Indian Wells, Again



Practice Court



Our annual pilgrimage to the Indian Wells Tennis Garden was slightly distorted this year by our failure to make a reservation at our usual hotel early enough to beat the sell-out.  Consequently we were forced to book a room 20 miles away in Palm Springs.  The positive aspect of this was that we got to know a different part of the valley.  The negative was that we burned up a lot of gas and time going back and forth.  Our usual practice had been to fly in Thursday morning, check-in to the hotel, get some lunch, and then mosey over to the venue for an afternoon and evening of tennis.  But last year we felt a bit burnt out by the end of the weekend, so this time we decided to fly in Thursday afternoon and start the tournament on Friday. 

By the time we got to the hotel we were hungry, so we grabbed an early dinner at a pub in downtown Palm Springs. and then cruised out highway 111 through the heart of the valley to the Ralph’s near our usual hotel, which we knew stocked the Styrofoam coolers we always take to the venue.  We found the Coachella valley to be the opposite of Venice: hot, dry, spacious, full of cars, relentlessly modern and rootless.  We timed the trip and, because of all the stoplights, it took 45 minutes.  We already knew the venue was another 10 minutes from there.    



Tommy Haas



Because it took so long via 111, in the morning we detoured over to I-10, figuring it was farther, but faster.  But right after the Cook Street exit the traffic bogged down to stop-and-go and consequently, we got to the venue nearly an hour late and had to park in the overflow lot (like just about everywhere, the crowds get worse every year).  Calculating what would be the easiest match to get into at that point, we headed for Court 7 to see Tommy Haas play Nieminen.  Frieda’s always had a soft spot for Tommy because he’s so good-looking.  He got as high as number 2 in the world back in 2002 but he’s 33 years old now, in the twilight of his career, so we figured we may not have many more opportunities to see him play.  After witnessing his victory we moved next door to see the Latvian Gulbis play Llodra.  Gulbis is a talented underachiever, but both players were cranky, ragging on the ball kids as if it were their fault they weren’t playing better.  At one point Llodra turned to some Korean-American woman sitting near us who was rooting for his opponent and, in French, called her a Chinese whore.  Later we learned a journalist in the vicinity had overheard the slur and reported it to the referee, who assessed a $2500 fine, about 20% of what Llodra earned for winning the match.  We finished the day back on Court 7 where the Australian phenom Bernard Tomic was scheduled to play the dangerous floater Gilles Muller, from Luxembourg.  When we got there the promising young American Sloan Stephens was playing the 18^th seed Angelique Kerber.  Stevens was in total control until she served for the match at 5-1 in the second set.  Then she abruptly imploded, allowing Kerber to win 6 straight games, the set, and, ultimately, the match.  Tomic likewise seemed to have everything under control until the 2^nd set tiebreak when he had a meltdown.  In the final set he completely lost his way, not winning a single game.  In both cases the turnarounds seemed to have more to do with the mental fragility of these young, inexperienced players than with any lack of ability. 

Sloane Stephens

On Saturday the freeway was clear and we arrived early, nailing down good seats in Stadium 3 for Gasquet, followed by Schiavone.  Neither of these matches proved interesting however, so we bailed on the latter to catch the end of Mahut/Monaco on Court 6.  We weren’t much interested in this match, either, but were after good seats for the following doubles featuring the Ukrainian Alexandr Dolgopolov and the Belgian Malisse against Mahut/Simon.  Dolgopolov, “the Dog,” is currently Frieda’s favorite player.  He has a quirky, unconventional game that is a hoot to watch.  We saw he and Malisse play doubles last year and it was fabulous (see my post “Indian Wells 2” in March of last year).  They ended up winning the tournament.  On that occasion there were only about 50 people watching, but this time the court was utterly jam-packed, not a vacant seat, with people crammed into the entrances waiting (and hoping) to get in.  Those lucky enough to succeed saw a delightfully entertaining contest, with shots that made you ooh and ah and laugh out loud.  The most enthralling match we saw. 



