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From our recording studio in Brooklyn, we make audio that celebrates human creativity, history and the spaces we live to learn about.

Starting near the famed Rialto Bridge, we will explore some of Venice's most sordid sites, confronting the ghosts of sinners and saints while verging on a few vices of your own in the city's trendiest neighborhood: the northern "sestiere" of Cannaregio.

$11.99

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Cannaregio | Sacred and Profane

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Venice

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“Venice is like eating an entire box of chocolate liqueurs in one go.”
-Truman Capote

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Hi, hello, Eric Millman, here.  Not long ago, I was a graduate student in Padova, just about a half hour away, stuck in the throes of the Great Pandemic.  In need of a break, I found a cheap room in a 14th century palace during what was probably the first and last time this city had ever been so lacking in people like me.  

Now, as a life policy, I tend to always avoid the area surrounding the train station.  I had done so for years and years while in Venice, opting instead for a spot on a neighboring island, even one staying on the sandy beaches of the Lido one spring long ago.  I never really felt a pulse, is the thing: the city always felt artificial.  By chance, though, on my post-pandemic return here, I happened to wander through the train-proximal neighborhood of Cannaregio, and it changed the city for me.  

Venice can get knocked for being superficial, crowded, and tasteless, but Cannaregio feels a bit separate from that.  A little rougher, a little more spread out, with a couple cool-kid spots sprinkled in, it’s a great neighborhood for interesting food, natural wine, and above all, aimless wandering.  

Of course, we’re not starting our tour in Cannaregio, but in the sestiere of San Polo, in a heavily congested area featured -- rightfully so -- on every Italian postcard you’ve ever seen.  Gradually, however, we’ll move away from the crowds and toward the area that made me truly fall in love with this city.  

Above all, the aim for this walk is to provide a bit of historical perspective as a point of entry of sorts.  But, like always, I hope you will take time to get a bit lost -- more than in the rest of the city, Cannaregio is almost kind of on a grid, making wandering less risky than in other places -- so that you might find your own version of Venice that works for you.  Enjoy!

We’ll start our walk relatively isolated from the hubbub on this unassuming structure called the Ponte delle Tette, or what I call Boobie Bridge (loose translation) -- so named because, with a time machine, you might be surrounded by bare breasts right now.

Looking back to the 14th century, as Venice became the most powerful city on the western side of the Silk Road, an influx of both money (and sailors who had plenty of it to spend) ensured a considerable market for the world’s oldest profession.  Despite any moral concerns from the church, city leadership viewed sex work as a necessary safety valve for visiting drunkards with such excess energy and capital; in fact, they taxed and regulated the market, limiting operations to this neighborhood, where by the early 1500s there were 11,000 sex workers in a city of 150,000.  If the girls wanted to leave this area, it had to be on a Saturday, and even still, they could only do so if they wore a yellow veil or scarf to ensure that you knew who you were dealing with (interestingly, as a Jew, I’d have had to wear the same in leaving the ghetto, though we’ll touch on that later).

Though homosexuality was at this time not only illegal, but punishable by death, folks were able to exploit a loophole by participating in the storied Venetian tradition of mask-wearing.  By donning the “gnaga” mask, which resembles the face of a cat, men were technically playing a role, and were therefore allowed to make “catcalls” in feline, almost female, voices.  By lending their propositions a bit of theatricality, whatever happened thereafter in privacy happened thereafter in privacy.

In response to this imposition on business, the Venetian government encouraged the neighborhood’s female professionals to advertise their wares openly, both on this bridge and in the windows above.  Better to have a bit of market transparency, I suppose, and few things were more transparent than the blouses at the Ponte delle Tette.

Let’s head away from the bridge to the Rio Terà de le Carampane -- “Rio Terà” refers to the fact that it was once another waterway and is now filled in with earth and walkable -- then we’ll make a left at the Sotoportego (the weird underpass, another feature unique to Venice).  We’ll keep straight until we reach the Grand Canal, using the lovely scent of fish to bring us back into the land of the clothed.

2511 Calle Agnello \|||// Hi, hello, Eric Millman, here.  Not long ago, I was a graduate student in Padova, just about a half hour away, stuck in the throes of the Great Pandemic.  In need of a break, I found a cheap room in a 14th century palace during what was probably the first and last time this city had ever been so lacking in people like me.  

Now, as a life policy, I tend to always avoid the area surrounding the train station.  I had done so for years and years while in Venice, opting instead for a spot on a neighboring island, even one staying on the sandy beaches of the Lido one spring long ago.  I never really felt a pulse, is the thing: the city always felt artificial.  By chance, though, on my post-pandemic return here, I happened to wander through the train-proximal neighborhood of Cannaregio, and it changed the city for me.  

Venice can get knocked for being superficial, crowded, and tasteless, but Cannaregio feels a bit separate from that.  A little rougher, a little more spread out, with a couple cool-kid spots sprinkled in, it’s a great neighborhood for interesting food, natural wine, and above all, aimless wandering.  

Of course, we’re not starting our tour in Cannaregio, but in the sestiere of San Polo, in a heavily congested area featured -- rightfully so -- on every Italian postcard you’ve ever seen.  Gradually, however, we’ll move away from the crowds and toward the area that made me truly fall in love with this city.  

Above all, the aim for this walk is to provide a bit of historical perspective as a point of entry of sorts.  But, like always, I hope you will take time to get a bit lost -- more than in the rest of the city, Cannaregio is almost kind of on a grid, making wandering less risky than in other places -- so that you might find your own version of Venice that works for you.  Enjoy!

We’ll start our walk relatively isolated from the hubbub on this unassuming structure called the Ponte delle Tette, or what I call Boobie Bridge (loose translation) -- so named because, with a time machine, you might be surrounded by bare breasts right now.

Looking back to the 14th century, as Venice became the most powerful city on the western side of the Silk Road, an influx of both money (and sailors who had plenty of it to spend) ensured a considerable market for the world’s oldest profession.  Despite any moral concerns from the church, city leadership viewed sex work as a necessary safety valve for visiting drunkards with such excess energy and capital; in fact, they taxed and regulated the market, limiting operations to this neighborhood, where by the early 1500s there were 11,000 sex workers in a city of 150,000.  If the girls wanted to leave this area, it had to be on a Saturday, and even still, they could only do so if they wore a yellow veil or scarf to ensure that you knew who you were dealing with (interestingly, as a Jew, I’d have had to wear the same in leaving the ghetto, though we’ll touch on that later).

