These are from Cassie's Venice travelogue:
2012-0315 Soaking up Italy
I spent a day in Italy once. Left at dawn, lunched in Rome and was back home in Paris for dinner. I saw nothing of Italy.
Today, we are spending almost 10 hours on two trains, drinking in swaths of Italy, and a nice little white bordeaux for lunch. Splitting through spectacular, snow-capped Italian alps, across countless streams and rivers, sun streaming through the broad TGV windows. Despite occasional peaks at my Blackberry, my mind melted in a most pleasant way. Traveling, being taken completely out of one's day-to-day environment cleanses the spirit so. And I particularly love train travel. It provides a decompression period between real life and the destination. A flight would have bought us more time in Venice, but a more harried, rushed travel experience. Definitely a good trade-off.
There was some kind of delay, either a customs check or rail traffic problem -- it wasn't clear -- that put us a half hour late into the Milano Garibaldi station. We had about 20 minutes to find our next train, which would have been just fine except we discovered that our connection to Venice LEFT FROM ANOTHER TRAIN STATION!! We quickly found our way from the platform into the station and hustled to the taxi stand. We hopped into a brand new Chevrolet taxi, I showed the driver our train ticket and stammered, "Milano Centrale," and we were off.
Taxi drivers shouldn't toy with frantic American tourists. That's not nice. We asked how long/far to the station, he mumbled something that sounded like "years" as we sat through two red lights. I began to accept that we would miss our connection and will there to be a later train. Sitting in the front seat, Sid engaged in small talk: the driver had been to Virginia once to visit Monticello (which sounds so much better with an Italian accent), and he loves Chevrolet, correcting me when I asked if they weren't the company owned by Fiat. "No, it is General Motors. General Motors IS America."
Then suddenly, we were there. It was only about a 10-minute ride, and I started to breathe normally again, not realizing I had been holding my breath. We were going to make it.
I took command and marched the troops forward. First to a departures board: platform 11. Next, following the signs to the "treni," we came upon the platforms. I punched the ticket then we strode down the platform to car 2. Finally, we located our seats and settled in. Whew.
I was grateful for the opportunity to use the water closet, and even that was an experience. When I reached to put the seat down, it would not stay down. A spring-loaded seat designed to stay UP! That was a first. I was able to hold it down until I sat, but it leapt up my ass at the first decrease in pounds per square inch. I am apparently not in France any more.
Something salty or sweet? A man was asking what kind of snack I might like. Salty, of course. And bubbly, please. He gave me a pack of salty crunchy things (my favorite!) and poured a prosecco, Italian champagne. "On the house," he said, " to welcome you onboard."
Now, 50 minutes into our 2-1/2 hour journey, happy hour has begun, those introductory beverages replaced with a Birra Moretti for Sid, and a demi-bouteille of Berlucchi Prosecco for me. As the collines roll by outside our window, and the sun begins its descent behind them, Italy is soaking me up.
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2012-0315 Our Home in Venice
We arrived at the Venice Mestre station right on time, at 6:28 p.m. After being swept along with the crowd toward what I hoped was the right direction, we located a ticket office for the shuttle train onto the island. Sid purchased four tickets and consulted the small monitor the young woman pointed out. The next shuttle departed in four minutes. We hopped on, found two pairs of seats and rumbled across the water for about 10 minutes until we were deposited into our fifth station of the day, Santa Lucia.
We found a bank of ticket windows and purchased four 36-hour vaporetti tix. Vaporetti are a fleet of "motorized bus boats" that traverse the Canal Grande. They serve the same purpose, but are the poorer cousins of the sleeker catamarans that ferry people up and down the River Thames in London. There's a fast boat and a slow boat, roughly equivalent of the metro and the RER in Paris, respectively: Line 1 boats take about 45 minutes and make every stop along the way, while Line 2 boats make very few stops and, as the Rick Steve's travel guide says, zip down the canal in only 25 minutes. It took about half an hour on the slow boat to get to the Accademia bridge stop, where we got off.
