Not a tool. Not really, at least. Rather, an extension of one’s personality, like an accessory, a car, a dog, or even a house. Because, as well as being an object in and of itself, it is also a container and a carrier of one’s preferences, appetites, and whims. It is a statement born of a need for practicality in a place where very few things are, indeed, practical. Where life teaches you to bite off only what you can chew. It is the most Venetian thing of all, and Venetians are, in so many ways—and for the hunger spurred by all the steps they take in a day—bite-y.
It is, in a word, the carrello.
Who carries a carrello in Venice? A better question would be: who doesn’t? Those who don’t live here. Those who haven’t been here long enough to see the need for it. Those who still dismiss it as something only the elders might use—fools! Novices! The carrello, in its essence, transcends both generations and gender. If you pay enough attention—walking down the calle, listening for the rattling wheels that are not from tourist trolleys but from local carts; entering a supermarket and seeing them parked by the entrance, ready to be filled with provisions; or watching as their owners lean on them while waiting for their turn at the mercato del pesce—you’ll notice that there is, in truth, no archetype for the person with a carrello. It is democratic. It is quintessential.
If we accept the premise that a carrello is an extension of one’s personality, then its variations are potentially infinite, and one’s choice of this faithful companion reveals not just taste but also experience—experience of hauling stuff up and down bridges. Those who have earned their stripes and lived long enough, if not forever, in this city of steps may have upgraded to a model with three wheels and a hook, allowing them to harpoon the marble edge of the Rialto Bridge for more leverage on the way back from the market. Those who prioritise practicality might opt for a sturdy, waterproof version made from a plastic-like material. And those who prefer to keep a low profile may choose theirs in demure colours. Some, on the other hand, have no desire to blend in at all, sporting bold patterns and neon shades that make their carrello stand out in the queue at the till.
At the opposite end of the spectrum are those who care deeply about style and will gladly sacrifice a little practicality for an item that perfectly complements their put-togetherness—their silk scarves, pearl earrings, and even the entrance to their home. For them, the ultimate statement piece is a carrello fashioned from wicker or leather, or perhaps both—the epitome of elegance and timelessness.
If you see such a carrello being pulled down the street, it’s easy to imagine its destination: first, the finest butcher; then the good cheese shop near the Erberia; and finally, the fruit and vegetable stall just around the corner, in front of the covered fish market. One can’t help but be carried away, picturing the meals that will be conjured once its contents are emptied onto the kitchen table. And just as easily comes the temptation to know more about its owner—their life, their daily routines, the rhythm of their errands as they step back and forth over their threshold. To imagine, even for a moment, what it might be like to walk in their shoes—likely, if not invariably, some velvet friulane, when not a pair of sprightly sneakers.
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Shaping Spaces is a series investigating the ever-elusive idea of space and the concept of enoughness in relation to life in Venice. By observing how we exist within it—we, all of us: locals and visitors, young and old, individuals and the collective, fast- and slow-moving bodies and objects—we can, on one hand, begin to grasp its underlying paradigms, the silent rules that govern it; and on the other, shift our perception and, perhaps, our way of inhabiting it. Read more.
Words by Valeria Necchio | Photos by Giacomo Gandola
