SAN GEREMIA E LUCIA

       

       Motivating around Venice involves time as there is something...or someone of

interest around every turn. 

Just the sight of a gondola moving along one of the canals is cause for me to stop and visit my romantic side. 

And how could I possibly resist a dazzling display of hand blown Murano glass,

or the hand painted masks that stare back at me from a shop window,

or the leather-gloved hands that applaud my taste in fine Italian accessories.

The city has character written all over it making it impossible for me not to shoot a picture of a balcony,

a bridge reflected in the water,

or an artist with brush and canvas.  

But time was something we had little of that morning as we left my grandfather’s church, leaving me to rely on past memory for those special scenes. Our only priority was to catch the water taxi to the sestiere of Cannaregio and search for  the church of my great-grandparents, Antonia Favretto and Pierina Monello.

      When I found myself  in the large square with its dominant feature, San Geremia E Lucia, I spotted an old woman perched on one of the stone steps clutching a plastic cup in her hand, eyeing me from a distance. Had I allowed eye contact as I passed her on my way up the church steps, she would have looked back at me with those pleading eyes leaving me to anguish over her impoverished state and reach into my wallet.  But I wouldn’t have had train fare if I had given in to every beggar that worked the streets of Venice that day, so I passed her by. 

      Inside the 8^th Century church I was met by a gentle old man with a warm smile who extended a welcomed greeting and handed me a pamphlet featuring the church’s beautiful works of art. What a stark contrast to the cold atmosphere of the church I’d left behind, I thought. 

My eyes were immediately drawn to the apse with its gold (or brass) appointed alter where the seventeen-hundred-year-old body of the martyr, St. Lucy (Santa Lucia), could be viewed from within her class case. 

A rarity such as this demanded photos, so for a few moments I lost my friend who soon caught up offering a little scolding as she approached, “You need to stay with me! I have found a friendly priest who had an appointment but has stayed to talk with us instead.”  Friendly priest…the words were music to my ears.  I put the camera in my bag and followed my, “Sherlock Holmes,” to another altar where the small-statured, gray-haired priest with the kind face waited. 

      Never was my desire to speak Italian--or the frustration I felt at not understanding what was being spoken--more apparent then at that moment.  The dialogue between the two was open and friendly.  The priest seemed receptive to all of her questions, offering in turn what appeared to be definitive answers, and in a spirit of helpfulness and concern as she articulated my cause.  Then the thought came to me-- if I were to let the priest lay his hands on the old document that bore the signature of one of his predecessors and the church’s faded stamp it might further our cause. 

 I took the folder of documents from my computer bag and fumbled through the contents until I found the yellowed and fragile document and presented it to the priest.  His demeanor changed, his attention drawn to the etched picture--which my friend later said he explained as souls in hell reaching up to the saints for forgiveness-- and to the three lines that described a mass that was said for the soul of my great-grandmother, Pierina Monello, on October 2, 1902.  He now held a tangible and convincing piece of evidence; a confirmation of what my well-meaning interpreter had worked so hard to impart. A look of recognition washed over his face and he abruptly turned on his heels motioning for us to follow. We did so until we reached a darkened hallway where he stopped in front of a massive wooden door and reached into his pocket pulling out an old key. I felt heavy with anticipation, wondering what was behind the door, waiting, the key clanking in the lock.
      The door grated on its hinges as the priest pushed it open and stepped inside.  We followed him into the stillness of a small chapel, rays of light shooting through two windows lighting an altar.  Over the altar hung a painting depicting the souls in hell reaching upward to the angels and saints.  I knew then that I was in the room where a service was held for my great-grandmother one-hundred-and-nine years earlier.  If there had been any question that San Geremia E Lucia was the church where my grandmother, Giovanna, had been baptized,  it was erased in that moment. And what a moment it was… standing in that small chapel, feeling the presence of the woman who’d been my silent companion throughout the past six months.

     

      That wasn’t all my angel priest brought me that day, for he also gave us the unexpected news that all of the church’s old documents were a matter of public record at the Civil Records Office near St. Marks Square. There was only one problem, it closed at one o’ clock and it was fast approaching noon. 