Though homosexuality was at this time not only illegal, but punishable by death, folks were able to exploit a loophole by participating in the storied Venetian tradition of mask-wearing.  By donning the “gnaga” mask, which resembles the face of a cat, men were technically playing a role, and were therefore allowed to make “catcalls” in feline, almost female, voices.  By lending their propositions a bit of theatricality, whatever happened thereafter in privacy happened thereafter in privacy.

In response to this imposition on business, the Venetian government encouraged the neighborhood’s female professionals to advertise their wares openly, both on this bridge and in the windows above.  Better to have a bit of market transparency, I suppose, and few things were more transparent than the blouses at the Ponte delle Tette.

Let’s head away from the bridge to the Rio Terà de le Carampane -- “Rio Terà” refers to the fact that it was once another waterway and is now filled in with earth and walkable -- then we’ll make a left at the Sotoportego (the weird underpass, another feature unique to Venice).  We’ll keep straight until we reach the Grand Canal, using the lovely scent of fish to bring us back into the land of the clothed.

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Ponte delle Tette

Tour Item

1PonteTette+IntroScored.mp3

As you approach our next destination along the Riva dell’ogio (so-named as the spot for those in the market for oil), squint across the canal to see if you can’t find the Ca’ d’Oro.  It’s the Gothic building that kind of mimics the Ducal Palace with all its columns, quatrefoils, and delicate crosses jutting up from the roof.  This “Golden House” is home to the Franchetti Museum of Venetian and Flemish Art and, in Orson Welles’ 1951 adaptation of Shakespeare’s Tragedy of Othello, served as home to “The Moor of Venice” himself.

Now, crossing over that little foot bridge, you should be arriving at the Rialto Market; look for the white placard on the red brick wall, between the two white archways, directly to your right.
[pause]
Though the structure itself was built in 1907, fishmongers have been doing their thing on this site for nearly 1000 years, selling some of the freshest and best seafood found in all of Europe (if you get here early enough).

Fishermen and mongers alike have been long essential to the local economy, and the Venetian government has accordingly prioritized the safety and security of the fruit of the lagoon.  The plaque you’re looking at is direct testimony of this, showing how the government went so far as to enforce the minimum lengths of each catch to ensure quality and sustainability.  Note that the ostrega -- “oyster” in Veneto dialect -- must measure at least five centimeters wide, while a peocio, the local mussel, should be three; the bisato, a female eel from the lagoon, must be at least 25 centimeters.  This is particularly important because the male, which can’t grow to that size, is considered basically inedible.  Take that, men!

For all of the awful, exploitative restaurants in Venice -- and I would say, regretfully, that I’ve had unreasonably more bad meals here than good  -- their seafood is truly exceptional.    If you’re lucky, you’ll be here for the season of the moeche, a tiny, soft-shelled crab -- only the males will do, in this case (take that, women!).  This extremely rare delicacy is plucked from the lagoon during a very small window, in the first days of spring and fall, in which it’s still moulting.  They’re then fed cornmeal, battered, and flash-fried while still alive.  Cruel?  Probably.  But for all the trouble, it’s gotta be worth it, right?

If I’ve made you hungry, or even if I’ve made you so upset that you never want to eat again, let’s head a few blocks away from the canal to the Cantina do Mori.

325 Riva de l'Ogio \|||// As you approach our next destination along the Riva dell’ogio (so-named as the spot for those in the market for oil), squint across the canal to see if you can’t find the Ca’ d’Oro.  It’s the Gothic building that kind of mimics the Ducal Palace with all its columns, quatrefoils, and delicate crosses jutting up from the roof.  This “Golden House” is home to the Franchetti Museum of Venetian and Flemish Art and, in Orson Welles’ 1951 adaptation of Shakespeare’s Tragedy of Othello, served as home to “The Moor of Venice” himself.

Now, crossing over that little foot bridge, you should be arriving at the Rialto Market; look for the white placard on the red brick wall, between the two white archways, directly to your right.
[pause]
Though the structure itself was built in 1907, fishmongers have been doing their thing on this site for nearly 1000 years, selling some of the freshest and best seafood found in all of Europe (if you get here early enough).

Fishermen and mongers alike have been long essential to the local economy, and the Venetian government has accordingly prioritized the safety and security of the fruit of the lagoon.  The plaque you’re looking at is direct testimony of this, showing how the government went so far as to enforce the minimum lengths of each catch to ensure quality and sustainability.  Note that the ostrega -- “oyster” in Veneto dialect -- must measure at least five centimeters wide, while a peocio, the local mussel, should be three; the bisato, a female eel from the lagoon, must be at least 25 centimeters.  This is particularly important because the male, which can’t grow to that size, is considered basically inedible.  Take that, men!

For all of the awful, exploitative restaurants in Venice -- and I would say, regretfully, that I’ve had unreasonably more bad meals here than good  -- their seafood is truly exceptional.    If you’re lucky, you’ll be here for the season of the moeche, a tiny, soft-shelled crab -- only the males will do, in this case (take that, women!).  This extremely rare delicacy is plucked from the lagoon during a very small window, in the first days of spring and fall, in which it’s still moulting.  They’re then fed cornmeal, battered, and flash-fried while still alive.  Cruel?  Probably.  But for all the trouble, it’s gotta be worth it, right?

If I’ve made you hungry, or even if I’ve made you so upset that you never want to eat again, let’s head a few blocks away from the canal to the Cantina do Mori.

2FishMarket.jpg

Campo di Fish + the House of Gold

2FishMarketScored.mp3

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To avoid paying gourmet prices for microwaved pasta in Venice, I think the best shot is at a bacaro, where you’ll find finger foods called cicchetti served alongside glasses of wine, the latter of which Venetians have few reservations in guzzling both day and night.  With everything on display under glass, it’s an easy order, though on occasion, you might see house wine also listed as ombra, or shade.  This is so-named for the vendors who would sell their wine under the shade of St. Mark’s bell tower, chasing the shadow as the sun set to keep their product cool.  Cool.

I’ve brought you specifically to the Cantina Do Mori (Cantina of the Two Moors) because it’s the oldest in town, dating to 1462.  It’s said that ol’ Casanova would bring his dates here, in part because of its two exits to be used in the event that an angry husband were to find him out; it’s not necessarily the best or cheapest spot in town, but it’s pretty relaxed, with a nice wine menu, and hey, they’re nice.  If it’s too crowded, never fear: you’ll find a million great places where we’re headed, which, for the fashionably-minded amongst us, boasts more natural wine bars per capita than I’ve seen anywhere else in this country.

