My husband’s grandfather was Venetian, and a champion rower. In 1946, when he won a Regata Storica, World War II had recently come to a close, a city of Venice’s coffers were empty, and his endowment was a gondolier’s license. At a time, there was small tourism in Venice, and few rich families could means a personal gondolier. Lupo, as he was known, would have elite a money esteem like those he’d won before a war. However, he set a permit aside (decades after it would be handed down to his son and afterwards to my husband) and he continued to grind his farmland in Treporti–a remote firth city that currently is a 40 notation ferryboat float from Venice’s chronological center. Lupo’s earthy strength, technique, speed, and his livelihood, came from rowing his vessel filled with uninformed furnish that same distance, each day. He knew a best approach to sell his furnish during a good cost was to arrive early, and first. Venice, her islands, her firth and her land were Lupo’s lifeline.
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