By Frederick Wolstenholme

A Calatrava in Calgary

As soon as I learned about Calgary’s new bridge, I liked it. It was new and fresh and had fancy glass. It looked like a Chinese finger trap and that, in my opinion, beat anything that existed elsewhere in the city.

Calgary needed a new bridge, if not a new look. We had rail bridges. And boring train bridges. More boring concrete bridges. Bridges without names. Or ones that had names but were forgotten long ago, thereby making them nameless. There was no artist to identify with any bridges. But the Peace Bridge had both a name and an artist, Calatrava.

Calgarians balked at the price tag, and of course no one knew what a Valencian boondoggle looked like. But this put us on the map, in a way. And being on the map is what can get you into trouble in the first place.

Finding Venice

Our train left Rome Termini on a warm autumn morning. Having taken a smattering of Latin and Italian, I assumed that it was the plural form of terminus. It might well be. But it’s named for the thermal baths that once stood around the area.

The stations after Termini are a mixture of letters and names that could be anything really. SMN. Bologna C.Le., Ferrara and Padova. But towards the end there are a couple of stops that are recognizable: Venezia Mestre and Venezia S.L.

Reading maps is an important skill to have. Reading train timetables is as well. But knowing terrain is often overlooked and, as a tourist, it’s usually something you can’t know until you’ve been there. As the mass of Italians rose from their seats at Venezia Mestre to disembark, so did a threesome of Korean girls.

Recalculating

Having been to Venice before, I have been told that most Venetians live in Mestre because it’s cheaper, there’s more space, one can have a car, etc. What not being able to read a map does, however, is leads to an impression that as Rome Tiburtina is to Rome Termini, Venezia Mestre is to Venezia S.L. One might assume that they are both in the city. In fact, Venezia Mestre is in the mainland and Venice is an island. I thought briefly to ask these girls if they knew where to get off, but then I got distracted or didn’t care to let them know.

10 minutes later we pulled into Santa Lucia. Armed with Google maps, I had an address to the airbnb and a healthy sense of determination. A quick stop to pick up a 2 day transit pass and we were ready. I noticed two different ways to get there. One, I discarded right away since it involved going downstream across the Grand Canal and then back. Two, went in a straight line.

Well, a relatively straight line. That’s the thing about travel, and maps, and Google maps. The difference between reading maps and knowing terrain. So my own Swiss family Robinson started off in a mostly straight line towards the address and came up to a fancy new bridge in Venice.

An Abundance of Bridges

Most bridges are quite small in Venice, going up a few steps, plateauing, then coming back down. Most are either wood or stone connecting the different types of pedestrian streets they have. I don’t pretend to know the difference between a Calle, a Rio Terra, a Riva, a Fondamenta or a Salizzada. But there’s a fundamental rule about bridges in Venice: most of them have a ratio of 7:1. There is one exception.

The most famous bridge in Venice is the Rialto bridge. It has three different ways to cross over it, with shops splitting them. There are touristy restaurants on the quayside and gondoliers hang out near the piers awaiting their prey. Or, rather, slowly becoming carrion (if the posters about tourists and cruise ships destroying the city are to be believed). It is an architecturally unremarkable bridge with what looks like a 20 degree rise on either side. There are porticos leading up to, on top of, and back down the bridge.

The Accademia bridge further down the Canal was under construction, but looked liked a wooden bridge with much the same ratio except without the porticos. What the Accademia bridge lacks in famousness to its sister bridge up the Canal it makes up for it with a lack of tourist schtick nearby.

The important thing to remember is that these bridges have a decent height for the traffic to pass by underneath, and are made strong enough to withstand what living in a lagoon does to foundations and empires.

Calgary Has a Sister Bridge

Turning right out of the train station and going towards the straightest path to our first address was a new bridge. I didn’t recall seeing this one the last time I was in Italy. This was a fancy new bridge with a much greater wingspan than the other bridges (but maybe not as great as the fattest seagulls you have ever seen that find themselves scattered among the city).

It is sleek looking, like a wing upon the wind. Red steel holds it up. Glass on the edges. A familiar look to Calgary’s Peace Bridge.

We pulled and hauled our luggage towards the shiny new bridge, resplendent in touristness. Like a dam about to burst, we carried our backpacks packed with unnecessary crap, a baby carrier carrying our crib, and our stroller carrying any and all extra things not able to be smashed into our luggage. We started up the Constitution Bridge, a name we learned later. I presume the bridge is named not for the piece of paper of Italian Unity, but for a trait that one must have a healthy amount of in order to make the crossing.

At the start, there is a warning of peril in the form of immigrant workers offering a dolly ride over the bridge. It should be called the Stubborn Bridge for those of us who refuse. You can’t turn around when you’re a third of the way and say, “Okay! Five Euro will be fine!”

Stubborn Steps and Cursed Luck

Thinking we were smart and polite, we stayed to the right, pulling and pushing and heaving our way up. Soon, we met a design feature that must have been received with ridicule from the locals. Glass steps on the sides of the bridges. Just after midday on a sunny day, these were covered in condensation and further complicated an already awkward walk. (Although the walk was not nearly as bad as the daggers that I felt being thrown my way from my family, who I made trundle this way.)

Looking across the canal I began to see why Google directed me down the Canal and then back up. There was a little boardwalk, or a fondamente, with it’s own little five step bridge and not this monstrosity. I imagine locals taking bets on the amount of stubborn tourists.

After reaching the other side, we looked back to see a giant red egg on the side of the bridge which looked like an elevator of sorts. We cursed our luck again.

