Two Days in Venice
TWO DAYS IN VENICE
15th and 16th April 2015
Oh, what a special, unforgettable time.
We have loved it here. My concern was that our days would be spent with Gary and Jenny 24/7. These are good people, thoughtful, generous, funny and kind, but there is nobody on earth I want to spend 24/7 with, not even my Beloved. But its worked out well. We stayed in an ancient old hotel, over 400 years old, The Liassidi Palace Hotel situated at Castello, Ponte dei Geci 3405, Venezia, and a Member of Small Luxury Hotels of the World. We arrive via water taxi from the airport, clambering over ancient stone steps to alight. Large airy reception area overlooking a courtyard, flanked by pale pink brick walls of our accommodation, baskets of flowers, bottles of Campari glowing red on tables, smiling staff offering a warm welcome. Opposite was a charming restaurant, with red canopies and baskets of pink flowers, where waiters in starched white aprons attempted to draw us in by showing us their fresh fish. The monkfish look too 'dead' to us, and we declined, thereafter every time we passed by, we imagined his displeasure at our refusal of his invitation. The hotel was perfectly positioned, just a couple of minutes walk to the centre of the action on the Grand Canal. The rooms were small, but the ceilings fourteen feet high, with two long windows overlooking the courtyard two floors below, both swathed in lavish swags of curtains. The bathroom too, was compact, but with a bath and a vast sink, with big old fashioned shiny silver taps. The lift did not stop at our floor, so we walked the stairs, and across an area the size of two tennis courts, in which stood proudly in relief matching ornate, gilt, red velvet sofas and chairs, and a tiled floor of impossible beauty. These windows overlooked the small side canal the hotel occupied, and the ceiling was painted and gilded and the sun poured through the swagged windows, casting long shadows of afternoon - a scene from a movie, I expected a heroine from an Italian Opera to enter wearing a bustled gown, hair powdered and ringleted, her dainty feet clicking on the tiles.
The two very short days here were perfect, despite an ominous start to our Venetian Holiday at the airport. Gerald and I arrived one hour earlier than the O'Briens, and waited contentedly with our I phones and a coffee for their arrival. Gerald, in his organised manner, checked the airport every ten minutes to find the Tour Guide who was to collect us and take us to the water taxi, something we had already paid Aus $85 for. All kinds of men and women held up signs of their patrons names, and the airport emptied quickly. A handful of people stood about, nobody waving a sign with our names on it. At 9.45, the appointed meeting hour, Gerald did another lap, to no avail. He approached a few people up close, with no response. The O'Briens arrived, still no greeter. Gerald and I attempt to telephone, after finding the appropriate money, deciphering the instructions and after several attempts, give up. An elegant woman is sat on the bench next to us and I ask "Do you speak Italian?" - she nods, and I ask if she can help with the phone, as have clearly misinterpreted the instructions. She immediately spies the difficulty, we are trying to ring the number as it stands in the confirmation letter, which has an overseas index before it, and tries the number. Nothing happens, and she tries again. On the third attempt, she gets through, and after a lengthy excited exchange in Italian, puts the phone down and advises us that the company we bought the taxi ride from has nothing to do with the hotel, we do not have a taxi telephone number, and although our hotel awaits, we have no means of getting there. Her name is Suzanne, she has used her own mobile to make this call, and will not take any money from us. She takes us to an information counter, where another conversation ensues. Italians often sound quite excited, even angry, when speaking, with lots of shrugging and facial expression, but no, he is not angry, just unhelpful. She suggests we visit the water taxi counter, which I would like to note was my first suggestion an hour earlier, but one discarded by my Beloved. Gary and Gerald head to the water taxi counter, and are about to pay for a taxi all over again, when the lady behind the counter becomes quite indignant at such an injustice, and calls someone. Unbelievably, a woman standing not feet from Gerald has a mobile which rings. The water taxi lady is standing right there, being phoned by the water taxi company lady, six feet away. This is our water taxi greeter, who has stood here ineffectually for an hour, whilst we have made Italian friends and several phone calls, and worn out shoe leather wandering up and down the airport looking for her. Whattttt? Gerald exclaims in a rush and points to the sheaf of papers she is holding, where carefully concealed and folded, is a sign with our names on it. He has even approached this woman twice - looking for her, while she was not looking for us. Gary is quick to smooth over this hour long waste of our time, but I cannot stop myself from saying bluntly, "Have you been looking for us, or are you just LATE?" Gary smooths some more, but she is seemingly oblivious, with not an apology, nor a smile, nor an attempt at relationship building, and casually strolls to the exit, with us trailing behind with our luggage, for a six minute walk to the water taxi, where we discover we could have got a water taxi for half the price we have had for this nonsensical debacle.