       

      Before he would let us leave our dear priest made one final gesture of kindness with a gift of a postcard featuring the painting that hung over the altar in the chapel.    

~

     We left the church and made our way down a long, shop-lined street maneuvering in and out of the tourists that lingered on the sidewalks and stopped to window shop.

     At the Grand Canal we purchased a ticket for the water taxi and walked to the first taxi stand only to discover that we were not at the right one. We ran to the next stop just as the boat attendant threw the rope onto the dock and the boat rumbled away. I clutched my head in my hands in frustration and mumbled a few expletives.  My watch said 12:10.  The tension was mounting. 

     The next water taxi pulled up at 12:15.  It took the female attendant several minutes to usher the long line of passengers on board the already crowded boat and untie it from its mooring.  My friend moved to the glass enclosed section below out of the wind and engaged a woman in conversation asking her directions to the civil records office. I remained on deck elbowing for space between the passengers with their baby strollers, shopping carts, and suitcases…an endless stream of them entering and exiting at the multitude of stops, eroding what little time I had, and nibbling away at my hope. 

      At 12:45 we exited the water taxi and followed the woman’s directions hurrying to reach the record’s office before it closed.  We dashed up one street and down another, stepping outside the slow-moving pedestrians, looking for a building that everyone we spoke to said was “just a few hundred meters away,” but continued to elude us.

      At 1:10 I stood on a bridge admiring the Bridge of Sighs in the foreground, the now closed Civil Records office just a minute away. 

So close, yet so far.   

        With nothing left to do but enjoy the rest of our day in Venice, we paid a visit to St. Mark’s Square watching the fashion-conscious Italians seated at the restaurants that lined the piazza sipping on an espresso while the resident pigeons entertained photographers and children alike.  

 

      If I was lucky, I might even encounter a tall, dark, and handsome man with a pigeon on his shoulder to pose for the lens!  (So, I cheated and slipped this picture in!)

     

      Weary from our long walk my friend and I plopped on a step beneath the grandeur of St. Marks Cathedral sharing a hot Italian sandwich and reflecting on all that the day had brought.  For me, it had been a day filled to overflowing with emotional rewards.  Granted, I was leaving without the documents for which I had come, but in all truthfulness I found something even greater, for no document could have brought the feeling of closeness I experienced while walking the streets of my ancestors’ neighborhoods, and sitting in the pews of the churches where they once knelt to pray.  Furthermore, the documents would be there for another visit, and that could be sooner than not. 

~ 

       On March twentieth I closed the door to my apartment at Via Denza and that chapter of my journey where I walked with the angels by my side.  The memories are countless, the experiences rich. It is my fondest wish that I will one day return to that city of quiet elegance and those special people who made me a part of their lives. And to my friend, who wishes to remain anonymous, but gave so much to my experience... Grazie mille!

~Ciao bella Trieste~

    

      Pack your bags one last time fellow travelers for we will end our eight month journey making the most of spring in Baska Voda and all that the Dalmatian Coast has to offer. 

AS PROMISED, HERE IS AN ITALIAN RECIPE FROM THE KITCHEN OF MY FRIEND

~ITALIAN LENTIL SOUP~

250 grams of lentils-washed

Chicken bouillon or Vegetta (if you’re able to find in the U.S.)

1 Laurel leaf (not sure if you can get in the U.S. but they are wonderful if you can find them)

2 1/2 liters of Water

1 TAB. flour

Parmesan Cheese (optional)

Italian Bread Dried and Cut into Cubes

Italian sausage 

Boil the lentils and sausage (optional) until cooked. When the soup is dense and the beans are soft, fry a tablespoon of flour in olive oil.  To this mixture you add some of the soup broth blending until smooth.  Add this mixture slowly to the soup (no clumps, please) with a clove of chopped garlic.

Garnish the soup with the dried bread cubes fried in butter or olive oil and some parmesan cheese (optional).   Soup is even better served the next day, or can be frozen.   Serve with a salad of fresh mixed greens dressed with olive oil and wine or balsamic vinegar, topped with shaved fresh parmesan cheese and a crusty loaf of Italian bread, a bottle of white wine, and your favorite Italian music! Oh yes, don’t forget the candles!

Buon Appetito