Enjoying the Canal

Grabbing our keys and info packet we made our way down to the nearest, bridgeless waterbus stop. It was a memorable trip down the Grand Canal. Dad taking out his small camera and taking some photos. Mom looking around and taking it in while trying to keep our daughter distracted. Gondolas dotting the waterways.

It felt chilly for 5° C, and the sun would soon set. Coming underneath the Rialto bridge, dad stood on the bridge, the rest of us inside.

Each of us in turn watched a gondola pass us underneath the bridge and at the perfect time, the man moved from his seat in front of his date and pulled out a ring box. On one knee. In a boat. A potentially dangerous position in either sense.

The traghetto passed and I turned my head and wait. For. What. Shouldn’t. Be. This. Ohthankgod she said yes. Everyone was happy, except perhaps the gondolier who had seen this too many times. And maybe the proposer, since there was more hesitation than he might have liked. But he was enamoured, and probably didn’t notice. And the gondolier was happy he’d made his 80 Euro. So I suppose everyone was happy.

Further Wanderings

We got off at our stop, Salute, where sits Basilica Santa Maria della Salute. The massive basilica was built in gratitude for the plague only destroying a third of the city. It sits upon 100,000 logs propping up the church, nearly one for every person that died from the disease. Inside, it is plain. On the floor there is either woodshavings or pebbles in an impressive design. This is a sharp contrast to San Marco, across the water.

San Marco’s square was empty of tourists compared to what I’d seen before. There were more pigeons there than people. One couple had a pouch of seed and was trying to get the perfect picture. They must have been there for a while, since the bag was empty and the pigeons were getting pissed. The pigeons flapped their wings and squawked, but the tourists continued crouching, waiting for that perfect picture. And the pigeons delivered, as least for me.

The Little Bird Lady

My daughter Mia entered the scene and started shepherding the pigeons. She was excited because she knows what a bird is and can say it, so she toddled towards them. She must have thought the pigeons were as docile and friendly as our dog. She bent over and tried to pet them or pick them up, but she just pushed them closer to the couple.

Once the birds figured out that they were only pawns, they moved away, for the most part. But a couple of them started half flying, hovering over the tourist couple, and then began pecking and pulling at the woman’s hair. A scream and some obscenities followed, then running away, and more screaming. Her partner edged away. Then there was Mia, slowly moving into the area the couple occupied, trying to scoop up a pigeon as though she was trying to move a snowman’s midsection into place.

While mom and I decided that San Marco’s Basilica was more interesting, Mia continued her method acting to become a pigeon. Following them. Chasing them. Being pushed, or rather, being driven into them by her mom. She saw them go under a rail to where a fountain was. She wanted to follow them, but was restrained from trapping herself in the six inch space between the square and the railing.

The one thing that pigeon watching does is waste enough time for the lights to go on inside the Basilica, which only happens around noon. Ornate is not descriptive enough. Byzantine isn’t either. From just above head height all the way up is gold mosaics. There are some saints. And Jesus. And Gold. And Latin inscriptions. And more gold. Up uneven stairs lies the how-to of the mosaics and the original four horses stolen from Constantinople.

A Calatrava in Venice

One night we pulled out our books and started to read about the city. I read about the Constitution Bridge, made by Mr. Boon Doggle himself, Santiago Calatrava. It’s ratio is 16:1 which causes foundational issues unforeseen by the architect. The climate wrecks havoc on those glass steps by causing condensation and falling tourists. Tourists get their revenge by damaging the glass by dragging and dropping their luggage on the glass, to be replaced at 4,000-7,000 Euro a pop.

This sleek looking bridge, much like Calgary’s, is full of glass problems and going over budget. The city, according to the tourist book is hoping to claw back some money through litigation. But despite that, it is a nice looking bridge.

The red egg was also an afterthought. Much like looking across the Grand Canal wishing one took the easy way over, Calatrava neglected to take the easy way (I imagine) and incorporate a wheelchair ramp when he could. All in all, though, I am a huge fan of Calatrava bridges. They are breath of fresh air in the often sterile atmosphere of bridges.

Contrasts and Connections

Venice is a city of bridges and boats. It’s a city of connections, mostly foreign for everyone involved. It’s a city of contrasts, like Salute and San Marco. It is a city of golden eras when Venetian trade and art went to every corner of the earth, and now those corners of the earth come to Venice to see what once was, and what will be.

In a sottoportego or ruga or a ramo near the Rialto, there is an apocolyptic poster decrying the cruise ships that come and ruin the lagoon. There were greenpeace protests on the Salute steps decrying something about the water. Venice is contrast. The posters, in English, appealing to the destroyers to not destroy a city that they have sold to anyone and everyone. There are protests in Italian to those who either know the issues or make their livelihoods off the issues.

Days before we arrived, there was a high water warning for the city. The country has tried to build some device to keep the waters at bay but there is no way around it: this city of contrasts is devouring itself trying to be who it thinks it is.

A New Kind of Plague

It needs some sort of rescue from a plague that it has no cure for. It took many plagues, many years, and many deaths until people in the middle ages started understand disease, how it worked, how one could stop it, if that was even possible. Bloodletting existed for far longer than it should have, and the real John Snow wasn’t believed at first.

It was decades of learning the hard way, but I don’t know if the Serenissima has that long. I am, like a long list of blood letters and medieval doctors, believing that I am helping, and yet not knowing or having proof that it is so, or worse yet, not knowing how long the patient has.