11-12 Ottobre - Domenica e Lunedi : 10/11/ - 10/12 Sunday & Monday : Winding It Down & WInding It Up

I woke up at 6am to shower and towel dry my hair (I never went and bought another hairdryer, oh well) and readied myself to head toward Piazza San Marco to meet up with Marco for the 7:30 mass service before he went to work. I hurried down (as much as possible for me with the walking cast, that is) to the vap stop and made it as the boat glided up.

Marco was waiting for me on the left side of the Basilica, in the Piazzetta dei Leoncini in front of one of the purple-red porphyry stone lion statues worn down by generations of children hugging and playing on them. These are friendly-looking lions with long sad faces. There are many winged lions around Venice; it’s a symbol for the city as it’s also the symbol for the patron saint, Mark. They are overhead as bas relief on the buildings, in mosaica, in paintings, carved into the bases of statuary, wherever they can fit one. Some of the lions are scary – in Campo Manin there is a statue of Daniele Manin, a local hero who fought against Austrian occupation and at his feet is a larger than life lion, winged unfurled. In the paintings and mosaics (and the t-shirts) you will often see the front paw on a book. If the book is closed, it indicates the time of the work as during wartime, if it’s open it will read “Pax” for peace. Kind of like the eagle in the great seal of the US on the carpet in the Oval office, the direction of the head indicates if we are at war or not. I’ve read that, but haven’t looked any pictures recently – is the head facing a different direction than 10 years ago?







We got inside just as the service started. I almost tripped and fell while walking up to a seat, and gasped as I caught myself, causing a couple of parishoners to turn and look at me. Hi there, I’m a klutz, how are you today? The floors are seriously warped in the Basilica, not just from feet treading on them for more than a thousand years, but because of the fact that they’ve never been 100% even in the first pace. When you lay the foundation by hammering thousands of treetrunks 12 feet deep into the marsh, then paving over it for a few layers, there are bound to be inconsistencies in your levels. The terrazzo floor inlays, similar to those on Torcello but much more intricate, swirl about like kaleidoscopes.Rick Steves has talked about rolling a marble on these floors to watch it catch and veer off. I liken it to one of those tabletop labyrinth games with the knobs on two sides to keep the ball from plopping in. I can imagine there have been many people falling on their face in San Marco, though; it’s hard to pay attention to the heaving floors when you have the mosaics all around you. I’ve talked before about the mysticality I feel when in the church, so this time I will concentrate more on the physicality.

The interior of the church is based on a Greek cross, each arm is divided in three naves and emphasized by a dome of its own, which is why there are 5 if viewing it from the belltower outside in the Piazza. This is based on Justinian's Basilica of the Apostles in Constantinople, which is no longer standing. The floorplan is also similar to the Hagia Sophia in Istanbul. The majority of the interior is completely covered with bright mosaics containing gold, bronze, and the greatest variety of stones. It is absolutely dazzling, even in dim lighting. Both Byzantine and Gothic influences can be recognized, for example in the Saints between the windows of the apse. In the vault above is a mosaic of Christ as the Pantocrator, or all-powerful creator. Even though it is one of the most widely used religious images of Orthodox Christianity, the earliest remaining examples are all in Italy.

The domes from east to west depict the history of Salvation: the Prophets, the Ascension and the Pentecost, while the dome over the transept are depicts stories of St John the Evangelist and St Leonard is in the center of the other dome surrounded by the other saints. In the vaults between the domes are episodes in the life of Christ.

Over the high altar is a baldacchino on columns decorated with 11th-century reliefs. The altarpiece is the famous Pala d'Oro (Golden Pall), a panel of gold embedded with gems. It was commissioned from Byzantine goldsmiths in 976 and further embellished over the centuries. Napoleon stole some of the precious stones in 1797, but there are still plenty left, gleaming behind protective glass.

The mosaics on the walls are from the12th & 13th centuries, showing events of the New and Old Testaments, in particular the books of Genesis and Exodus. Interwoven are the story of the Virgin, the martyrdoms of St. Peter and St. Clement, and events in the lives of St. John the Evangelist, St. John the Baptist and St. Isadore - the important saints celebrated by the Venetians. And of course, the cycles with the legend of St. Mark.

Mass over, we stepped outside to a beautiful morning with a clear blue sky and made our way across the Piazza San Marco to a cafe near his work for a caffe and cornetto. He went on his way to work and I made my way down to the vaporetto to go across the Guidecca Canal and say goodbye to Mamma. I would be leaving on the train to Milan at 6pm so this was my last opportunity to spent a few minutes with her. I stopped at a stand and purchased some flowers to bring her on this last visit to the house.

She was surprised by the flowers and put them in water, all the while chattering away about the mass she watched on the television, the broadcast from the Vatican. She doesn’t even need to leave the house to get her homilies – do we have regular broadcasts in the US? I don’t even know. I stayed for an hour or so, and then bid her goodbye, all the while receiving hugs and kisses from this tiny wonder of a woman. I am so thankful I have been able to forge a relationship with her over the years and to become a part of her family.

Making my way back to the apartment, I stopped on the Strada Nova and picked out a few tee-shirts for Mark. His souvenir Venice shirts from years past are getting rather threadbare so it was time to replenish his stock. I also stopped at the Co-op market and picked up a few bottles to pack in my suitcase. For the first time I am not bringing wine home. I decided to bring the focus on aperitive and after-dinner drinks for this trip. I had tried a number of Aperol spritzes at different meals, and my nightcaps with Giorgio & Co included the liqueurs of Cynar, Amaro, Zucchero and Fernet Branca. I opted to bring back a bottle of each. The brand of Amaro and the Zucchero aren’t even available in the US, and the the others I’ve seen in BevMo for 5 times the price I paid at this grocery store. I lugged them home to finish packing.