Even when you pack light, the lightest carry-on becomes a luggable rock at the end of a very long travel odyssey. We had packed our family of four into two small roller bags, and one backpack or shoulder bag each. But across cobblestone streets and labyrinthine Viennese alleys in the dark, we might as well have been carrying hard-shell Samsonite steamer trunks for how weary we were. Continuously turning the map in my hands, we finally arrived at the Rio Terra San Vio. Alas, we had no street number, so we blindly plunged down the street and there it was: a small green awning with white lettering, Ca' del Brocchi http://www.cadelbrocchi.com. What a relief.
Until I rang the buzzer. No answer. That's when I noticed the sign: if guests arrive after 7 at night, they should please call one of the numbers listed in order to check in. Deep breath. Dialed the first of three numbers.
"I be there in tree minutes, OK?" said a male voice. I began to sense that things were looser here in Italy, even more so than in Paris. So, there we stood, in the quiet, empty, dark street waiting. About three minutes later a male figure walked toward us. He introduced himself as Nicolo, the name of our street back in Paris. A good sign. We checked in, he explained the features of the inn, then showed us to our room.
The room turned out to be an apartment. His family had owned the inn for...a long time. We had a "quad": two bedrooms, a living-dining room with kitchenette, and a two-room bath suite: one room with sink and washer-dryer combo, and second room with sink, toilette, bidet and shower. Nicolo took great pains to show me the hair dryer. "Very important, " he said. I heartily agreed.
He wished us a buono serra, then we set out in search of dinner. Nicolo had pointed us to a family restaurant that was not expensive called San Trovaso. As we closed in on the location he'd marked on our map, I recognized with dread the growing din of raucous children's voices. The same obnoxious group of about 50 French elementary schoolchildren that accosted us on the vaporetto had chosen to dine in the same place Nicolo had recommended. What luck.
It took the waiter some time to configure a table for us. But eventually we were seated and enjoyed our first authentic Italian meal: bowls of spaghetti with butter and parmesan for the guys, chicken Milanese and spaghetti bolognese for Sid, and chicken limone for me. Simple, hearty fare for tired, hungry people. The noise level was most noticeable when the screeching ended upon their departure.
We walked back to our apartment, down many alleys, over footbridges and thru passageways. We were all in bed by 11, uncharacteristically early, particularly for Kian and Niall, who rarely retire before 1 a.m. We slept well and truly our first night in our Venice home.
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2012-0316 Waking up in Venice
Two things one notices immediately upon waking in Venice: it's quiet and there are no clocks in our apartment. This is a pedestrian city; there are no automobiles of any kind, so it is incredibly quiet. Smith Mountain Lake quiet. Darlington Heights quiet. And even here in the small dining room for petite dejeuner, the only noises are the birds chirping outside, and the sounds of a light breakfast being served and cleaned up by Monica, a lovely woman who hums and laughs as she drifts in and out of the 10-person room.
Breakfast is served here at the Ca del Brocchi (ca, pronounced "sah" is short for casa) from 8 til 10. Warm rolls, packaged pastries, yogurts, and a variety of condiments including, incongruously, Philly cream cheese. Even more surprising than the Philly, were the stuffed croissants; prepackaged croissants stuffed with fruit or cream filling. The snobbier of my French friends would be appalled, both by the shelf life and the tampering of what is an already perfect thing.
After breakfasting and showering (and obligatory use of the hair dryer that Nicolo had so proudly pointed out), we ventured forth into the brilliantly sunny day by 11. We strolled back through the same alleys that, on the previous dark and tiring night seemed almost foreboding, lingering at a few store windows. In the mid-morning sun, the charm of the cencaptivating path was captivating. We stumbled upon our target: the Peggy Guggenheim Collection. She of the famous old American moneyed family had bought a crumbling palazzo on the grand canal in 1948, moved in, restored it, and opened it to the public a year later with an exhibition of sculptures in the garden. The sculptures stand today and the garden is absolutely stunning yet serene, with contemporary pieces such as Giacometti's "Woman Walking" juxtaposed with the wishing tree, a live olive tree gifted to her by Yoko Ono in 2003. We each wrote and hung our wishes on the tree. What a lovely idea I'd like to emulate in my own landscape.