Wherever you go, there are a few Venetian specialities you’re likely to find: baccalà mantecato (whipped cod), sarde in saor (sardines marinated in a sweet-and-sour broth of onion, vinegar, raisins, and pine nuts), moscardini in umido (stewed baby octopus), or even nero di seppie (squid or cuttlefish in its own ink).  To drink, I tend to skew toward white wines in Venice, perhaps an extra-dry prosecco rifermentato or a soave, made with the garganega grape, whose zest cuts through the creamy baccalà pretty nicely.

Whatever you do, steel up your stomach, because you’re about to dive into a swarm of tourists as dense as any you’ll see in all of Italy.

399 Calle Galiazza \|||// To avoid paying gourmet prices for microwaved pasta in Venice, I think the best shot is at a bacaro, where you’ll find finger foods called cicchetti served alongside glasses of wine, the latter of which Venetians have few reservations in guzzling both day and night.  With everything on display under glass, it’s an easy order, though on occasion, you might see house wine also listed as ombra, or shade.  This is so-named for the vendors who would sell their wine under the shade of St. Mark’s bell tower, chasing the shadow as the sun set to keep their product cool.  Cool.

I’ve brought you specifically to the Cantina Do Mori (Cantina of the Two Moors) because it’s the oldest in town, dating to 1462.  It’s said that ol’ Casanova would bring his dates here, in part because of its two exits to be used in the event that an angry husband were to find him out; it’s not necessarily the best or cheapest spot in town, but it’s pretty relaxed, with a nice wine menu, and hey, they’re nice.  If it’s too crowded, never fear: you’ll find a million great places where we’re headed, which, for the fashionably-minded amongst us, boasts more natural wine bars per capita than I’ve seen anywhere else in this country.

Wherever you go, there are a few Venetian specialities you’re likely to find: baccalà mantecato (whipped cod), sarde in saor (sardines marinated in a sweet-and-sour broth of onion, vinegar, raisins, and pine nuts), moscardini in umido (stewed baby octopus), or even nero di seppie (squid or cuttlefish in its own ink).  To drink, I tend to skew toward white wines in Venice, perhaps an extra-dry prosecco rifermentato or a soave, made with the garganega grape, whose zest cuts through the creamy baccalà pretty nicely.

Whatever you do, steel up your stomach, because you’re about to dive into a swarm of tourists as dense as any you’ll see in all of Italy.

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The Cantina of Casanova

3CantinaScored.mp3

“What news on the Rialto?”  Shakespeare, if he existed, is said to never have even visited the peninsula now called Italy, but that didn’t stop him from speaking of it in detail.  Still, quoting this line not once but twice in The Merchant of Venice, the Rialto Bridge is the only place he references explicitly in the entire city, so famous it was as the spot where Venetians would sell their goods and ship them off to the east, or vice-versa.

At the foot of the bridge, in the Campo di San Giacomo di Rialto where such business would occur, check out these two curiosities in the northwest corner of the piazza, opposite the church.  This nude man crouched under a set of stairs that we’re looking at now, known as il Gobbo -- the Hunchback of Rialto -- was long used by lawmakers to make proclamations, or to hand down the sentencing of criminals.  In fact, the red column to its right, called the Pietra del bando, was once located in St. Mark’s Square, and sentenced criminals would have to run from there to this spot fully nude as punishment, making il Gobbo a very welcome site for many a shamed man.  Kind of romantic that they now find themselves together, in a weird way.  

OK, we’re doing it, we’re gonna go over the Rialto Bridge, ready?  After many had collapsed or burned, dating back to the first bridge here in the 12th century, a new design was commissioned in 1551 to accommodate the market traffic.  Architects as famous as Palladio and Michelangelo submitted designs, but most featured multiple arches, which wouldn’t have had the altitude to allow for ships to pass underneath.  Only this design, by Antonio da Ponte (appropriately meaning “Anthony of the Bridge”), with its single-span, double-incline construction, did the trick, and despite expectations, it hasn’t collapsed yet.  No doubt it’ll get you a few nice selfies if you’re here at sunrise or sunset; even I, the grouch I am, can’t help but stop for a pic on occasion, though in doing so I can’t help but wonder: will this be the last I ever take?  

If you’re still listening, hang a left as soon as you’re on safe ground and head north toward the Teatro Malibran.

 \|||// “What news on the Rialto?”  Shakespeare, if he existed, is said to never have even visited the peninsula now called Italy, but that didn’t stop him from speaking of it in detail.  Still, quoting this line not once but twice in The Merchant of Venice, the Rialto Bridge is the only place he references explicitly in the entire city, so famous it was as the spot where Venetians would sell their goods and ship them off to the east, or vice-versa.

At the foot of the bridge, in the Campo di San Giacomo di Rialto where such business would occur, check out these two curiosities in the northwest corner of the piazza, opposite the church.  This nude man crouched under a set of stairs that we’re looking at now, known as il Gobbo -- the Hunchback of Rialto -- was long used by lawmakers to make proclamations, or to hand down the sentencing of criminals.  In fact, the red column to its right, called the Pietra del bando, was once located in St. Mark’s Square, and sentenced criminals would have to run from there to this spot fully nude as punishment, making il Gobbo a very welcome site for many a shamed man.  Kind of romantic that they now find themselves together, in a weird way.  

OK, we’re doing it, we’re gonna go over the Rialto Bridge, ready?  After many had collapsed or burned, dating back to the first bridge here in the 12th century, a new design was commissioned in 1551 to accommodate the market traffic.  Architects as famous as Palladio and Michelangelo submitted designs, but most featured multiple arches, which wouldn’t have had the altitude to allow for ships to pass underneath.  Only this design, by Antonio da Ponte (appropriately meaning “Anthony of the Bridge”), with its single-span, double-incline construction, did the trick, and despite expectations, it hasn’t collapsed yet.  No doubt it’ll get you a few nice selfies if you’re here at sunrise or sunset; even I, the grouch I am, can’t help but stop for a pic on occasion, though in doing so I can’t help but wonder: will this be the last I ever take?  

If you’re still listening, hang a left as soon as you’re on safe ground and head north toward the Teatro Malibran.

