetian Cooking Advisor, did. I just had not completely made it across the threshold between the “this is an animal that was alive not long ago”-stage to the “this is food (and I have eaten meat, fish, and seafood for as long as I can think and with delight)”-stage.

But I did season it. And I put it in the fridge over night. And I ate it with delight, on the next day. So did my Venetian Cooking Advisor. Our guest from Uruguay was not quite as enthusiastic (to my defense I must say that she did not seem to enjoy food very much in general). But on the whole, the chilled octopus and bell pepper salad was a great success. It’s also quite beautiful, yellow, red, dark and light green, with the purple and white of the octopus…

And I give thanks to the octopus! Hang on, there must be an ode to the octopus, probably by Pablo Neruda. Let’s see.

No. Not by Pablo Neruda. But by Ogden Nash:

THE OCTOPUS

Tell me, O Octopus, I begs
Is those things arms, or is they legs?
I marvel at thee, Octopus;
If I were thou, I’d call me Us.

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*They are not things… they are little worlds of experience, and how can you share those quickly and unthinkingly?…

Text and Photos ©Benedicta Bertau 2011

18. The Official Announcement

Hello there, dear readers, and welcome to all my lovely new subscribers…

This post is not super exciting for most of you, I am sure. But it needs to be part of the blog. So, thanks for bearing with me – and I promise the excitement will follow this week: stay tuned for BB COOKS IN VENICE!

This went out officially last night, to the email list of Walking the dog Theater, my theater company in the US.

I found a heart for you near the Rialto Bridge

Dear Friends and Colleagues of WTD, dear Friends:

About a month ago WTD received notice that the US Department of Labor has denied WTD’s application for permission to file for a Green Card (Permanent Residency and Work Permission) for me. Several reasons were quoted, but in the end, logic around these procedures is not necessarily the thing to look for. The immigration lawyer WTD has been working with explained that we did have the option to appeal this decision. But this would have required great financial and organizational strain.

We decided not to go this route.

This of course means that I will not be returning to work with WTD in the US on a full-time and permanent basis.

However, we did make this decision with the firm understanding that although the nature/time/space of my involvement with WTD is changing, I will keep connected to the work and impulse. Our decision not to appeal came in great part from our understanding that the events in our lives manifest a reality, and that it behooves us to listen rather than to fight it, at least in this case.

As WTD’s community and friends of our work and of me personally you have of course noticed that many things have moved at WTD over the last year. Not only was I propelled out of the country. We have also been remembering our original impulse and international roots, responding to requests for our work not just in Columbia County but also further afield, even abroad.

Though we cannot know what the future will bring, we know that the impulse and spirit of WTD and its carrying members is not dependent on the US immigration system. Neither is the deep connection I feel personally with WTD’s community as well as with so many of you individually.

David, I, and our our closest collaborators are still adjusting to the news. We are sharing it with you out of this new state of affairs. We cannot at this point give you an exact picture of the future. (Apart from the fact that this picture will be formed together with many of you.) But at the moment, it is my intention and our plan to bring me to work with WTD in the US once a year, on a project basis. We are looking to do this in a time frame that keeps WTD legal. For 2012, we are looking to bring me over for a fall project, probably in September and October.

As you have witnessed since my April 2011 departure, WTD keeps on walking. David, with the invaluable support of our Administrative Assistant Carolyn Polikarpus has been continuing the work without interruption. This would not be possible without the dedication and support of Board members both past and present, the advisors, colleagues, you. You all keep the work alive and vibrant, and we trust that you will continue your support as long as you feel that the WTD impulse is important to your life.

As the work has not diminished but continues to grow, we still see the need for a Managing Director, and are continuing our efforts in that search, supported by the generous offer of an anonymous friend.

As far as my work is concerned – here is a little update:

After traveling and working in a (seemingly) non-theatrical way in Jamaica and Europe, I have recently settled down in Venice, Italy. I am still very new here, learning the language and reaching out to find, remember, and create new connections here and in the greater region (Europe, too, has shrunk since I last lived here!). The spirit of WTD has of course come with me – and I look forward to seeing the life that will undoubtedly unfold here – in whatever form this may be.

Many of you have followed my journey through my travel writings. These came to you first via email. Now, there is also a blog which allows me to share some of the many photos I have started taking. I would like to invite any and all of you to have a look and maybe even subscribe using this link: http://withtheflow.wordpress.com

Sharing my journey in this way has been a great joy and discovery, as well as yet another manifestation of what I call (for some of you in maybe what seems an abstract way) the “impulse of WTD”.

As I find my ground here in the city of water and light, I am of course also exploring other ways to earn a living. At the moment, I am doing some corrections and translation work for a tourism website (www.waf.it), an opportunity offered to me through Richard Cross, former Board member and friend of WTD.

I look forward to staying in touch and tending to the unfolding path of this impulse.

I will be back – if not in the form we originally had planned on.

Thank you all for your unwavering commitment to WTD and the people carrying the work. Your interest and “yes” carries us forward.

Wishing you and yours a fruitful season-

Benedicta Bertau

17. Now Living in Venice: On Speaking, Seeing and Sensing.

Look at your eyes. They are small,
but they see enormous things.