We spent most of the day there, including lunch so we wouldn't have to leave before we saw everything. She lived large and audacious and was a "mistress of modernism," as a 2004 biography describes her.
After purchasing some keepsakes in the museum store (two posters of Magritte's "Empire of Light", two T-shirts, two books, and a gorgeous cloth bag to carry our souvenirs back to Paris), we dropped our treasure back at the apartment, where I discovered a couple of urgent messages from work. I'd missed them since I'd checked my handbag at the Guggenheim some hours earlier.
Turns out the CEO of the North American business had left the company that morning, and the COO was taking his place. Instead of spending the afternoon at San Marco's square, Sid and I went for happy hour while Kian and Niall took a video game break at the apartment. Two Bellinis and multiple phone calls later, we went back to the shops I'd scoped earlier. I bought a Murano glass pendant, a stunning multiple-stranded beaded necklace you tie like a scarf, and gifts for my goddess buddies. I have an eye on still other gifts...
As Sid went for pizzas for the guys, I went in search of a grocery to buy more affordable bottles of wine than those found in a bar for the room. I didn't find the store, but found another place where I bought a couple of Diet Cokes and two demi-bouteilles of Italian wine for less than 20 euros.
Luckily, I also found a pizzeria on the Lagoon side (body of water on the south side of the island), because the place Sid went to had closed early despite his checking with the guy that morning (told you things were looser here). The back-up pizzeria was delicious. The guys had Marguerita pizzas, Sid had a Marguerita pizza with Viennese sausages (frankfurters), and I had an excellent veal scaloppine with asparagus, and spaghetti with the best tomato sauce ever. (Add a little butter, our server said.) We had a very pleasant server, a woman who loved the twins and spoke the international language of motherhood. She knew exACTly what I meant when I asked for a BIG glass of wine. Like Monica back at the inn, she laughed heartily with me, seeming to share the inside joke of presiding over the men in one's home.
Then who walked in but our own Nicolo! This place must be good, we congratulated ourselves. We waved to him and he and the server came over. Apparently they are good friends and she scolded him for not telling us about this place, that we had to find it by chance. "Yes, is very good for pizza," he said, clearly not recommending the rest of their menu. He nodded politely when I told him my veal was delicious. He left with three pizzas. The genial, table-side conversation made us feel like locals.
I rarely get dessert, preferring salty over sweet for the indulgent calories, but I ordered a Coppa Crema Pistacchio, or something along those lines. OMG. If cheesecake were ice-cream, it would still not come close. Incredible.
We're all tired after a day of endless walking in a pedestrian city that is anything but, Sid's snoring at 10:15, the guys are quietly talking and playing in their room, and my head is minutes from the pillow and crisp white sheets in my baroque bedroom. Still, I look forward to waking up to Venice again.
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2012-0317 Saturday Morning in Venice
This must be the quietest city on the planet. It's quite strange to realize that we have not seen a single vehicle of any kind since Thursday evening, when a bus was headed to the island alongside our shuttle train on a bridge parallel to the train tracks. When was the last time you went days without seeing, hearing or smelling a car, a truck or motorcycle? It's strange but certainly not not unpleasant.
That makes daily living here for the few actual residents harder, since absolutely everything they need must be brought in, which makes things slower, costlier and harder. I watched a number of boats pull alongside the concrete sidewalks and piers and toss boxes up to someone standing by, who loaded them onto hand-carts and wheeled them off through otherwise impenetrable routes to deliver goods and supplies to stores, restaurants, businesses and homes. I wondered if there were any UPS guys zipping around these canals in the famous brown-branded boats: "What can brown do for you, signore?"
