Venice Days 4 and 5: Here There Be Jews

I found them! Granted, once you're in the right area, the Jews of Venice are sort of hard to miss. Tall men in black suits with fringes and big hats kind of stand out in a city of a thousand tourists in Universita di Venezia sweatshirts. The Jewish ghetto in Venice is old as dirt (turns out, dirt is only 800 years old! Makes you wonder what was under people's fingernails before then). I'd say old as Moses, but then we'd get into some unfortunate historical dilemmas that might make the universe unravel and no one wants that, especially because I haven't had dinner yet. Actually, the ghetto has three sections: Old Ghetto, Real Old Ghetto, and Dead Ghetto. Okay, not actually, but I felt the time had come for a Muppets reference. Parenthetically, (how fabulous would it be to have the Jewish quarter named according to old Muppet sketches? It'd be like a live version of that wonderfully ridiculous Passover Sesame Street episode we watched every year in Sunday School. Note to self: write Italian government. Further note to self: learn Italian).

Wow...where was I? Ah yes, where I usually am: Jews. The Jewish ghetto does indeed have three sections, but the names are much less interesting: Gheto Nuovo (New Ghetto), Gheto Vecchio (Old Ghetto), and a third section whose name escapes me, but was referred to as the 'Newest Ghetto' by a guy in my tour group, so we'll go with that. Gheto Nuovo is, naturally enough, older than Gheto Vecchio. On a completely, wholly unrelated note, why are there no great Italian mathematicians? Actually, the names sort of make sense since the foundry at which they established Gheto Vecchio was older than the one at Gheto Nuovo. Nevertheless, I can imagine that the names led to all sorts of hilarious mix-ups back in the day ("Wait, was tonight's sacrifice of Christian babies in the new old ghetto or the old new ghetto?").

Really, it's a good thing that it's impossible to get drunk on Manishewitz (the sugar coma comes first), because otherwise, no Jew would ever be able to find their way home in the ghetto. Backwards naming choices aside, there's also the fact that the synagogues look like run-down apartments from the outside, and Catholic shrines on the inside. 'Fraid I have no photos to share of the latter (not even the toilets, sorry Anthony) since we weren't allowed to take pictures inside the synagogues. But really, would I lie (cue Dick Van Patten in Spaceballs)? Since Jews weren't allowed to be architects back then (or now, but that's only because their parents make them go to law/med school), all of the buildings were designed by local goyim. The architects really did their best, adding in such traditional Jewish features as the Crushed Red Velvet Drapes of Aaron and the symbolic Garish Gold Accents of Abraham. Really, the only symbols they left out were the minor, unimportant like the Magen David (seriously, there was not a single one in any of the synagogues I visited). Even better, each place was decorated with actual Hebrew words! Since presumably the architects didn't speak Hebrew (and, if you recall, neither do I (unless you count the words to random dance songs)), I can't help but wonder if the words were actually just taken randomly from signs the artist saw on his way to work. Nothing like the sacred text "And God Said Cheap Circumcisions Sale on Bagels!" to get you in the mood for prayer.

The bizarre hybrid of Venetian and Jewish culture did yield some good results. Specifically, I am thinking of the gift shops (of course), where one could find such Jewish necessities as Murano glass chess sets, one done as Sephardi vs. Ashkenazi Jews and the other as Jews vs. Catholics. I was really tempted to get one for my father, but he is somewhat ridiculous when it comes to accepting gifts (as in, he won't do it unless all four female members of the nuclear family are glaring at him. No I don't get it either.). There is also a cute old/rare bookshop (between the ONE kosher restaurant and the ONE kosher grocery store in the entire damn city). It should come as a surprise to no one (unless you're new to this blog/me in which case, Hiya! sorry about all the puns) that, after four days of going into countless souvenir shops without getting so much as a postcard, on Friday I came out of the bookshop with 3 used paperbacks. It's a very good thing I did so, because I had checked out of the hostel that morning and was thus lugging my suitcase all over creation (Bereshit bara elohim...), so getting the books gave me an excuse to sit down in the ghetto courtyard and waste some time until my train at 9 pm. Hanging out in the courtyard turned out to be something like the best thing ever, since I got to observe the guys of the Chabad darting across the stone (Jews are very active at this time of year) and, once or twice, leading the tourists groups in spontaneous singing and dancing. Yes, it was fabulous.

My evening was unfortunately not so fabulous as, while on the train, I kept being woken up by masters students at the Academy of Surly Slavic-looking He-men. Really, border control was a model of post-Soviet efficiency; at every border, I was asked for my passport three different times by three different guards for a glance and a grunt, just in case I had sneaked on or changed identities in the five minutes since the previous guard grunted at me. Nevertheless, I once again made it back to Budapest safe, sound, sleepy, and completely unprepared to begin classes again. Sigh. Nothing so hard as saying "ciao" to Spring Break, except perhaps saying "szia" to 2 tests and 4 p-sets.