4Hunchback.jpg

The Hunchback of Rialto Bridge

4RialtoScored.mp3

The Teatro Malibran, as it’s been known since 1837, may not have the grand facade or the reputation of La Fenice, itself merely a 2004 replica, but, originally built in 1678, it is the city’s biggest, and reportedly sports the most sumptuous interior of any in Italy.  I like it because from here it looks like it might as well be condemned, and yet it is as historically valuable as any other locale in the city, once the home of Il Milione, otherwise known as Marco Polo.

I was playing “Marco Polo” in the pool with my brother before I even knew what other countries were, navigating blindly in the water as Polo had sailed around the Asian continent from 1271 to 1295.  This journey, as documented by Rustichello da Pisa, found the Venetian going from Japan to Sri Lanka, and even to parts of Russia, leaving behind one of the earliest examples of travel literature that you or I might be familiar with.  In the chronicle of Marco Polo, called The Book of the Marvels of the World, we have a detailed record of the trade route that made Venice what it is.  This includes an account of the Chinese court of Kublai Khan so colorful, in fact, that it has many scholars wondering if Marco Polo even made it that far at all.  

A rumor persists, though, that not only did Marco Polo meet the emperor, but he even fell in love with one of his daughters, a woman named Hao Dong, who accompanied him back to Venice and lived with him here.  The story goes that when Hao Dong was informed that Marco was captured by the Genovese, and probably killed, she lit herself on fire and jumped into the water below.  All highly dubious, in part because the explorer was in fact married with three daughters, and because there is no record of any Hao Dong in Italy at that time.

Which brings us back to this site: in 1998, while excavating the space below the Malibran Theater, believed to the site of one of the oldest settlements in Venice, the remains of an Asian woman are said to have been found alongside jewelry traced to, well, whaddya know, the court of Kublai Khan.  Like so many layers for an archeologist to unearth, it’s a myth that goes back so far that it’s difficult to discern truth from fiction.

One thing is certain however: lighting yourself on fire, or even simply jumping in the canal below, is ill-advised.  For one thing, the water is filthy: in David Lean’s 1955 filmSummertime, Katherine Hepburn’s character falls into a nearby canal, a cute little gag in a lovely, underrated film.  What isn’t funny, though, is that after three takes of falling in the water, Kate developed a chronic eye infection that plagued her for the rest of her life as a result.  So don’t do it!

Instead, let’s cross over the bridge and follow that road, gradually moving northeast toward the Church of Saints John and Paul.

5873 Campiello del Teatro \|||// The Teatro Malibran, as it’s been known since 1837, may not have the grand facade or the reputation of La Fenice, itself merely a 2004 replica, but, originally built in 1678, it is the city’s biggest, and reportedly sports the most sumptuous interior of any in Italy.  I like it because from here it looks like it might as well be condemned, and yet it is as historically valuable as any other locale in the city, once the home of Il Milione, otherwise known as Marco Polo.

I was playing “Marco Polo” in the pool with my brother before I even knew what other countries were, navigating blindly in the water as Polo had sailed around the Asian continent from 1271 to 1295.  This journey, as documented by Rustichello da Pisa, found the Venetian going from Japan to Sri Lanka, and even to parts of Russia, leaving behind one of the earliest examples of travel literature that you or I might be familiar with.  In the chronicle of Marco Polo, called The Book of the Marvels of the World, we have a detailed record of the trade route that made Venice what it is.  This includes an account of the Chinese court of Kublai Khan so colorful, in fact, that it has many scholars wondering if Marco Polo even made it that far at all.  

A rumor persists, though, that not only did Marco Polo meet the emperor, but he even fell in love with one of his daughters, a woman named Hao Dong, who accompanied him back to Venice and lived with him here.  The story goes that when Hao Dong was informed that Marco was captured by the Genovese, and probably killed, she lit herself on fire and jumped into the water below.  All highly dubious, in part because the explorer was in fact married with three daughters, and because there is no record of any Hao Dong in Italy at that time.

Which brings us back to this site: in 1998, while excavating the space below the Malibran Theater, believed to the site of one of the oldest settlements in Venice, the remains of an Asian woman are said to have been found alongside jewelry traced to, well, whaddya know, the court of Kublai Khan.  Like so many layers for an archeologist to unearth, it’s a myth that goes back so far that it’s difficult to discern truth from fiction.

One thing is certain however: lighting yourself on fire, or even simply jumping in the canal below, is ill-advised.  For one thing, the water is filthy: in David Lean’s 1955 filmSummertime, Katherine Hepburn’s character falls into a nearby canal, a cute little gag in a lovely, underrated film.  What isn’t funny, though, is that after three takes of falling in the water, Kate developed a chronic eye infection that plagued her for the rest of her life as a result.  So don’t do it!

Instead, let’s cross over the bridge and follow that road, gradually moving northeast toward the Church of Saints John and Paul.

5MarcoPolo2.jpg

Marco Polo's House at the Teatro Malibran

5MalibranScored.mp3

5MarcoPolo.JPG

The Basilica dei Santi Giovanni e Paolo is one of the largest churches in Venice, and has the honor of being the burial site of the twenty-five Doges who died after the 15th century, attested in part by the presence of the four ducal tombs located alongside the entryway, embedded in the brick edifice.  Apart from important works from Bellini and others, the church inside is notable for containing the skin of Captain Marcantonio Bragadin who, after refusing to surrender to the Turks, was flayed alive and quartered.  His skin was then stuffed with straw and paraded around the streets of Famagosta, Cyprus, to ensure he was properly mocked even in death; now his epidermis is safely preserved and contained in an urn inside.

Before you decide to drop the couple euros to go inside either the church or the two museums alongside it, with their tricky trompe-l'œil [tromp-loy] marble facades, I want to bring your attention to the equestrian statue in the center of the square.  You’re looking at Bartolomeo Colleoni, a longtime mercenary who fought for the Venetian Republic, and paid for his own commemoration, in the form of this statue, in 1488.

Now, those of you who speak a bit of Italian might have chuckled a bit at his name, Colleoni. This, with a different spelling, effectively means balls; non rompi i coglioni means, literally, don’t break my balls.  This hardly seems to be a coincidence: if you look closely at the base of the statue, you’ll see the Colleoni Coat-of-Arms, which is effectively three testicles on a shield, believed to reflect the fact that ol’ Bartolomeo was born with this particular bit of anatomical abundance.  The family would later modify the balls into upside-down hearts, but with this Renaissance-era statue, it’s hard to refute.  Hey, if you got it, flaunt it.