Just as you can usually tell tourists from those who live in Paris, residents here are seen lugging plastic grocery sacks, pulling wheeled market baskets or carrying only a pocketbook or briefcase, as opposed to the visitors juggling camera bags and boxy paper shopping bags. And you feel for the locals, especially the older ones, who must buy only what they can carry -- not to the car or onto the metro, but by foot through winding paths, over bridges and up and down stairs, not to mention on and off bobbing boats. Let's not even think about those wielding kids in strollers.
Of course, despite the hardship of no motorized conveyance, the Venetians enjoy the luxury of silence, and of safe streets in which they stroll and play without worry. Even as I write this at the kitchen table, children play outside the window, making shooting and explosion sounds, play soldiers dodging each other instead of traffic.
We enjoyed breakfast with Monica again this morning. More warm rolls, yogurt with honey, and coffee. After Kian and Niall went back to the apartment to shower, Sid and I remained so I could use the wi-fi, available only in the reception area. I wished him a happy birthday. Monica kissed him on both cheeks. We told her we'd gone to the Guggenheim yesterday. Like my friend Frank, she does not like it. She prefers the old masters of Venice. We asked what her favorite museum is.
"I have not time for museums," she said. She works at the 'Ca del Brocchi from 8 a.m. until 7 p.m., then works at another hotel near Saint Mark's Square at night. She gets only 3-4 hours of sleep a night. She has a son here, and a mother and sister back in Romania, where she's from. She supports all of them, in addition to paying 800 euros a month rent plus utilities. It reminded Sid and me of the Gillian Welch song that we cover called "One More Dollar." It's about working people who are forced to leave their homes for where the jobs are, not unlike the cleaning woman in Paris who came from the Philippines because she could not get work there.
She asked us not to tell Nicolo. "He is crazy. He thinks money is raining. Raining, raining, raining," she said, making raindrop motions with her hands. It is a lot of hard work, we sympathized; although I felt a bit guilty for my well-paid job that enables me to treat my family to a holiday in this beautiful city that she cannot afford the time or energy to enjoy. Then again, that's what enables her employment.
She didn't dwell on her plight. She continued removing the breakfast things and hummed a few bars of "Happy Birthday," and we all chuckled. I folded up the iPad (almost half a month's rent for her, I couldn't help thinking), and we returned to the apartment to get ready for the day. We had a birthday to celebrate.
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2012-0317 Venetian Birthday
We marked Sid's last 50-something birthday by exploring Saint Mark's Square. It took only an hour or so to take all the photos and video we wanted, amid the madding crowd. As crowded as it was now during the off-season, I can't imagine how insufferably packed and hot it must be during the peak summer season.
The facade of St. Mark's baroque basilica is redolent with colorful frescoes, fancy filigree, great bronze horses, massive marble columns, multiple bulbous domes. According to Rick Steve's 2012 guide to Venice, Mark Twain described the concoction as "a vast warty bug taking a meditative walk." I would describe it as a pile of giant, stiff, tattooed albino porcupines who are too fat to move. It wasn't as spectacularly grand as I'd expected, having seen it in countless movies. I was reminded of my first time in Notre Dame in Paris: a disappointing experience of people peddling candles and hawking prayer books as soon as I walked in the massive doors. I thought Jesus had set a clear precedent regarding money changers in the temple. Similarly, St. Mark's basilica is one of the worst spots for pickpockets in Venice. Perhaps Piazza San Marco is best left on the cinema house screen.
There was a large tract of bright yellow bistro tables and chairs -- a vast sidewalk cafe -- with live piano music. I convinced Sid that we should splurge and have a beverage break as part of the Venice experience. Plus, it was another sunny if cool day, and a prime people-watching venue. Two Schweppes ginger ales, one Coke and a prosecco later, we left 50 euros lighter. That's right: 10-euro sodas. "Is that the best Coke you've ever had?" I asked him. "Absolutely," he said.
