Friday 13 February 2009

1pm local time in Amsterdam.

Sitting in the airport in Amsterdam. The flight over went quickly, partly due to exhaustion – I hadn’t slept Wednesday in excited anticipation of flying. I rarely get a full night of sleep the night before I’m going anywhere. I went in to work super early, early enough that I’ll probably get reamed for causing a night shift differential on the payroll upon my return, but I wanted to get a full day of work in before leaving at noon. Count backwards, people, yes I was there before 4am. Oy.

Back to the flight…there was a huge group of high school students on the flight. Two girls sat in my row with me, and they were a hoot. Both juniors from a high school in Sunnyvale. Two schools are participating in this trip, from Paris down to Barcelona in 10 days. Overall the kids were very well-behaved. My first trip – to Spain in the summer of 1986 – I was the exact same age as these kids, and we all took advantage of international airspace to be served alcohol onboard. I only had wine with dinner, sitting right next to Senora Korve, my teacher and chaperone. But other kids, the group from Philadelphia comes to mind, got bombed in their seats a few rows back from us, and they proceeded to serenade us the whole flight. Yay drunk teenagers. KLM didn’t appear to be offering the kids any booze on our flight today, maybe they’ve learned their lesson over the years.

My seatmates were very chatty and thankfully not in an obnoxious way. They had lots of questions about how to “act more European” so nobody would guess they are American. I told them to just roll with it, because they aren’t going to fool anyone, and it’s ok. There’s a whole scene for local boys to pick up on teenage American girls. They know they can snare them with the accents. Worked on just about every girl on my trip in 1986, and I see it in Italy every single day I am in the country, and not just to teenagers. My gender just gets suckered in by the sweet funny talking young men. We did manage to sleep about half the trip over, so I have at least 5 hours under my belt. I know I will sleep like the dead tonight, no worries.

So now I sit in the Amsterdam airport waiting for my connection to Marco Polo. I am not able to connect w wirelessly (without paying 5 euro for 30 minutes –hello!) Usually the airports in Europe offer free wireless, but no more. Not in this place at least. I’ll post this when I get to Venice.

I felt like such a sap as I was walking through the terminal. The music playing overhead was the theme music from Schindler’s List, the Itzak Perelman (sp?) violin piece. I immediately teared up. Gut reaction, can’t help it. Here I am at the start of a glorious vacation and my excitement level is at a fever pitch, and I’m welling up over a song in the background. It’s always cathartic for me to cry over that movie…but that’s not why we’re here…more later. I’m packing this road show up to get ready for my last leg. No pictures right now – the camera somehow was turned on in my bag, so the batteries now need a recharge before I can snap anything.

The second leg of the flight over is much shorter – Amsterdam to Venice is under 2 hours. I sat with a family of four – the parents next to me and the two teens in the row in front. I noted they had photocopies of a guidebook and as he was flipping through the pages I could see it was for more than the city of Venice so I got a little nosy and asked where they are staying once they get to Venice and how long they are there for.

Now I don’t want to pick on people for how they choose to spend their vacations but they are definitely on a whirlwind. They arrive in Venice in late afternoon Friday – will spend the night and take off the next afternoon for Milan. Leave Milan Sunday afternoon for Florence, where they will have one full day there, half day trip to Pisa and on to Rome for two nights and home to Detroit. Man alive – that doesn’t seem fun at all, doing everything at breakneck speed. With all their belongings in daypacks, they’ll look more like contestants on the Amazing Race family edition than “vacationers.” Good luck Desai family. I hope you at least take some pictures…
I took the ATVO bus from the airport, a direct coach bus that deposits you in Piazzale Roma – the last stop for cars when entering Venice. From there I got on the vaporetto - the waterbus and rode to the stop near San Marco. I was staying in a hotel for one night since my apartment wasn’t available to me until Saturday morning. My friend Marco hooked me up with a free night courtesy of a friend/relative/whatever at another hotel. It’s good to know people in the concierge union. Good news, I didn’t have to pay for a room. The bad news – it was four flights up in a place with no elevator, what seemed to be 800 pounds of luggage and the desk clerk was about 78 pounds. Why I didn’t just leave the giant suitcase in the baggage deposit I will never know (actually, I just wanted to clean up and change and re-assess my packing – plus make sure the TSA monkeys didn’t confiscate or acquire anything I had brought.) So step by step I hauled that suitcase up four flights. Strained wrists anyone?

There was a message for at the desk that Marco had left saying he was sorry but due to a work emergency (colleague in the hospital unexpectedly) he wouldn’t be coming by to collect me for dinner with his mother since he would be working until midnight. Bummer – I would have loved some home cooking as my first meal. Oh well, the next best solution was to go to Francesco’s restaurant.

The actual name of the place is “Ristorante Cucina 1251” translating to “Restaurant Kitchen 1251” -the address in the San Polo district it is located in- and the owner is Francesco, a gregarious little man. I would kill for his lasagne. It’s a unique place that will never be listed in any guidebook and most outsiders would consider a tourist trap, but it’s my favorite place to eat in the city. It’s a non-descript place in the middle of a court that catches a lot of foot traffic between campo San Polo and the Rialto bridge area – and they of course have a host that hawks to the passers-by in multiple languages , “Hey Lady, are you hungry? Something for lunch or dinner?” - so I see why they would be considered a tourist place with no soul upon first glance. But I am family there – welcomed time and again with hugs and kisses, extra appetizers and bits of dishes to try for next time piled onto the table unsolicited, after-dinner drinks thrust upon me when I visit. I’ve stayed after the place shuts down many nights at Francesco’s insistence and talked for hours with him and his staff of long-time employees.

I would kill for his lasagne. 99% of the time it’s what I order. He knows me, and tries to tempt me each visit with some new or different dish, but he knows I return time and again specifically for that lasagne. It is seven layers of the thinnest, buttery pasta with beef ground so minute it is almost a paste, and only a hint of tomato sauce is used. I cannot duplicate it – the noodles exist only with him. He makes his all own pasta and desserts – this is no tourist trap. The dessert cart is amazing – there are tortes of almond, apple, lemon, mixed berry, tiramisu, panna cotta, fruit salads three ways, chocolate cake, profiteroles with or without cream inside (and with or without chocolate ganache on top,) and because it is Carnevale season there is also the frittelle – a fried dough with nuts and bits of fruit inside – three different ways as well. I truly love this restaurant, this generous man, and his motley crew of servers.

Back to the hotel and some sleep for the night. Tomorrow I will settle in to the apartment and start posting with picture and video, once the batteries for everything are recharged.