We arrived at the hotel and got everyone checked in to their rooms. It looked like there was no larger room available for me and that I would be in one of the tiny rooms, which is completely fine. I should not expect this upgrade anyway. When I got to my room my bags were not there. I didn't want to cause a fuss, but I kind of need my bags. Clothes are good.
I went down to the lobby to find the porter manager, Giacomo, and see if he could track them down. I didn't want to involve the front desk if possible. I know how hard the staff works at this place and don't want trouble if it was just misplacing my bags in the wrong room. No harm no foul as far as I'm concerned. He looked at his printout list, then back at the computer, then back at the printout.
“Mi dispiace Kristina. Le bagagli sono in la stanza.” Sorry. The bags are in your room.
“E....Quale numero e' la mia stanza?” And....What number is my room?
Bingo. Solved our problem. Version control problem with lists. They put my bags in a (larger) room (upgrade! whoo!) but his check off list showed my original room was where they went. Anyway...
The room is beautiful. Huge. Practically palatial. Not a suite or anything, but the largest bed I have had while on any tour. Yay for me! And my bags were safe and sound. I saw Giorgio sent up a bottle of wine again. He needs to stop that. Transferred some clothes into a smaller bag to do laundry back at the studio apartment in Rialto later. Ah, the glamorous life I lead... carrying dirty clothes across town.
I went downstairs and grabbed a little lunch with the group. I didn't make a pig of myself with the shrimp this time. Restraint. We went on our walk to Piazza San Marco and the Doge's Palace tour, and then I put them on their gondolas for their big ride.
I was finally free for the evening, but it was too late for me to get to the hospital to visit Mamma. I called and checked on her. Still complaining about the food. Apparently some of her friends were supplementing the institutional “cuisine” with food from home. I would expect nothing less from these women. I promised I would come tomorrow, to expect me around 11AM. “Okay cara.”
Brought my laundry back to the studio for washing and to hang dry. To my unfortunate surprise, the floor was wet. Not “high water in the streets” kind of wet but “there's a leak somewhere” or a “pipe burst” kind of wet. This particular neighborhood of Rialto doesn't get acqua alta flooding – ever,so it's something else.
Great.
It was in the far corner of the room. Dripping ceiling. Plaster discolored. Floor not just damp, but pooling water. I have no idea how many days this has been sitting here. At least it didn't smell. Grabbed the camera and took photos before I started cleaning up or called Signora Ferri. A few towels soaked up the excess water, and the rest of them mopped up and dried the surface, but it will take heat or a fan of some kind to completely dry out the grout in the tiles and hope it doesn't lift them up. I don't know my foundation construction too well. Not a contractor. These people have experts on wet floor technology in this town. Started the laundry and called Signora Ferri. She clucked her tongue. I asked if it could be from the rain a few days ago? No – go to the B&B around the corner. They have a room over the studio that has had problems with a broken pipe in the past. Exact same spot three years ago when her son was living there. The owner of the B&B had to pay to fix the ceiling then, and will have to do it again. Most likely. It was too late to get someone out to see it tonight, so I told her I would try to position towels and bowls to catch the drips as best as I could. I will be at the hotel until Monday morning so they can come and do whatever they need.
“Grazie cara. Ti chimato domani quando gli lavoratori vengono.” Thank you dear. I will call you tomorrow when the workers come.
Went to the B&B and told them what was going on. The owner came about 20 minutes later and had a look, shaking his head and cursing in Venetian. I left my number with him and gave him Signora Ferri's. He would call workers for tomorrow and in the mean time he brought down space heaters to start drying the room. It was a little swampy.
I decided to bring my wet clothes back to the hotel with me to dry. No sense in leaving them at the apartment. No sense in having people traipsing about with me not there and me not there to monitor my panties hanging around. Yes, my glamorous life is full of decisions like this. Better yet – I took them to the laundromat in Canareggio, across the Grand Canal. They just needed 30 minutes in a dryer. Duh. Sometimes I forget dryers actually exist over here. Most homes do not have them because of the amount of energy they use. Just hang those clothes like everyone else, that's what I've become used to. While I was waiting on the dryer I got a call from Marco. He was back from the hospital and didn't have to work overnight tonight, but he did have to pull an early shift at 6AM until noon the next morning and come back for graveyard on Saturday night. Oy.
“Are you cooking?” He asked.
“Are you?” I asked.
So we went for pizza.
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