We hopped back on the vaporetto to our 'hood, where we took Kian and Niall for lunch at The Neighborhood Pub, site of yesterday's happy hour. I swear they have the best sandwiches I've ever had. The light, flaky crust on my primavera pocket was superb -- with whole nuts and grains -- and filled with a robustly herbed spinach and ricotta mixture that was light yet satisfying, and perfectly complemented with a glass of Pinot Grigio. Kian and Niall each had a breaded chicken cutlet sandwich on "soft and chewy" bread very much to their liking. Sid had a toasted mountain of layered prosciutto, turkey and fresh mozzarella on wonderfully light, herbed ciabatta bread. A simple but memorable lunch for four that cost less than 30 euros.
On the way to the vaporetto pier, we stopped and purchased the print that Sid had been eyeing since our arrival for his birthday. When framed, it will be a beautiful memento of this birthday trip for him. Kian and Niall picked out miniature framed prints for their friends back in Lynchburg.
We boarded the next boat at our nearby Accademia Bridge stop and traversed the entire canal down to the Lido then back up to Piazzale Roma, one stop beyond the shuttle train station where we arrived on Thursday night and first stepped on a vaporetto. There we purchased tickets for the bus back to Venice Mestre station Monday morning instead of taking the shuttle train again. Turns out there's no easy way to get to the train station early enough to make our 7:10 a.m. departure from Mestre on the mainland, so we scouted out the new boat and bus routes and bought the needed tickets in advance. Theoretically, we should be in better shape than we otherwise would be trying to figure all of this out on Monday morning, when we will wake up at 0430 and leave the apartment at 0500 to allow plenty of unhurried time to start the return journey on track. Especially since the bus schedule tables were indecipherable. My plan is to hop on the first one headed in the direction of Mestre. There's only one road outta here. We can't miss it, right?
Following our big dose of fresh ocean air, we were ready for a big birthday dinner. The boat we took back went on the Lagoon side instead of the canal, and we selected a pizzeria restaurant there overlooking the water. It was lovely, with a large menu to suit everyone: fried scampi for the birthday boy, roasted chicken and fries for the young men, and mixed grilled fish for the young lady, with a spicy penne arrabiatta and steamed veggies. My plate arrived with a salmon fillet, a shrimp, some white fish fillet, and two small whole grilled fishes. Every savory, smoky bite was divine. We all ordered dessert in honor of the birthday occasion: Kian and Niall have now discovered and like vanilla gelato; Sid swooned over a stellar tiramisu, I mean, how could you NOT get at least one while in Italy; and I had a coffee tart. Ladies and gentlemen, picture a gingerbread crust, with a subtly coffee-flavored custard the consistency and spiciness of pumpkin pie, with fresh whipping cream. Even Sid liked it and he does not like coffee or mocha-flavored anything. The waiter stood nearby beaming at my every groan of delight.
We strolled the 10 minutes back to our Venetian home, ending a damn near perfect day. And except for a certain goddess's recent 50th soiree, I have never enjoyed someone else's birthday so much. But then, it was just another day in Venice for me.
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2012-0318 Sunday in Venice
We enjoyed our last breakfast at Ca del Brocchi this morning. Although Nicola graciously offered to leave a basket of things for breakfast tomorrow, none of us will want to eat before we leave at 5 a.m. So Sid settled our bill with him, and found a smaller tab than expected. The rent was 40 euros less than what was posted online, and he threw in a Bracchi cloth sack and comped all the breakfast Cokes and one afternoon beer. Between the reduced room rate and the freebies, he saved us about 75 euros.
Sid and I headed out early (10:30 is the earliest we've ventured out since arriving) to finish our shopping list: Murano beads, glasses and Millefiore dish; artisanal paper book for wine notes; a gorgeous woven scarf; and postcards and T-shirts. Some gifts, some souvenirs. Kian and Niall stayed behind to work on some assignments for college that are due on Tuesday.
Shopping is such thirsty work, so we took a table at a sidewalk cafe by the Lagoon, the same place where we had dinner Friday night. It was a sunny Goldilocks day: not too cool, not too warm, it was just right to sit outside in a light jacket and enjoy a Prosecco and birra, watching the world promenade to the soundtrack of Venetian church bells ringing noon.
