The impressive height of the housing in the ghetto was due to the impossibility of expanding its territory. I hope that there are lifts nowadays. People of all ages and health conditions had to somehow climb or be carried to the top levels. And waste - human waste, and waste from cooking - had to be evacuated somehow.
Before a Summit in Venice, Berlusconi wanted to ban Venetians hanging their washing on clotheslines between their houses. Fat chance.
I like that area near Arsenale. When I was first there, there were still families and hardware shops with brooms and plastic buckets, among other ordinary things. I suspect that many have moved to Mestre on the mainland.
Post by bixaorellana on Sept 25, 2019 18:13:40 GMT
I so much appreciate how you all enrich this report!
The conversation about neighborhoods and what's still real and still serving residents prompted me to look back up the page and again notice the Valeria Valeria Valeria written on the wall in the picture of the two women sitting under lines of laundry. I googled that group of words followed by the word venice and got many hits. One of the more recent ones is titled This Tourism Company Trying To Save Venice From Tourists<-- click, but google Valeria Duflot to find out more and to draw your own conclusions.
I'm so glad those little shops weren't driven to extinction! I stayed in Castello, because my Venetian friend said it was (back then) not overrun by tourists. As you can imagine, he wanted me to find a place nearby as one cannot live in old Venice and welcome everyone you've met at a meeting or conference unless you want to set up as a hôtelier, and he was a lawyer. www.iveser.it/
As shown earlier, I also stayed in Castello. Venice is indeed overrun by tourists, but I did have one "local" moment. My 17th century building had lots of windows, especially in the very large bedroom and I'd open them when it wasn't raining. One day there was a great deal of rowdy conversation in the narrow alleyway in front of the house, so I leaned out to see. Glancing across, I saw another old lady in the window opposite mine also frowning down at the alley.
I love that happening. Some rowdy young guys were speeding on motorbikes on a busy shopping street in Indischebuurt, Amsterdam East. A lady of a certain age wearing a headscarf and modest dress (think she was Turkish, as there are many Turks in the area, and she wasn't Moroccan (I know a lot of Moroccans here and in Paris, and now in Amsterdam) started bitching in Dutch about ill-mannered daredevil youth. I nodded in assent (my Dutch is not very good, my Turkish non-existent).
There are those moments of silent communication when traveling where one doesn't speak the language, or even where one does, but no words are needed. They remind us nicely that we're connected to the whole human race.