Level 5 Reading 4A

Reading 4A

CITY UNDER SIEGE The city Thomas Mannt called "half fairy tale and half tourist trap" finds itself threatened by more than just the rising tide. Cathy Newman investigates the trouble with Venice. Nowhere in ltaly is there a crisis more beautifully framed than in Venice. Neither land nor water, the city lifts like a mirage from a lagoon at the head of the Adriatic Sea. For centuries it has threatened to vanish beneath the waves of the acqua alta, the relentlessly regular flooding caused by rising tides and sinking foundations— but that is the least of its problems. Just ask Massimo Cacciari, former mayor of Venice and professor philosophy. A man who rasies the level of the political intellect to just short of the stratosphere. Ask him about the acqua alta and Venice sinking, and he says, "So go get boots." Boots are fine for water, but useless against the food that causes more concern for Venetians than any lagoon spillover: the flood of tourists. In 2016, there were around 55,000 residents living in the historic city center, the number of visiting tourists that year was over 20 million. In May 2008, for example, on a holiday weekend, 80,000 tourists descended on the city. Public parking lots in Mestre where people board a bus or train to the historic center, filled with floodwater and were closed. Those who managed to get to Venice surged through the streets like schools of bluefish, snapping up pizza and gelato, leaving paper and plastic bottles in their wake. "Beauty is difficult," says Cacciari, sounding as if he were addressing a graduate seminar The black of Caccian's dark hair and luxuriant beard complement his current mood. The preceding day, heavy rains had flooded Mestre again.

Rain caused the flood, not acqua alta, Cacciari says. "High tide is not a problem for me; it's a problem for you foreigners." The problems, he stresses, lie elsewhere. The cost of maintaining Venice:"There is not enough money from the state to cover it all— the cleaning of canals, restoration of buildings, raising of foundations." The cost of living:"It's three times as costly to live here as in Mogliano, 20 kilometers away. It's affordable only for the rich or elderly who already own houses because they have been passed down. The young can't afford it. "Finally, there is tourism, of which, Cacciari says: "Venice is not a sentimental place of honeymoon; it's a strong, contradictory, overpowering place. It is not a city for tourists; it cannot be reduced to a postcard." If you are a Venetian, the city is a different place altogether— the abnormal is normal, and a flood is routine. The alarm sounds, protective steel doors come down, and boots, essential to any Venetian wardrobe, are pulled on. The four kilometers of passerelle—an elevated board walk supported on metal legs— are set up, and life goes on. When Silvia Zanon goes to Campo San Provolo, where she teaches middle school, she knows it will take 23 minutes to walk there from her apartment on the Calle delle Carrozze. On the way she crosses the Piazza San Marco, blissfully empty in early morning. "I step on the paving stones and fall in love with the city all over again," she says. Gherardo Ortalli, a professor of medieval history, finds his path less poetic. "When I go out in the campo with my friends, I have to stop because someone is taking a photograph of us," he says. For Ortalli, it almost feels like local people are becoming an endangered species. "Perhaps one day we will be. You will go and see a sign on a cage:'Feed the Venetians.' When I arrived 30 years ago, the population was 120,000." The decline seems inevitable, and Ortalli thinks Venice will end up as simply a theme park for the rich, who will jet in to spend a day or two in their palazzo, then leave. It is 10 a.m., and he is headed toward a kiosk to buy a newspaper before going to his office, though you can hardly find the papers for all the tourist kitsch: miniature masks, gondola pins, jester caps. "Everything is for sale," he sighs, "even Venice." Augusto Salvadori was once in charge of managing the impact of tourism in Venice. Love is an inadequate word to describe how Salvadori feels about Venice. He was not just the city's director of tourism and promoter of tradition; he was its defender. "The city is consumed by tourism," says Salvadori. "What do Venetians get in exchange? During part of the year, Venetians cannot elbow their way onto public transportation. The cost of garbage collection increases; so does the price of living." "Perhaps to help," Salvadori says, "we put a city tax on hotels and restaurants. [Then] they said tourists would not come—but I say, tourists won't come for a few euros? I could not worry about hotels; I had to think of the Venetians. My battle was for the city because Venice is my heart." Tourism has been part of the Venetian landscape since the 14th century, when pilgrims stopped en route to the Holy Land. I ask Ortalli what is so different about tourism now. "Now, Venice gets giant cruise ships. The ship is 10 stories high. You can't understand Venice from 10 stories up; you might as well be in a helicopter. But it's not important. You arrive in Venice, write a postcard, and remember what a wonderful evening you had." "There goes another piece of Venice," Silvia Zanon, the teacher, said sadly when Camiceria San Marco,a 60-year-old clothing store, had to move to a smaller, less prime spot because the rent had tripled. Susanna Cestari worked there for 32 years. "It's like leaving the house where you were born," she said, while packing boxes for the move. At least 10 hardware stores have recently gone out of business. In the Rialto market, souvenir sellers have replaced vendors who sold sausages, bread, or vegetables. Tourists will not notice; they do not visit Venice to buy an eggplant. Some people suggest that Venice's wounds are self- inflicted. They don't want tourist observes a former resident, "but they want their money." There is talk about implementing new policies to limit the number of tourists, imposing additional taxes, and urging visitors to avoid the high seasons of Easter and Carnevale. But tourism— together with the loss of resident population, and combined with the interests of hotel owners, gondoliers, and water taxi drivers who all have an interest in maximizing the influx of visitors—defies simple solutions. "Let me remind you, the loss of population... is not only a problem in Venice but in all historical towns, not only Italy," cautions former Mayor Cacciari. "The so-called exodus, which dates back very far in time, is deep-rooted with the lodging issue." For some, a solution to Venice's troubles already seems out of reach. "It is too late," Gherardo Ortalli, the historian, says. "The stones will remain, but the people won't." But, for now, there is still life as well as death in Venice. Silvia Zanon, on her way to school, still crosses San Marco only to fall in love with the city again. And, assuming it is in season, you can still manage to buy an eggplant. The city's beauty, difficult and bruised, somehow survives.

♪

♪

♪