With that, cross the bridge at your back and continue west for about a kilometer.  We’re looking for another statue of an old white guy, although this one should be a bit more “erect.”

6825 Fondamenta Dandolo \|||// The Basilica dei Santi Giovanni e Paolo is one of the largest churches in Venice, and has the honor of being the burial site of the twenty-five Doges who died after the 15th century, attested in part by the presence of the four ducal tombs located alongside the entryway, embedded in the brick edifice.  Apart from important works from Bellini and others, the church inside is notable for containing the skin of Captain Marcantonio Bragadin who, after refusing to surrender to the Turks, was flayed alive and quartered.  His skin was then stuffed with straw and paraded around the streets of Famagosta, Cyprus, to ensure he was properly mocked even in death; now his epidermis is safely preserved and contained in an urn inside.

Before you decide to drop the couple euros to go inside either the church or the two museums alongside it, with their tricky trompe-l'œil [tromp-loy] marble facades, I want to bring your attention to the equestrian statue in the center of the square.  You’re looking at Bartolomeo Colleoni, a longtime mercenary who fought for the Venetian Republic, and paid for his own commemoration, in the form of this statue, in 1488.

Now, those of you who speak a bit of Italian might have chuckled a bit at his name, Colleoni. This, with a different spelling, effectively means balls; non rompi i coglioni means, literally, don’t break my balls.  This hardly seems to be a coincidence: if you look closely at the base of the statue, you’ll see the Colleoni Coat-of-Arms, which is effectively three testicles on a shield, believed to reflect the fact that ol’ Bartolomeo was born with this particular bit of anatomical abundance.  The family would later modify the balls into upside-down hearts, but with this Renaissance-era statue, it’s hard to refute.  Hey, if you got it, flaunt it.

With that, cross the bridge at your back and continue west for about a kilometer.  We’re looking for another statue of an old white guy, although this one should be a bit more “erect.”

6BasilicaSantiPaolo.jpg

Captain "Coglioni" at the Church of Saints John + Paul

6BasilicaSantiJohnPaulScored.mp3

6BasilicaSantiPaolo2.jpg

OK, you’ve survived the Strada Nova -- Venice’s only actual “Strada”, or main street -- perhaps tempted by the burgers and the perfumes and who knows-what, finally verging on a neighborhood that really saved Venice for me: a bit quieter, a bit weirder, a bit younger than the rest of the city center.

As a point of departure, though, we’ll start with this picturesque piazza, centered on the statue of the controversial Paolo Sarpi and buttressed by a couple of tempting little bars on the rio.  Stay with me, though!

Sarpi was a devoted scholar with a modest upbringing who held several valuable roles in the church between Rome and his native Venice, where he would ultimately settle by the start of the 1600s.  This was a period of great unrest between the powerful Venetian Republic and the papacy of Rome; when, in 1606, Venice chose an opponent of the pope’s power to rule as Doge, Pope Paul V declared an “interdict” against the Republic, threatening all Venetians with excommunication from the Christian church, including Sarpi, who had been nominated by the Doge to defend Venice in these proceedings.

Paolo Sarpi devoted himself to the defense of Venice, infuriating the Pope, and on October 5th, 1607, Sarpi was assaulted by five assassins in one of three attempted homicides by the church.  They punctured the 55-year-old statesman with their stilettos, leaving him for dead in the middle of this square.  Somehow, though, Sarpi survived, and continued his fight for the Venetian Republic until the ripe age of 70; it’s said that with his final breath, he declared “Esto perpetua” (may the Republic live on forever).  It would outlast him another 174 years.

Sarpi's last words would eventually make their way to the Americas, referenced in a 1820 letter written by President Adams to Thomas Jefferson.  It can now be found engraved on the backs of select quarter dollars as the official state motto of Idaho, which is considered by some to be the most Venetian of our fifty states.

Do you already have a cup of booze in hand?  Perhaps a sgroppino, that frozen Venetian cocktail made of vodka, cream, and lemon sorbet?  Or, if it’s cold, perhaps an Amarone della Valpolicella, that big, bold, red made with partially-dried grapes from nearby Verona that is far too fine to be served in plastic?  You’re already in prime territory for top-notch pubs and bacari, so you surely won’t be the only one with a drink in their hand; continue northwest on the Strada Nova as it morphs into the Rio Terà -- another filled-in waterway -- of La Maddalena.

2218 Calle Correr Cannaregio \|||// OK, you’ve survived the Strada Nova -- Venice’s only actual “Strada”, or main street -- perhaps tempted by the burgers and the perfumes and who knows-what, finally verging on a neighborhood that really saved Venice for me: a bit quieter, a bit weirder, a bit younger than the rest of the city center.

As a point of departure, though, we’ll start with this picturesque piazza, centered on the statue of the controversial Paolo Sarpi and buttressed by a couple of tempting little bars on the rio.  Stay with me, though!

Sarpi was a devoted scholar with a modest upbringing who held several valuable roles in the church between Rome and his native Venice, where he would ultimately settle by the start of the 1600s.  This was a period of great unrest between the powerful Venetian Republic and the papacy of Rome; when, in 1606, Venice chose an opponent of the pope’s power to rule as Doge, Pope Paul V declared an “interdict” against the Republic, threatening all Venetians with excommunication from the Christian church, including Sarpi, who had been nominated by the Doge to defend Venice in these proceedings.

Paolo Sarpi devoted himself to the defense of Venice, infuriating the Pope, and on October 5th, 1607, Sarpi was assaulted by five assassins in one of three attempted homicides by the church.  They punctured the 55-year-old statesman with their stilettos, leaving him for dead in the middle of this square.  Somehow, though, Sarpi survived, and continued his fight for the Venetian Republic until the ripe age of 70; it’s said that with his final breath, he declared “Esto perpetua” (may the Republic live on forever).  It would outlast him another 174 years.

Sarpi's last words would eventually make their way to the Americas, referenced in a 1820 letter written by President Adams to Thomas Jefferson.  It can now be found engraved on the backs of select quarter dollars as the official state motto of Idaho, which is considered by some to be the most Venetian of our fifty states.