Suzanne, it turns out, is part of a national team here in Venice to draw up a plan to present to the government, regarding the excessive prescription by doctors of antibiotics and the use of antibiotics in food. I hastily scribble my email and website address on her notepad, with a request to keep in touch.
And the water taxiride is splendid, the sky is overcast, and it is cool, but the low rise of Venice is speeding by, our cameras grow overheated as we snap away and we cannot take the beams off our faces, even though she is standing outside the glass doors with an impossibly handsome water taxi driver who is smoking evil smelling cigarettes all the 35 minute journey. We are in Venice! - we will not have this minor incident influence our happiness in any way.
I cannot tell you in chronological order what we did for just on two days, except that it slipped by in moment after moment of beauty and pleasure, experiences so delightful and so simple, they are photographed on my heart. Wandering down back lane after back lane, getting lost over and over, gasping with disbelief as frame after frame of photographic perfection revealed itself. Tiny shops filled with vivid Murano glass both vast and miniature, clothing and leather and jewellery and presided over by exquisitely dressed shop assistants with groomed hair, perfect make up and royal bearing. Dogs trotting on leashes, in restaurants, water taxis, hotels and shops, sitting on chairs, behaving as royally as their owners. Pigeons cooing and swooping so low they brush my hair, small children running and drawing pictures in chalk on the piazza floor, the smell of food so delicious my senses are heightened, wafts of garlic and onion and huge displays of baguettes and rolls filled with cheese and pastrami and salami, so artfully decorated, mundane things made a thing of beauty. Tiny tables set with white and red and white checked table cloths, sign boards in chalk of today's menu, mouthwatering pastas, veal and chicken, seafood displayed in ice and waiters smiling and waving their hands in welcome, come eat come eat with me! Throngs of school children all on mobiles being loudly called to order by harassed teachers, tourists trundling suitcases over bridges and up and down stairs, laughing at the insanity of this. We round a corner, and there, for no apparent reason, other than a perfect photo opportunity as there is no restaurant in sight, is a tiny table covered in a fresh linen cloth, with one glass vase holding one red rose, and an ice bucket. Sigh, such elegance, such beauty. My picture taking finger is working overtime.