On the way back to the apartment, we picked up sodas and three fresh slices of pizza from our favorite hole-in-the-wall place to join the four in the fridge for lunch with Kian and Niall. Literally, it's a window in the wall of an alley -- no tables or chairs or even a counter to eat at. You take your slices to go, what Americans would call "New York style."
After the lunch break, at Niall's suggestion, we boated back up the canal to check out the famous Rialto bridge. Before we boarded, we witnessed the police almost catching one of the innumerable street vendors selling knock-off handbags. They missed the guy, but seized his goods as he dashed. The man was Black, as have been all of the knock-off sellers we have seen. In fact, we have noticed that while we have seen people and heard languages from everywhere in the world, we have seen almost no Black people except vendors, legal or otherwise.
We took the fast boat, and arrived in just three stops. It was abysmally crowded and I was thankful again for staying in the Dorsoduro district, which is far less touristy than districts in which the most famous landmarks are located. Niall thought the Rialto a beautiful place, but pronounced it despicable that anyone would ruin the structure with excessive graffiti. It truly is covered, and not in even a remotely artistic way. It's as if hordes of overgrown children were set loose to draw on walls. Which, I suppose, is the case. Sid and I were equally dismayed that it was lined with stalls laden with kitsch. It was hard to see the beauty.
We consoled ourselves with gelato: vanilla for the guys, chocolate for Sid and caramel cream for me -- a cheap treat for only 8 euros. Shortly after we finished, the vaporetto arrived, so we headed back; the guys to their schoolwork, the adults to the Corner Pub for happy hour.
Alejandro owns the pub. He knows Nicola. He has run this pub in the Dursodoro neighborhood for four years and loves it. Before that, he had a pub at Saint Mark's Square for 11 years. "It was crazy," he said. "The tourists are here too, but not like San Marco. I never go back there again!"
We'd been in the Corner Pub almost every day, and the crew became very friendly with us. Before we left that afternoon, we talked music with one of the guys whose guitar was on the wall. He pulled a picture from his wallet of his sunburst Les Paul guitar. "I love it more than my wife," he said.
"I understand," I said, nodding at my husband. The guy laughed loudly, at our inside joke, made possible through the international language of music.
We said our goodbyes and paid our bill, one beer gratis. It was time to pack.
"It sure would be nice to have some wine while I pack," I said. Taking the hint, Sid headed out while I started to get things organized. He returned triumphant, having returned to the Pub instead of the corner store. They sold him a nice bottle of Pinot Grigio at cost -- only 10 euros! "You very nice people," Alejandro told Sid. I am seriously coming back here for my next vacation.
With everything packed except the few toiletries, we went to dinner at San Trovaso, the place that was overrun with screaming children on our first night. Unfortunately we weren't able to give it a second chance because it was closed. No problem. We zagged on a side street east then south toward the Lagoon back to the Zattere Pizzeria. Sid got another pizza, this time with shrimp. I had a mozzarella caprese and spaghetti with clams. It was a banner meal experience for Kian and Niall. Since they didn't have a chicken Milanese on the menu as they do at San Trovaso, I convinced them to try the veal version of the dish, which is just a breaded, fried cutlet. They ate their first veal meal right up! Sid and I shared a tiramisu, so light and lovely.
We strolled back home, showered and went to bed by 9. Four-thirty would come mighty early on our last morning in Venice.
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2012-0319 Arrivaderci Venice
Four-thirty came earlier than I expected. I woke up at 2:19 and couldn't get back to sleep. We were all up and out the door at 5 sharp, everything packed and secured except my hat which, I was horrified to realize, I must have left at the restaurant last night. It wasn't an expensive hat, but I loved it. Kian and Niall started wearing hats on this trip and I lost mine. How ironic.
We walked back through the stone streets and alleys in a cool, clear, dark morning, much like the evening when we arrived. Only this time we weren't tired and bewildered looking for an end to a long journey. We knew exactly where we were going and, each in his own way, were breathing in this incomparable place and keeping it for ourselves.