Do you already have a cup of booze in hand?  Perhaps a sgroppino, that frozen Venetian cocktail made of vodka, cream, and lemon sorbet?  Or, if it’s cold, perhaps an Amarone della Valpolicella, that big, bold, red made with partially-dried grapes from nearby Verona that is far too fine to be served in plastic?  You’re already in prime territory for top-notch pubs and bacari, so you surely won’t be the only one with a drink in their hand; continue northwest on the Strada Nova as it morphs into the Rio Terà -- another filled-in waterway -- of La Maddalena.

7Sarpi.jpg

Fra' Paolo Sarpi Monument

7SarpiScored.mp3

Americans can’t be blamed for finding the Chiesa di Santa Maria Maddalena a touch familiar, given that it was built in the 18th century neoclassical style which so heavily influenced the Federal architecture of Washington D.C. and beyond.  

More than that, you might recognize the triangulated Eye of Providence, above the entry of the church, from the back of the American dollar bill, the Seal of Colorado, and beyond.

We can confidently deny any official connection between the United States and Freemasonry, given that the symbol of the eye only became associated with the secretive society in 1797, well after the Great Seal of the United States was designed.  Moreover, the Eye of Providence has been associated with the Holy Trinity and God’s omniscience, and can be found in Italy as far back as 1525, when Jacopo Pontormo painted the symbol watching over Christ as he breaks bread with the disciples.  

That being said, Venice’s relationship with the occult tracks back much further than this church.  The Knights Templar are said to have followed the Holy Grail through Venice after it was stolen from Constantinople at the end of the 12th century, marking the start of this cult of divine knowledge which would, in turn, evolve into Freemasonry.  

By the 18th century, Venice was teeming with masons, claiming amongst its citizens the Balbo Family who built this church, as well as Casanova, who himself was drawn into the world of the occult after miraculously saving the life of a Senator Matteo Bragadin, himself a descendent of the skinned mercenary we discussed earlier!  

I want to note that after writing the above, and I swear this is true, I immediately fell into a feverish trance and was bedridden for three full days; look, I’m not here to get into conspiracy theories, or to out any malevolent spirits.  I simply think the eye is a striking feature on a lovely church, located in a charming little piazza, that is mysteriously never open to the public.  I have suggested no foul play!  But if you need more proof that Venice is a mystic city, riddle me this: where, exactly, was the first place one Indiana Jones came in his Last Crusade in his pursuit of the Holy Grail?  Venice.  Godspeed, Harrison Ford; let’s head to a lower-stakes site just on the other side of the next bridge.

2205 Fondamenta de le Colonete \|||// Americans can’t be blamed for finding the Chiesa di Santa Maria Maddalena a touch familiar, given that it was built in the 18th century neoclassical style which so heavily influenced the Federal architecture of Washington D.C. and beyond.  

More than that, you might recognize the triangulated Eye of Providence, above the entry of the church, from the back of the American dollar bill, the Seal of Colorado, and beyond.

We can confidently deny any official connection between the United States and Freemasonry, given that the symbol of the eye only became associated with the secretive society in 1797, well after the Great Seal of the United States was designed.  Moreover, the Eye of Providence has been associated with the Holy Trinity and God’s omniscience, and can be found in Italy as far back as 1525, when Jacopo Pontormo painted the symbol watching over Christ as he breaks bread with the disciples.  

That being said, Venice’s relationship with the occult tracks back much further than this church.  The Knights Templar are said to have followed the Holy Grail through Venice after it was stolen from Constantinople at the end of the 12th century, marking the start of this cult of divine knowledge which would, in turn, evolve into Freemasonry.  

By the 18th century, Venice was teeming with masons, claiming amongst its citizens the Balbo Family who built this church, as well as Casanova, who himself was drawn into the world of the occult after miraculously saving the life of a Senator Matteo Bragadin, himself a descendent of the skinned mercenary we discussed earlier!  

I want to note that after writing the above, and I swear this is true, I immediately fell into a feverish trance and was bedridden for three full days; look, I’m not here to get into conspiracy theories, or to out any malevolent spirits.  I simply think the eye is a striking feature on a lovely church, located in a charming little piazza, that is mysteriously never open to the public.  I have suggested no foul play!  But if you need more proof that Venice is a mystic city, riddle me this: where, exactly, was the first place one Indiana Jones came in his Last Crusade in his pursuit of the Holy Grail?  Venice.  Godspeed, Harrison Ford; let’s head to a lower-stakes site just on the other side of the next bridge.

8maddalena2.jpg

La Maddalena: Freemasons in Venice

8LaMaddalenaScored.mp3

If you’ve been on any of our other tours in Italy, you know that there are two things I like perhaps more than anything else: the cinema, and ineffectively complaining about the failings of capitalism.  Well, here at the Despar Teatro Italia, we get to kill two birds with one stone.

The Teatro Italia, built originally in 1915, is an elegant mixture of architectural styles, from the facade’s neo-gothic style meant to emulate the Doge’s Palace, to the Art-Nouveau chandeliers and frescoes inside, a glimpse into the glory of this wealthy Italian city as it was on the verge of entering the First World War.

Yet after its conversion into a movie theater, as was en vogue at the time, and by the 1970s, a conference room for the city’s public university, the extreme cost renovations required to maintain this glorious space meant that the Teatro Italia was on the verge of being lost to time.

Enter SPAR, the giant food retail corporation from the Netherlands, whose deep coffers coughed up the four million euros needed to give this place a proper spitshine.  And really, you’ve got to hand it to them: the wrought iron looks pristine, while Alessandro Pomi’s frescoes sport hardly a blemish.  But above all, as easy as it is to complain about how the free market managed to overwhelm yet another cultural outpost, let’s be real: a supermarket of considerable size, with reasonable prices for decent supplies, is nothing short of a refreshing respite in a sea of stale, overpriced restaurants.  

So go on, take a break from the tangle of tourism, have a look inside, and get yourself a block of some nutty, aged piave cheese, or a bitter bushel of radicchio rosso, and treat yourself to a quick, healthy snack on a rio somewhere nearby.  You can thank a group of billionaires in Amsterdam for your strangely sophisticated supermarket session.

1944 Campiello de l'Anconeta \|||// If you’ve been on any of our other tours in Italy, you know that there are two things I like perhaps more than anything else: the cinema, and ineffectively complaining about the failings of capitalism.  Well, here at the Despar Teatro Italia, we get to kill two birds with one stone.