We find our way to the Grand Canal, a wide grey concrete walkway, absolutely overflowing with thousands and thousands of tourists, bumping their way through the crowds, as the Europeans are walking on the opposite side of the roads to the rest of the world. There are dozens of artists, displaying their work, some with signs that say "This is all my own work, I do not sell Chinese reproductions". Selfie sticks are the big seller, either three or five Euros, almost everybody is taking a selfie - everywhere you look is a perfect photograph. Tiny market stalls selling souvenirs, hats, scarves, Venetian masks, glassware, key rings and kitsch. Hordes of Japanese, Americans, Chinese, Poms, Germans stumbling along in battalions following their leader, looking tired and confused, a cacophony of accents assaulting the senses. So many obese people wearing such inappropriate clothing, women in skin tight leggings with bulging flesh wobbling and stretchy tops with their bras cutting like rubber bands through dough, kilos overflowing, swollen feet squeezed into tight shoes, their faces red and perspiring, as they trudge along eating ice creams and slices of pizza. I wonder how many people die here doing the tourist scene, and how they get vast patients on to a stretcher and into a water taxi. Impossibly good looking men wearing blue or red striped shirts with boater hats and matching ribbons, they are the Master of the Seas here, the Gondoliers, their beautifully decorated gondolas lined up like large blue fish, "Gondola?" they call. Large restaurants overlooking the canal, with shaded canopies and small tables, all angled to face the water, drinking tall beers, wine or bright red Campari Spritz or Aperol Spritz, with fat green olives precariously balanced on long sticks. Waiters like dancers, nimbly darting through tables carrying trays laden with drinks, smiling and cracking jokes whilst seducing passers by into their restaurant. Si Si, Senor, Ciao Bella, il conto, non! - snippets of Italian misting like gentle rain, I am in a movie. We wander past the museum where a mile long queue awaits, the Prison of the Palace, the Bridge of Sighs, and into the huge piazza where St. Marks Basilica is situated. A colonnade of buildings run off into the distance, arches creating a geometric design of angles and planes, thousands of tourists jostle for space, and magically, we walk straight into the Basilica, perhaps a queue of ten people in front of us. No photos here, yet tourists are blithely ignoring the signs, and snapping away. I have to restrain myself from speaking sharply. Treasures of unimaginable beauty and value surround us, priceless works of art, sculptures, tapestries and gold hued cupolas and objet'd'art. We are walking on floors so ancient and beautiful, they should be under glass, millions, no billions, of unthinking feet tramping over this artwork each day, people taking photos and speaking and laughing loudly, disrespectfully, this is a church, The House of the Lord as signs remind us, please behave appropriately. But people don't. Scores of bored school children, focussed on their mobiles ambling disinterestedly through history and unmatched beauty, insensitive tourists ambling along behind a harassed tour guide, looking like they want to be somewhere else. How do the Venetians tolerate us? My heart shifts with sadness.
We stop for a drink at a hole in the wall, the men have a beer and Jenny and I drink Campari and Amperol Spritz. Ambada is our waiter, a smiling young man who brings crisps. He asks "Do you want noots?" "Noots?" replies Gary, "Noots" he confirms. "OK then" and he returns with a bowl of peanuts and two teaspoons. From here on in, our joke is that we need noots whenever we sit to have a drink. Some establishments have noots, and others don't, some have wavy crisps and others have thin crisps, but Ambada's noots remain a favourite, and we return the second day for more. Sadly, Ambaba is not there, and the waiter isn't nearly as friendly as Ambada, but we ask for noots, and there is not a raised eyebrow as he arrives with some.
We eat the first night in a restaurant run by a young man with a huge personality, Luca, who we meet whilst lost in a back street. Smiling broadly, he swoops and tell us of the specials, and invites us in, but we are not hungry, dinner then, he says, looking instantly concerned for our well being, as if not being hungry may be cause for alarm. Maybe. I check inside, it is a Dame Edna Everage collection of kitsch never seen before. There are strands of plastic grapes which are actually lights, strung from wall to wall, and around corners, very bad Italian paintings, ugly heavy pine furniture, Venetian masks, fans and feathers festooned so densely there is not another inch of wall space to be seen. Maybe not. Gary bargains hard. Luca says if we come back, he will give us a 10% discount. So for four, says Gary, that must be 40%, right? Luca looks confused, Gerald comes to his rescue. Non, but he will give us a free drink, an aperol spritz. As we leave, he is waving and smiling, a young man, clearly suited to this job. Later that evening, when we find ourselves back there, after rejecting a few possibilities along the way (too empty, too full, grumpy staff, too expensive) - I approach him with a hug and a kiss, he is ecstatic! He gives us the supremo table in the window, and I like to think our happy faces helped him fill the restaurant, twice over, that night. Gary has veal, Gerald eats seafood pasta, I have seafood risotto and mussels in tomato sauce, and Jenny eats calamari and a fish dish. Not only do we get our discount and free aperitifs, but free lemoncillo afterwards, and the food was excellent. We wander tipsily home, and don't get lost once.