There were just a couple of snags in our reverse trek. First, the vaporetti tickets we bought Saturday no longer worked, but we just bought four single tickets when we boarded at 5:23 for 24 euros. We probably could have gotten by without buying new tickets, because there is no control on the boats; we never saw anyone check for tickets. But it would be our luck that they would this one time. The water bus was surprisingly full of about 20 passengers. Twenty-five minutes later we arrived at the Piazzale Roma bus station, and 10 minutes after that we pulled away on bus #2.
The second snag occurred when we realized that the bus appeared to stop only when a rider pushed a button to signal he wanted to get off at an upcoming stop. Sid and I looked at each other, wondering if the train station was a planned stop or, if not, how the hell we would recognize the station in time to stop the bus. In a stroke of dogs-drunks-and-travelers dumb luck, a few passengers stood up at once about 12 minutes into the ride and, upon Sid's query, confirmed that it was indeed the train station. It's a good thing they did, because it was certainly not apparent that is where we were. It's an old, gray, nondescript building with no signage I could see, until we got right up to the front and could see directional signs inside.
We took a 20-minute breakfast break at the Chic & Freak. Seriously. The Venice Mestre station is like a truck stop. It's dated and dingy, with multiple counters, including a McDonald's. That wasn't yet open, which is probably good since I would have had to try the featured "Mozzarillo" burger with a, you guessed it, thick slab of mozzarella cheese on it. The place sold a little bit of everything, from a bin of books to burgers and groceries. They also had an awesome chocolate croissant, although my latte was lukewarm. Oh well, I guess that makes the pastry chic, and the java freak. The three guys got a plain croissant with a Coke. By the way, it seems that Coke is the official soda of Venice. We saw it everywhere and never saw a single Pepsi product. A big plus as far as I'm concerned.
We meandered over to track #6 at 6:40. We grew concerned when the 7:10 train still hadn't arrived by 7:04, when it finally slid in. Everyone boarded and wheels turned by 7:08, two minutes early. Impressive. So, here I sit, on Trenitalia #7904, vineyards flashing by in alternating fog and misty rain, pondering my Venetian experience.
Some may bag on us for not hitting more museums or taking a gondola ride, which I'm sure will be the first question people will ask. My friend Frank will ask if we went to the sites and restaurants he thoughtfully printed out for me. We got into the rhythm and groove of Venice, talking to shop owners and cafe staff. We found our own Venice, full of mellow, very friendly people, who were quick to smile. We found a slower pace, with no clocks in our apartment. Church bells keep the time well enough. We found water buses that go the same speed regardless if they're the "fast" or "slow" lines. We witnessed a couple who were running to catch a vaporetto, and the man fell face down on the dock ramp with a hard, skidding smack on the ground. Why was he in such a hurry, we wondered. Their rushing really stood out in such a place where time isn't money; time is life.
We came to Venice as one of the places we wanted to see while living in Europe. It happened to be scheduled on Sid's birthday weekend and it was a fabulous way to celebrate. And it was a much-needed break from work for me, especially since we had Internet access only at breakfast, or if we stopped by the reception area expressly for that purpose. But it turned out to be more than a vacation or birthday celebration. It was travel, in its best sense: renewal, discovery and hope.
It renewed my spirit to drink in the beauty and creativity of art and the city in general. It was growth in discovery of new food, different people and lifestyle. And it gave me hope for humanity, in a place whose government fears is becoming less a community and more a glorified amusement park, with more and more citizens leaving because they cannot afford to live there or are unwilling to endure the burden of keeping Venezia afloat, literally and economically. I am hopeful because I saw the pride in their eyes, like the shop clerk who pulled out a book to show me how millefiore glass is made. I heard the commitment in their voices when they asked us to come back soon and meant it. I saw the changing face of Venice, when Monica, the Romanian woman who works at our inn, came out of her apartment on her one day off to wave goodbye to us because she saw us walk past on Sunday night.
This is why we we should travel. That is why we will come back to Venice. And I mean it.
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