The Teatro Italia, built originally in 1915, is an elegant mixture of architectural styles, from the facade’s neo-gothic style meant to emulate the Doge’s Palace, to the Art-Nouveau chandeliers and frescoes inside, a glimpse into the glory of this wealthy Italian city as it was on the verge of entering the First World War.

Yet after its conversion into a movie theater, as was en vogue at the time, and by the 1970s, a conference room for the city’s public university, the extreme cost renovations required to maintain this glorious space meant that the Teatro Italia was on the verge of being lost to time.

Enter SPAR, the giant food retail corporation from the Netherlands, whose deep coffers coughed up the four million euros needed to give this place a proper spitshine.  And really, you’ve got to hand it to them: the wrought iron looks pristine, while Alessandro Pomi’s frescoes sport hardly a blemish.  But above all, as easy as it is to complain about how the free market managed to overwhelm yet another cultural outpost, let’s be real: a supermarket of considerable size, with reasonable prices for decent supplies, is nothing short of a refreshing respite in a sea of stale, overpriced restaurants.  

So go on, take a break from the tangle of tourism, have a look inside, and get yourself a block of some nutty, aged piave cheese, or a bitter bushel of radicchio rosso, and treat yourself to a quick, healthy snack on a rio somewhere nearby.  You can thank a group of billionaires in Amsterdam for your strangely sophisticated supermarket session.

9teatro.jpg

Teatro Italia

9TeatroItaliaScored.mp3

It may feel like you’re now standing in any other Italian piazza, but you’re not: my friend, you’re now in the original ghetto.

The diversity of the Venetian Republic is evident in the space between Shakespeare’s Othello -- who we’ll discuss in a second -- and the Jewish antagonist, Shylock, from The Merchant of Venice, a somewhat problematic play written at a time when Jews were banned outright from England and, in public discourse, openly accused of drinking the blood of Christians.

If you’ve ever used the word “ghetto” before, know that it comes from where you’re standing, in what would have been Shylock’s home.  Though the origins of the word remain unclear -- it could refer to the foundry which once stood here, or to borghetto, the Italian word for little neighborhood -- it is without a doubt the oldest Jewish district in Europe. From the Doge’s 1516 decree that established this area, the gates would be unlocked at the sounding of St. Mark’s Campanile each morning and locked up every night, with Jews being made to wear a yellow or red hat should they have had business beyond these walls.

To the credit of the its leaders, Venice at the time was relatively tolerant, particularly when considering that most of Western Europe had already expelled Jews by this time; the Canadian scholar Bernard Dov Cooperman notes that the jewry of 16th century Venice considered this more of a place to concentrate their studies than an imposed prison, as opposed to the restrictive Roman ghetto created in 1555, or those reinstituted during World War II.

For such a small area, the Jews here segregated themselves by ethnicity, and, for quite a while, were unable to even communicate with one another.  Within the “New Ghetto”, where you’re standing now, you had the Italian Synagogue (marked by those white pillars), the Canton Synagogue in the alcove just behind it (look for a small dome above a wooden panel in the corner of the square behind the Italian synagogue), and, in the beige building left of those, the German Synagogue.  Then, a few blocks away in the “Old Ghetto” -- which is, oddly enough, actually newer than the “New” one -- you’ll find the Spanish and Middle Eastern Synagogues facing one another with a cistern between the two.

All told, it was a crowded space, leading to modest skyscrapers of the age built up to six stories high; as many as 5,000 Jews lived here, at least until a Plague in 1630 wiped out a third of the population.  

It wasn’t until Napoleon’s arrival in 1797 that the gates were struck down altogether and Jews were allowed to live beyond this space, though many decided to remain.  Despite the deportation and murder of 200 Jews during World War II, however, the Venetian Jewish population remains relatively strong, at least compared to other Italian cities, with around 500 residents in total, none of whom -- and this is more a hunch than a guarantee -- go out of their way to drink Christian blood.  

Let’s cross over the rio behind the ghetto and turn right.  You’ll pass a bunch of solid bars and restaurants en route to our last stop, so be sure to take note of those which look particularly appealing.

 \|||// It may feel like you’re now standing in any other Italian piazza, but you’re not: my friend, you’re now in the original ghetto.

The diversity of the Venetian Republic is evident in the space between Shakespeare’s Othello -- who we’ll discuss in a second -- and the Jewish antagonist, Shylock, from The Merchant of Venice, a somewhat problematic play written at a time when Jews were banned outright from England and, in public discourse, openly accused of drinking the blood of Christians.

If you’ve ever used the word “ghetto” before, know that it comes from where you’re standing, in what would have been Shylock’s home.  Though the origins of the word remain unclear -- it could refer to the foundry which once stood here, or to borghetto, the Italian word for little neighborhood -- it is without a doubt the oldest Jewish district in Europe. From the Doge’s 1516 decree that established this area, the gates would be unlocked at the sounding of St. Mark’s Campanile each morning and locked up every night, with Jews being made to wear a yellow or red hat should they have had business beyond these walls.

To the credit of the its leaders, Venice at the time was relatively tolerant, particularly when considering that most of Western Europe had already expelled Jews by this time; the Canadian scholar Bernard Dov Cooperman notes that the jewry of 16th century Venice considered this more of a place to concentrate their studies than an imposed prison, as opposed to the restrictive Roman ghetto created in 1555, or those reinstituted during World War II.

For such a small area, the Jews here segregated themselves by ethnicity, and, for quite a while, were unable to even communicate with one another.  Within the “New Ghetto”, where you’re standing now, you had the Italian Synagogue (marked by those white pillars), the Canton Synagogue in the alcove just behind it (look for a small dome above a wooden panel in the corner of the square behind the Italian synagogue), and, in the beige building left of those, the German Synagogue.  Then, a few blocks away in the “Old Ghetto” -- which is, oddly enough, actually newer than the “New” one -- you’ll find the Spanish and Middle Eastern Synagogues facing one another with a cistern between the two.

All told, it was a crowded space, leading to modest skyscrapers of the age built up to six stories high; as many as 5,000 Jews lived here, at least until a Plague in 1630 wiped out a third of the population.  

It wasn’t until Napoleon’s arrival in 1797 that the gates were struck down altogether and Jews were allowed to live beyond this space, though many decided to remain.  Despite the deportation and murder of 200 Jews during World War II, however, the Venetian Jewish population remains relatively strong, at least compared to other Italian cities, with around 500 residents in total, none of whom -- and this is more a hunch than a guarantee -- go out of their way to drink Christian blood.  