The next morning, after our beautiful morning meditation, we have a late breakfast. Gerald has joined the O'Briens, but I am delayed, Bec has had an emergency with Zac, who whilst camping in Myola on the South Coast, has fallen whilst boarding down a sand dune, and damaged his neck. She is waiting for the ambulance to take him to Shoalhaven Hospital and needs somewhere to sleep that night, plus warm clothing for them both. I know how practical and unflappable Bec is, yet how terribly worried she must be to make this request of me here in Venice, and immediately send a FB request, a FB message and a Watts App to Sue, who swings into action. God Bless you Suzee. As it turns out, Zac and Bec spend the night at the hospital, Zac has had X rays, and they have some concerns - and the next day, Bec's Mom arrives to take them home to Sydney, where he will have an MRI. Sue reassures me, at 9 years old, kids are bouncy and bendy, am sure he will be find, and stop worrying about us all here, and enjoy your holiday.
We spend the day wandering along more back streets and over bridges, window shopping and drinking beer and aperitifs in the sunshine, we eat ice cream walking along the canal. I see a sign at the Prison of the Palace for either opera or a concert of classical music which happens on alternate nights, and feel a yearning to see this in this atmospheric building. I ask "Who wants to go to the opera with me tonight?" To my surprise, Gary is the first to say yes, Gerald's face grimaces, and Jenny says, why not. "We're in Venice!" says Gary, "the opera in Venice!" - and so we book. Its only an hour, and its Euros 20 each, and it starts at 9 pm, our greatest concern is staying awake that long. We return to the hotel after more church viewing and people watching, and there is a great hurrah from the men, as we have walked over many new bridges and new territory, weaving through old gunneries and military barracks, walking walking through places we do not know nor recognise, when we suddenly exclaim in surprise as we are back at our hotel, most unexpectedly, from the complete opposite direction. The men of course would have us believe that this is a result of their finely honed navigational skills, but in their hearts, they are as stunned as we are. We spend a happy hour in the courtyard having drinks, shifting position for the second day in a row to get away from the cigarette smokers. Jenny and I leave wander back up the lane we have just traversed to a small shop selling glass jewellery and ornaments. We examine the ear rings and Jenny suggests a few, she has stopped wearing ear rings herself, and I eventually buy a pair of gold and black baubles, which the jeweller rehangs on silver metal, rather than gold, which I hardly wear. They cost Euros 12, plus a small red heart on a crystal plinth for the same price and a sweet heart on a thong for Euros 10. It is always nice to shop with another woman. We amble back to our hotel courtyard where the men are laughing loudly after their third beer, and then to our rooms to shower so that we can head off to find a place for dinner.
We head back through the magical lane which brought us home so unexpectedly, past the jewellery store and I show her the ear rings I am now wearing, searching for a suitable place to eat. We discard a few, too cold, too expensive, no gluten free pasta, too lacking in atmosphere, and chance upon Robertos, which we have passed at least twice in our travels. It looks expensive, all the waiters are wearing white tuxedo jackets and bow ties. We walk away but Gary does a little haggling with the maitre d', who has already seduced me with his aquiline good looks and thick white hair, and his description of gluten free pasta in a black squid sauce, whilst kissing his fingers and smacking his lips in appreciation of the fine meal he has just described to me. We are checking out a much more modest establishment opposite, charming us with bowls of geraniums and checked cloths, but hey, no gluten free pasta - when Gary turns up, the waiter is lighting a cigarette, and that seals the deal, we all agree we cannot eat there. We return to the upmarket Robertos, where Gary has procured a 10% discount on our behalf. I can see why Gerald has described Gary as the Greatest Deal Maker Ever, these men worked together at IBM for about twenty years, and I love seeing their relationship in action. We sit indoors, the sun is almost gone and a cool breeze is blowing, we have a fine table and a good view of the action, including a man who appears to be, if not the Pope, a Bishop at least, marching down in his black gown with a black hat and tassle dating back a century or more, texting on his mobile. Our servers are Indian and Italian, and service is impeccable, we all decide on seafood pasta, only mine is gluten free and has three times the amount of seafood the other three have. We drink champagne and red wine, we talk a lot, and laugh a lot, and spill out of the restaurant, having given the Indian waiter an outrageously generous tip, and wind our way through St. Marks Piazza (I believe) towards the Prison of the Palace, for our orchestral recital.