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And suddenly, I live in Venice. It’s been a month now, and life is turning from traveling to living. How completely different these two ways of being are! Is it just that I have unpacked my suitcase for an indefinite amount of time? Is it just that I do not have a ticket to leave? Or is it just that now my gaze has changed, and I look down when I walk the pathways of my new home?

Have you noticed, how the gaze of the visitor is turned to see? And how the one who lives in the place he walks senses rather than sees?

I have lived in a few places that attracted tourists particularly… Paris, The Hague, Santiago di Chile, Berlin… even Hudson, New York has its share of “out-of-towners”. As I think back, and experience Venice now, so radically different in its impact on the senses of a 21st century person, my memories and opinions rush to the surface… I think it is fair to say that in my upbringing, being a tourist was not a desirable denomination, occupation, or qualification. I have spent a great part of my life avoiding doing touristy things when traveling (like not climbing the Eiffel Tower, or not going to the beach, or not taking the buses that offer a “hop-on-hop-off” guided city tour). Come to think of it, I have spent a lot of time being quite obsessed with speaking a language that was not mine to begin with as accent-free as possible in as little time as possible. I wanted fervently not to sound like a stranger. Or at the very least, not to sound in any way that could betray my origins.

These thoughts take me wide and deep, and I am almost laughing as I write. Seems like I opened a can of worms.

So, what origins? I grew up speaking French and German. My father was from Neustettin in Pomerania – a place close to the Baltic Sea, which is now again Polish, since World War II.  From my mother’s side comes the French. She was born at the opposing end of Europe: in St. Ambroix, a small town at the foot of the Cevennes mountains, in the Provence. But at home, I think they both spoke their language with as little regional tint as they could.

And of course, when I speak German, it has a color. And when I speak French, it has a color. I think (and that is of course the key, that I think it) that I never sounded, and more importantly, never felt like I truly fit the ticket. And so I dove into all these other languages… always longing to speak it “properly”, and not like a tourist… By the way, I must say that it probably is not just snobbery. It also has to do with the fact that I learn languages musically. So hearing my accent sounds like a wrong note, or at least an instrument in need of tuning.

Back to Venice, and back to seeing and sensing. I live in the heart of the city, near the Rialto Bridge. Through the window I see (hold on, let me count them again) 13 church towers without craning my neck too much. One of them is the campanile of San Marco. Down below, a busy little street, full of restaurants, cafes, Chinese shops selling Italian leather… There is a greengrocer and a fabulous wine bar with even more amazing cicchetti (the Venetian version of tapas). There is a cafe whose owner dances tango when he can (I have yet to be caught off the street). Ciao is probably the most spoken word here. The constant greeting and parting. Someone in our house has a bird that says it, too. That bird… thankfully it does not speak all the time. It has waves of activity. Or maybe they move the cage around the apartment. But when it starts, it seriously starts. It calls ciao in a most annoyingly pitched voice. It calls other things too. But most awful is its “I am here”-basically an agonizingly loud cry, much like a car horn. And it repeats this cry for a loooong time without flinching, pausing or reprimand. It’s probably the one really awful thing I am experiencing here. So I am not doing too badly, I suppose. But, then again, as I am writing the bird is not active…

I leave the house: down the wooden stairs that lead to this little abode under the roof. Down the stone steps, for three stories, past the ancient Venetian apartments with their heavy wooden doors, past the Madonna relief on the 2nd floor staircase wall.  Through the marble paved entrance hall with my friend the dragon, a carved stone relief. I step into the street, wave to the grocer, and step into the stream of people. And those who walk fast and often look annoyed are the Venetians – or at least the people who live here. And those who block the way to read their map, take yet another photo, or look up at the architecture are the tourists.

Where do I fit in? I want to look still, and take pictures. But I also want to fit in, and become a part of this landscape. I, too, get annoyed when the Ts block the way to arrange themselves in front of the window of the pasticceria and its divine pastries. And yet, I do not want to loose my sense of wonder. And yes, I want to take a gondola one day. And I know it will be so very beautiful, just like it is so beautiful to take the bateau mouche in Paris and see the city from the water…

So… why do we, or let me keep it personal, why do I care so much about how I look when I am in my city? Who cares! And what an enormous amount of wasted energy! What if I could jump into being rather than reflecting on how I am? And this is a constant new commitment. Not every achieved. When it is done, it wants to be done again. Look. Then look again. For the moment is new.

And when I speak… I will have my color. And who cares.

Isn’t that the key-to see the world as new in every moment? Am I not otherwise living in the past (my memory of things) or in the future (my phantasy of them)? Is this being with the flow? And: can I be with the flow if my red Roncato suitcase is unpacked?

Dear Reader: how do you practice being with the flow?

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This Great Love Inside Me

I am so small I can barely be seen.
How can this great love be inside me?

Look at your eyes. They are small,
but they see enormous things.

Poem from: The Essential Rumi. Harper San Fransisco, 1997.

Blog. Text. Photos. © Benedicta Bertau 9/2011