Let’s cross over the rio behind the ghetto and turn right.  You’ll pass a bunch of solid bars and restaurants en route to our last stop, so be sure to take note of those which look particularly appealing.

10ghetto2.jpg

The New/Old Ghetto

10GhettoScored.mp3

10ghetto.jpg

Shakespeare’s Othello, or more officially, The Tragedy of Othello, the Moor of Venice, is a play which chronicles the titular character’s fight as Venetian general to defend the Cypriot town of Famagosta from the Turks (the same place, by the way, and the same army, where and by whom that other guy got skinned).

Originally used in reference to those who came from the Roman province of Mauretania in Northern Africa, the term “Moor” would eventually be applied to anyone with darker skin.  These people were often Muslims living in what was, again, the uniquely diverse Venetian Republic, though often in a more subservient role than the one Othello “enjoyed.”  This is reflected, quite shockingly, throughout the city, where people of color are represented as servile statues, lamps, doorknobs, and who-knows-what else.  I’m sure you’ve seen them without even realizing.

The white marble statues you see here in the Campo dei Mori, or Moorish Square, aren’t actually Moors in the traditional sense, despite the name, but are rather 12th century merchant brothers from the Greek Kingdom of Morea who helped build the area.  These siblings were cheap bastards, I guess, and are said to have ripped off a very devout lady, who prayed to Mary Magdalene for them to be turned to stone (though considering that the statues are only a few feet tall, she must have also shrunk them down considerably).  The most prominent, on the corner,  is named Rioba; he has long served as one of the “Talking Statues” of Venice, like those we discuss on our walk in Rome.  Essentially, the Talking Statues served as a public version of the lion’s mouths, like the one we visit here, near the Arsenal: with the statues, citizens could anonymously mock the government by stuffing, hanging, or pasting satirical notes into, onto and around the statue’s base, much to their leaders’ chagrin, who would in turn openly threaten to destroy the statues.  Some time in the 19th century, Rioba seems to have lost his nose, which was replaced by this awful iron prosthetic that Venetians rub for luck; in 2010, he even lost his head. Serves him right, I guess, for ripping off that old lady.

A fourth statue, listing a bit to his right, also marks the house where Venice’s greatest painter, Jacopo Robusti -- better known as Tintoretto -- lived for twenty years until his death in 1594.  If you happen to enjoy Mannerist art, you might head a block north of here to the Chiesa della Madonna dell’Orto, a quiet neighborhood church filled with several of Tintoretto’s works, as well as his remains. Be forewarned, though: it’ll run you a few euro to get in, with proceeds going toward the costly preservation of the art inside. 

I personally prefer the work of his namesake, the visionary perv filmmaker Tinto Brass, whose films straddle the line between sacred and profane, as do you now.  You could take the sacred route to the north and visit the church and all that beautiful art or, given that our tour ends now, you could go south, to the profane, to the Fondamenta Misericordia, no doubt my favorite drag in the city to enjoy a few glasses of that ombra naturale.  Whatever you choose, whether the angel or the devil, the neighborhood of Cannaregio should feel lightyears away from the trinket shops of the Rialto Bridge. I will leave you here to do your thing.  Just remember that if you don’t want to get wet with canal water, look up from your phone now and again, and above all, enjoy this singularly strange city.

3399 Fondamenta dei Mori \|||// Shakespeare’s Othello, or more officially, The Tragedy of Othello, the Moor of Venice, is a play which chronicles the titular character’s fight as Venetian general to defend the Cypriot town of Famagosta from the Turks (the same place, by the way, and the same army, where and by whom that other guy got skinned).

Originally used in reference to those who came from the Roman province of Mauretania in Northern Africa, the term “Moor” would eventually be applied to anyone with darker skin.  These people were often Muslims living in what was, again, the uniquely diverse Venetian Republic, though often in a more subservient role than the one Othello “enjoyed.”  This is reflected, quite shockingly, throughout the city, where people of color are represented as servile statues, lamps, doorknobs, and who-knows-what else.  I’m sure you’ve seen them without even realizing.

The white marble statues you see here in the Campo dei Mori, or Moorish Square, aren’t actually Moors in the traditional sense, despite the name, but are rather 12th century merchant brothers from the Greek Kingdom of Morea who helped build the area.  These siblings were cheap bastards, I guess, and are said to have ripped off a very devout lady, who prayed to Mary Magdalene for them to be turned to stone (though considering that the statues are only a few feet tall, she must have also shrunk them down considerably).  The most prominent, on the corner,  is named Rioba; he has long served as one of the “Talking Statues” of Venice, like those we discuss on our walk in Rome.  Essentially, the Talking Statues served as a public version of the lion’s mouths, like the one we visit here, near the Arsenal: with the statues, citizens could anonymously mock the government by stuffing, hanging, or pasting satirical notes into, onto and around the statue’s base, much to their leaders’ chagrin, who would in turn openly threaten to destroy the statues.  Some time in the 19th century, Rioba seems to have lost his nose, which was replaced by this awful iron prosthetic that Venetians rub for luck; in 2010, he even lost his head. Serves him right, I guess, for ripping off that old lady.

A fourth statue, listing a bit to his right, also marks the house where Venice’s greatest painter, Jacopo Robusti -- better known as Tintoretto -- lived for twenty years until his death in 1594.  If you happen to enjoy Mannerist art, you might head a block north of here to the Chiesa della Madonna dell’Orto, a quiet neighborhood church filled with several of Tintoretto’s works, as well as his remains. Be forewarned, though: it’ll run you a few euro to get in, with proceeds going toward the costly preservation of the art inside. 

I personally prefer the work of his namesake, the visionary perv filmmaker Tinto Brass, whose films straddle the line between sacred and profane, as do you now.  You could take the sacred route to the north and visit the church and all that beautiful art or, given that our tour ends now, you could go south, to the profane, to the Fondamenta Misericordia, no doubt my favorite drag in the city to enjoy a few glasses of that ombra naturale.  Whatever you choose, whether the angel or the devil, the neighborhood of Cannaregio should feel lightyears away from the trinket shops of the Rialto Bridge. I will leave you here to do your thing.  Just remember that if you don’t want to get wet with canal water, look up from your phone now and again, and above all, enjoy this singularly strange city.

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Cannaregio | Sacred and Profane

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