Dec 23

Dec 23 The Acqua Alta

“First the tide rushes in
Plants a kiss on the shore
Then rolls out to sea
And the sea is very still once more
So I rush to your side
Like the oncoming tide
With one burning thought
Will your arms open wide
At last we’re face to face
And as we kiss through an embrace
I can tell, I, I can feel
You are love, you are real”

— Ebb Tide, The Righteous Brothers (1965)

Imagine what living in Miami, Reykjavík, or the Maldives will be like when sea levels rise, as they inevitably will given the world’s halting pace in dealing with climate change, particularly with the Orange One denying that there is a problem, and even exacerbating it by repealing environmental regulations, withdrawing the United States from the Paris Climate Accords, and lionizing carbon-based fuels. When I thought about it, I had always assumed climate change was binary—areas will either be inhabitable or uninhabitable. Having just spent four days experiencing Venice’s Acqua Alta, I now realize that rising seas do not present a simple stay-or-abandon choice. The Venetians have normalized the flood waters that arrive each November and last until January, much like Midwesterners have normalized snow. As I discovered, life goes on despite flooded streets and squares, which it must given that the flood waters don’t recede for several hours (when I was there, until late morning or just past noon).

The phenomenon is nothing new. Lord Byron wrote his Ode on Venice in 1818 during his three-year stay in the city, but Venetians have been subjected to rising flood waters for centuries. In 1966, the water rose to 194 cm (just over seven feet), setting a record for the modern era, which was almost surpassed on November 12th of this year, when levels rose to 187 centimeters.

With reports of flood waters dating to 589 AD, the Acqua Alta is obviously not solely attributable to climate change. It occurs due to the interaction of winds known as the scirocco (which blow northerly along a major axis of the Adriatic basin), the tides, the shape of what is known as the Lagoon surrounding Venice, recurring oscillations attributable to the narrow shape of the Adriatic, the man-made industrial area of Port Marghera, and the low lying land. But at the end of the day, climate change is amplifying the effects of the factors that historically have been the cause. The record set in 1966 will be broken. It is just a matter of time.

Two and half hours before the waters begin to fill St. Mark’s Square — Venice’s lowest spot — a warning sounds. It starts as a familiar siren sound, but after a brief pause, something akin to the tone poem used in Steven Spielberg’s Close Encounter of the Third Kind fills the city’s darkness. If just the siren sounds, the tide is expected to rise to 110 centimeters (43 inches) above the zero benchmark. If four notes sound after the initial siren, water levels are expected to rise to 140 centimeters (47 inches) above the benchmark. At one time, the Venetian authorities tried using the familiar notes from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons to signal the impending flood, but the public (and presumably visitors) found it confusing. The authorities want people putting on their boots, not their flocked wigs.

The official measurements are made at a hydrographic station just off the point where the Basilica di Santa Maria della Salute rests, which is across the Grand Canal from St. Mark’s Square. During my stay, the four notes sounded each morning, signaling 55 inches of tidal water (just shy of six feet) above the benchmark.

The night before my first encounter with the floodwaters, I bought a pair of disposable rubber boots from a tabac shop. In India, when you buy bottled water, you have to make sure you aren’t buying a resealed plastic bottle that has been refilled with diarrhea-inducing tap water. When I opened the plastic wrap around the boots at 5:30 AM, I realized similar precautions must be taken in Venice: I had bought a used pair of disposable boots, which were still filled with water from the last tidal surge. I didn’t repeat my mistake the next day: I bought my disposable boots from the hotel. Those boots had a nice set of nylon ties to better seal the tops. On the third morning, the hotel realized I was serious about experiencing the phenomenon, so the woman at the front desk lent me a pair of Wellingtons (or Wellies, as they were known by 19th Century British aristocracy). My hotel’s front door was three feet from the Grand Canal, so my patron saint advised me to put one hand on the wall as I walked along the stone pathway before I turned a corner that would lead me away from the Grand Canal—”hew the fondamenta if you can’t see the white stripe painted on the walkway to indicate the drop-off point between a canal and the walkway.” She didn’t want me to find myself accidentally submerged in a canal.

On my first outing, I immediately understood why water aerobics is such an effective exercise routine. Walking in a foot and half of water is quite a challenge, but after a few wrong turns, I managed to find my way to St. Mark’s Square. When the level hits 140 centimeters, 40% to 45% of the city experiences flooding, but St Mark’s floods in any Acqua Alta.

When I arrived at St. Mark’s, only one set of raised masonite walkways had been assembled. The individual sections are stacked at strategic locations throughout the city, with the police and municipal workers arranging them as needed. Unfortunately, I had arrived at an entrance point far from the walkway, so I went for it, wading into the water. My feet were instantly covered with the sewage-filled waters from the Adriatic; the cold ran from my toes up my legs just below my knees. Not so bad: I was already soaked by the driving rain. Much to my surprise, there were about 15 photographers with cameras mounted on tripods hoping to obtain a photograph of St. Mark’s Basilica without vendor carts or people in the scene. There was one idiot parading about in the water seperating the portico-covered photographers and the Basilica on the opposite end of the square. The next morning I headed out with tripod, not to be outdone. I had decided to travel light on my first morning, but you do what you have to do to capture the image. I was lucky. I was the only photographer out that day and nobody was prancing in the square.