The Dog



On Sunday we got to the venue even earlier to get the best possible seats for the Frenchman Monfils (a great showman) against the veteran Davydenko.  After waiting for over an hour, Davydenko showed up with a lucky loser from Qualifying.  It turned out Monfils had withdrawn due to a stomach virus that was decimating the players.  As Monfils was who we had come to see, we regretfully abandoned our perfect seats and went next door to see Tommy Haas again.  Because it took a while for people to figure out what was going on, we still got excellent seats for this one, but Tommy lost.  Frieda wanted to just stay there (Court 7) all day, because the last match on the schedule was the Dog vs. Darcis.  It turned out they moved the second match to another court, so we went straight to the 3^rd match, Verdasco/Sweeting, and then the Murray brothers played doubles against another team from Great Britain.  The place really jammed up after that because Americans Isner and Querrey were expected to play doubles against Melzer and Baghdatis, but again the officials moved the match because Melzer was still playing a singles bout on another court, and so Darcis and the Dog came on early, which suited me to a T, because I was ready to get out of there, go get some dinner, and hit the road to our hotel in Ontario (we were staying there overnight and catching an early morning flight on Monday).  The Dog started off strong, got up an early break, and seemed in control, but then Darcis broke back and sent the set into a tiebreak.  This was a seesaw affair of shouting and groaning, with no one able to close it out until Darcis finally dropped the hammer at 13-11.  However, the Dog came back strong in the second set, breaking Darcis twice and closing it out at 6-3.  But then Darcis took command in the 3^rd and it looked like the Dog was going down with Darcis serving for the match at 5-3.  Instead, he faltered, the Dog came barking back and won 4 straight games to close the set at 7-5 and take the match.  It was an exciting, edge-of-your-seat affair and a fitting end for our tournament. 

 

Carnevale

Sunday morning from our apartment

Saturday was the first day of Carnevale.  We took a vaporetto to St. Marks to see what was happening and found a number of people braving the cold, some of them in costumes, and several announcers on the stage keeping up a steady patter.  But there wasn’t enough going on to hold us so we hopped another boat back to Rialto and Osteria alla Ciurma for bacala mantecato and spritzes, and then went to Do Spade for lunch.  Afterward we tried to walk around a bit, but it was just too arctic.  For a week now I had been hoping the weather would break and we would get at least a couple of nice days out of the 10 we were there, but we were running out of time and it wasn’t happening.  So we stayed in again in the evening, even though we were starting to go a bit stir crazy because there was nothing much to do there (the TV didn’t work and our internet connection was intermittent) and we were wasting our time in Venice, but it was just too damn cold to go out. 

A chilly night on Strada Nuova

In the morning we woke up to snow and an almost solid coat of slushy ice on the canal in front of our apartment.  When I looked out the window, my heart sank.  Our time in Venice was almost gone and we just could not get a break from the relentless cold.  Nonetheless we sucked it up and went out anyway, catching a boat to St. Marks for the ceremony of the Descent of the Angel.  A lot more people turned out for this and the square was almost packed, despite the snow and cold.  Many people had on costumes, most of them the traditional 18^th century style (the 18^th century was the height of Carnevale, when it went on for months, and entailed a lot of anonymous sex, which led to an epidemic of syphilis).  Without really understanding the background of the event, we nevertheless caught the excitement of the occasion as they shoved some poor girl out of the Campanile and she dangled there with her skirt blowing over her head in the frigid breeze some 300 feet above the pavement on a steel cable.  There was a lot of screaming and cheering as she slowly slid down the cable to the big stage.  But it was still extremely cold, so after the ceremony we took a boat back to Cannaregio and had lunch at a place across the canal from the entrance to our neighborhood.  Afterward we walked up the Rio de Spagna and actually had some gelato.  Given the cold, it was hard to get in the mood for it, but our departure date was approaching and I couldn’t leave without having had some.  Later, after dark, because it was our next to last night and we were sick of being cooped up in the apartment every night, we braved the frigid conditions and took a stroll down the Strada Nuova.  Maybe I was starting to get used to it but it actually didn’t seem that bad.  At least there was no wind.  We went into a shop and I bought Frieda a dress and a scarf.  Then we found a bar and had a couple of spritzes (a couple apiece, that is) and watched the people (some in costumes) come and go while Gotye and Avicii played on the sound system. 

The next day, Monday, was the best weather of the trip. It was the break we had been hoping for, the beginning of a warming trend that, sadly, came too late for us.   The sun was out, there was no wind, and it was so warm that I actually didn’t wear a hat.  It might have gotten close to 40 degrees.  We went back to the square, and this time the costumes were unbelievable, fantastic.  We had seen the crude, corny costumes on a par with Halloween in the States on Saturday, and the traditional 18^th century-style costumes on Sunday, but now we saw conceptual costumes that were dazzlingly creative, elaborate, and intricate, costumes that were thematic and some of which looked as though they had required many, many hours to conceive and execute, and maybe hours to don.  We stayed in the square all day and shot about 300 photos in an attempt to capture the magnificence and splendor of the masquerade, as well as the magic of the occasion layered onto the ubiquitous, everyday magic of Venice.  Frieda was so blown away by the artistry of the costumes she actually suggested that, despite all the discomfort and frustration we had been through on this trip and our vow to make the next winter trip to warmer climes, we return next year for the entire duration of Carnevale.  I looked at her like she’d lost her mind, yet I understood.  The color and grandiosity of the costumes evoked and amplified the unique enchantment of Venice, and brought us back under its spell.  

For more photos of the costumes of Carnevale, visit my Flickr page: http://www.flickr.com/photos/75896250@N06/sets/72157629536035111/