We are first in the queue, twenty minutes before the doors open, I am determined to get good seats. The building is ancient, even crumbling in parts, dotted with damp and pigeon poo, wide archways and deep stair treads, dark hallways and thick metal bars which remind us of what this place once was, now hosting opera and classical music. We are ushered two floors upstairs lit with candlelight to a large room, soaring ceilings, a few hundred yards of linen in curtain swags, and rows of gilt red chairs facing music stands, a grand piano, and a cello. I am in a movie, and sit excited as a child, in the premium front row position, as the rest of the chairs quickly fill. A few minutes after the appointed hour, as the room darkens, a man sweeps imperiously in holding a violin and a bow, followed by three more musicians. The piano is not used. There are three violinists and a cellist. No introductions, no one speaks, each musician is shadowed in half light in this glorious space. The first man takes centre stage, and in one theatrical sweep of his bow, begins the sequence. Oh my, what glorious sounds, my heart moves in strange places, reminding me of something I do not know, tears prick my eyes of memories forgotten, I feel the hairs on my arms. We are a musically uneducated audience, even I can tell that, we clap in all the wrong places, and I find sighs of appreciation escaping from my lips, and the maestro merely moves two graceful fingers to his lips, a gentle indicator of "silenzio'. Between pieces, a female musician strides in to join the men, she like the others, has a stern expression. Our maestro moves to the vast window, and perches nonchalantly on the sill, passionately involved with his music, eyes closed. We listen to Mozart and Vivaldi's Four Seasons, and in just over an hour, it's over. We are an enthusiastic audience, and the musicians kindly return once more, bowing graciously and stepping grandly to one side to allow the stern lady to leave the spotlight first. Despite the magic and the beauty of this performance, I have nodded off twice, jet lagged still, and I feel redeemed as my three companions have all done the same. A blonde attractive woman at the end of the row is asleep before the performance begins, I am shocked, yet as the show ends, and I dash to the toilet, there she is in the ante room, loudly giving the performers what seems to be a critique of their performance, so perhaps she wasn't asleep after all.
Oh what a perfect day.
We wake to a grey sky, which turns into a blue one within the hour, and eat breakfast shared with other Australians all going on the same boat we are. The ham is exquisite, its so soft it folds off my fork, sweet and slightly salted, the scrambled eggs are a thing of perfection, thick yellow and white curds, beaded with moisture and oh, so delicious. There are cheeses of all kinds, tiny red tomatoes which taste like sunshine, olives, prosciutto, ham, salami, yogurts and cereals, cakes, biscuits and pastries, toasts and gluten free rice cakes. We complete our packing, and Gerald hauls our heavy luggage down two flights of stairs, as the lift does not stop on our floor. So Venetian, so charming, so hard to do! I am so grateful for my Beloved, for so many reasons, and his uncomplaining attitude to whatever comes along fills me with assurance that most things can be sorted out. When the situation demands a strong hand and head, he steps into that role just as graciously. Leaving our luggage at the desk, we head out for our final couple of hours and our last Venetian Adventure, a gondola ride.