On the third morning, I headed to the Rialto Bridge, which is Venice’s tourist epicenter. Because the waters were expected to peak at 10:30 AM and the day was cloudless, I was able capture the Noah-like experience in bright sunlight rather than in the dark with pounding rain that makes it impossible to change lenses. The first day, I used a shower cap from the my room to protect my cameras from the rain, but keeping nothing I did kept the lenses spotless.

I now saw how Venice’s residents had become inured to the flood waters. Some folks met for their morning coffee in cafes, sitting around a table sipping their espressos and reading the morning paper while the water rose around them. The many workmen who keep Venice’s centuries-old buildings from collapsing headed to work with their tools in hand or overhead. Deliveries did not stop. Workers were pushing hand trucks with plastic cases protecting the goods from the sewage and pond scum floating on the water’s surface, although some deliverymen just carted unprotected cardboard boxes. I hope those boxes were not from the Italian equivalent to BH Photo and Video.

Those headed to the airport with roll-aboards relied on the walkways, although some folks just dragged their luggage through the water. Elegantly attired shop owners manned the bilge pumps to deal with the water that had flooded jewelry and other boutiques despite the metal barriers and sandbags that had been strategically placed the night before.

The streets may be flooded, but dogs still need to go out in the morning to relieve themselves. Dog walkers carry their dogs to the nearest dry square rather than subject their beasts and home furnishing to the murky waters—often yellowish brown, but sometimes a milky white turquoise if in the sunlight is hitting the surface. I felt bad for the dogs, but not for their owners. Not all Venetians pick up after their dogs—as I can attest to after a walk back to the hotel on my first night in the city—so the water does contain animal waste.

Throughout my six-day visit, I spoke with residents about their experiences. Shop owners and restaurant owners took out their phones to play videos showing the water levels in their spaces during the November record-setting flood. When I entered the Libreria Acqua Alta, a noteworthy bookstore, I was greeted with the pungent smell of mildew, only to see a staff member still sorting through water-logged books a month after the flood that had caught the world’s attention. One photography gallery was selling at a deep discount what would have been beautiful photographic monographs. I wasn’t buying. The rippled pages were still damp and smelled of dirty water.

One clerk at my hotel’s reception desk played a video showing two feet of water in the lobby. You would never guess that the wainscoting had been ravaged by flood waters. The manager told me that the lobby was cleared, cleaned, and restored back to normal within 24 hours after the water levels peaked. During the four- day period that I experienced the Acqua Alta, the staff stacked the furniture nightly, and the power for the elevator was cut before the waters rose each morning, but was quickly restored after there was no longer a threat.

The flood waters do pose one problem for commuters: The vaporettos (water buses), which run as frequently as Chicago’s 135 and 146 buses during morning commute, cease to operate because they can’t clear the bridges, particularly the Ponte delle Guglie, which spans the Cannaregio Canal. The vaporetto line which services Venice’s airport passes under that bridge, which explains why I took the 6 AM vaporetto to the airport on the fourth day of the Acqua Alta even though my flight was not until 12:20 PM. By 7:30 AM, the vaporetto would stop running.

It was on the third day that I experienced the Acqua Alta in all its glory. Deciding to get out of the water when I reached a walkway, I put one foot up on the masonite walkway, and dipped every so slightly with my other leg to gain the leverage necessary for propelling the rest of my body up onto the walkway. At first, I felt my now cold and wet boxer shorts clinging to my thigh, and then I felt wet cold surrounding my balls—ah, the thought of dipping those precious jewels in sewage-filled water (Hello, George Costanza). But I persevered, staying out another hour. At one point, I was back in the water, wading down a narrow street, when I thought about getting back up on the elevated walkway. I once again posted one foot on the walkway, but then returned it to the water. A woman passing me in the opposite direction, smiled, and said in Italian-accented English, “Sometimes it isn’t worth walking on the boards.” We both laughed.

Each day upon returning to the hotel, I went straight to my room, turning toward the bathroom. I peeled my clothes off, and jumped in the shower. It took three head-to-toe washings to disinfect and clean myself. By the time I had eaten breakfast and hit the street again, the waters were gone.

From my vantage point, the Acqua Alta experience was a trip highlight. I certainly would and plan to go back to experience it again, although this time I will bring fly-fisherman waders. For the residents of Venice, the Acqua Alta is increasingly a big headache that is morphing into what could be an insurmountable problem. And for the rest of the world and those who will be here long after I am gone, the phenomenon portends disaster around the globe. At this time of year, the Acqua Alta synbolizes the ghost of Christmas Future.

Cover Photograph of Jack B. Siegel, Courtesy of Evelyn Brody. While I was in the shower, Evelyn cleaned and dried out my clothes. She spent great effort wringing out the yellow sludge in my socks. Thank you, Evelyn.

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