We have done our preliminary research into the pricing of gondola rides from the Grand Canal. Apparently Euros 160 is standard for an hour long journey, Euros 120 for 45 minutes, and Euros 80 for half an hour, although guests at our hotel say they got a half hour trip for Euros 60. We approach a handsome man amongst the thronging crowds, surely there cannot be MORE people here than yesterday? This early? But yes, so it seems, we can hardly keep track of each other, dodging the pressing sardine like crowds. Gary and Gerald start the conversation with the gondolier, and after some heavy duty back and forth, and Gary beginning to walk away, Marco the Gondolier agrees to take us for 45 minutes for Euros 100. We are all happy, and Marco assists us into his sleek navy blue vessel, which costs around $75,000, and advises us where to sit to aid balance, we do not wish to land up in the canal, no matter how romantic it looks, that water is putrid I am sure. We have chosen well, he is a font of information, even though I cannot understand a lot of what he is saying, and cannot see him to enable lip reading as he stands behind me and is pointing at buildings. He is also quite a character, and sings - I ask for O Solo Mio, and he says arrogantly, I am not in Sicily! - but sings an eclectic selection of Bon Jovi, ACDC, Rod Stewart, and even a little Andrea Botchelli - not very well, but very enthusiastically and humourously. He passes comments on his fellow gondoliers, speaking rapid fire Italian as we sail past with an inch or so to spare, and when I ask him how come all gondoliers are so handsome, he smirks and points to a tall gorgeous looking man in the next boat and says gleefully, "Because THAT one is gay!" We glide along canals, through impossibly narrow water laneways, manoeuvre ourselves through a traffic jam of six or more boats, he uses his leg to push off as casually as swatting a fly if we come too close to the buildings, never stopping his song or his speech. Masterful, absolutely. We pass under so many bridges, each filled with tourists and cameras, all taking photos of us in our gondola, and we take photos of ourselves too, carefully moving ourselves around the vessel so as not to fall in, angling the camera to include Marco. We kiss under the Lucky Lovers Bridge, and a couple of others too, and we laugh a lot. This was certainly worth a hundred bucks.
We are dropped back at the Grand Canal, and reluctantly leave Marco the Handsome, and only after more photos, and push through the crowds to find the same small bar we visited on our first day here, only two days ago. So much has happened since! The men are in charge, and we follow them through lanes, now recognising some of the shops and restaurants, and triumphantly Gary leads us into the bar, our happy waiter is not there, but we get beers and Campari spritzers, chips and ask for noots. We need to be back at the hotel by 12.30 pm for the water taxi to the ship, but the guys decide on a second beer. My phone has died, the battery expires very quickly due to age Gerald says, and I want to get back to recharge it, but the men reasonably explain there would not be time for that before the water taxi collects us. So we sit amiably whilst they have a second beer, pay the bill, and set off confidently in the direction of the hotel. Or so we think. The minutes are ticking by and we are up one lane and down another, passing both familiar and unfamiliar territory. Gary's answer to any direction is "Go Left!" and Gerald's is "Go Right!" - after fifteen minutes we admit we are lost. Its no drama really as ship only sails this evening at 6 pm, but we do have a water taxi waiting. The guys doggedly and speedily keep moving, and suddenly we are in known territory, and fly into the hotel.
I have a bag of fruit and biscuits which I have kept for the beggar who sits outside, and race to give it to him, a young man - I do not wish to offend, his proffered cup has small coins only in it, but surely food must be welcomed? It is hard to say what he thinks and I dash off to change my walking shoes for boots, the luggage is loaded into the waiting water taxi, and we sail off to the MSC Opera. Both Gerald any my batteries are dead, but Jenny snaps away, a procession of beautiful old buildings, bridges and canals slip by us.
We shall never pass this way again, this thought drifts in my mind. The last time I was here in Venice I was 17 years old, almost fifty years ago, it is unlikely I shall return. In the calculation of life, we will be doing well to have another twenty years on this earth, and there are so many more ports Gerald and I would like to visit. I look at my Beloved and thank God for the gift of hijm, for the gift of my life.