I cleaned the kitchen and bathroom thoroughly, completed my packing and took a short nap. I left the key on the counter for Maria and Leo. I really enjoy this little apartment but it does have a few drawbacks. There is little phone reception on the ground floor, so I would have to sit in the doorway to talk on the phone. Also, the acoustics were too good in the place – I would often wake up as people walked by outside at night, thinking in my haze that someone was in the room. While I genuinely enjoy the neighborhood and am now recognized on each reach return by the locals in this sector, I think I will opt for another apartment next time. I want to cut down the trip over to the Guidecca to spend time with Mamma. It’s almost an hour to get from door to door, and I don’t want to end up falling asleep over there again if I’m dead tired. I think I will scope out a place that is either on Guidecca or in Castello, just south of the Piazza San Marco, so I can cross back and forth more quickly. Since I plan on coming back for Carnevale I also won’t have to wend my way through crowds of revellers drinking deep into the night in order to get home.

I haven’t even left yet and I’m already planning my next visit.

Three minutes away from the house (and cheering that I had no bridges to haul the luggage over), I was on the Fondamente Nuova to catch the vaporetto to the ferrovia, the train station. Rather than haul my very heavy suitcase up the steps into the station, I went around the right side of the building to the handicapped access / delivery door. I bought my ticket from the automated machine and out to the tracks to binario 8 – track 8 to Milano on the FreschiaRossa, a high-speed train. In under 2 hours 25 minutes and only 3 brief stops I would be in Milan. Marco called me to say goodbye and I told him I would call when I landed in the US. He hates plane travel and always marvels at my ease of hurtling through the air 30,000 feet “above the firmament.” His problem with flying is that so much of it is above the ocean, which he is certain trying to suck him in. For a guy that lives on the water he has an irrational fear of falling into it.

The need to go to Milan was not the preferred way to end my vacation, but I couldn’t change my airline ticket. I had bought them in an online airline auction and the airfare was only $400 – an absolute steal – but the drawback is that I had to fly from San Francisco to Milan and back. My trip back included leaving from the other airport in the Milan area. I flew into Malpensa, but was leaving through Linate, which I have never been to. It’s actually closer to the city, on the southeast side, and is the hub used by inter-continent flights. Since I was going to change planes in Amsterdam, this was my route. Don’t have any idea why it wasn’t on the way in, but oh well.

Giorgio had recommended a hotel to me, as the owner is a good friend. The cab dropped me off in front of a building that didn’t look like a hotel, an office or even a townhouse. It looked like a closed up warehouse. The buzzer panel didn’t indicate “Room 4You” or the owner’s name, so I called him on mt phone. Giorgio had written the address number incorrectly. I was standing at #4 and I needed to be at #14, a block down the street. I hauled the baggage down the block, met the owner and checked myself in.

It is a great little efficient hotel. No frills – seems to thrive on the businessman trade but when I need to stay in Milan again (which I try to avoid as it’s not a pretty city or a destination favorite for me) I will definitely call on Carlo. He told me that Giorgio was also going to be staying there that night, as he had a day full of meetings starting early Monday morning, but that he wasn’t arriving until 11pm. Carlo recommended the Japanese restaurant next door for a meal. I was starving.
Side note- people in Milan are crazy drivers. Especially in their street parking. Not only do they park exceptionally close on the street, they drive onto the sidewalk and park the cars off-street two deep. It’s kind of insane. How anyone has side mirrors intact I will never know.





Although the menu was in italian I managed to find the standards from the descriptions – gyoza dumplings, miso soup, tempura veggies, California and Maguro tuna rolls. Once completely stuffed I waddled back to my room and checked my email. Giorgio messaged me on the phone that he was arriving late and he wouldn’t wake me by calling, but he would love to have coffee in the lobby together before I left. I told him to meet me at 7am. There was satellite tv where I watched David Letterman (a show two weeks behind the US airing) and CSI and drifted off to sleep at last.







In the morning I did meet with Giorgio for pastries, coffee and a quick hug goodbye. The cabride was only 9 minutes to the airport – wow! An hour later I was saying goodbye to mia bella Italia as I lifted off the ground.

The remainder of the trip was eventful only in that on my flight from Amsterdam to the US I honestly didn’t know if the marshals were going to meet me at the plane. Some IDIOT French woman thought it was perfectly ok to start doing her nails right after takeoff. Nail polish remover on a plane? An enclosed area with recycled air? Anywhere in proximity to other people? Are you freaking kidding me??? I was the only person who apparently had a nose and any gumption to ask this woman NOT to continue. The flight attendant kind of had a problem with me confronting the woman.

Unbelievable. I’m the bad guy?!?

I made amends with the attendant staff and promised to be quiet, when an hour later the braindead woman takes out the nail polish! So nailpolish remover=bad but not nailpolish, apparently. Holy crap – I hit the roof again. This time I was vocal with the other passengers – Are you Kidding Me? None of you have any desire to speak up – it’s just me that can smell this and it bothers??? – I had to make nice nice with the attendants again, but the woman was told (finally) NOT to open anything else up that would irritate fellow passengers.

Walking off the plane I really didn’t know if there were going to be people waiting to talk to me in a secluded area. The cluster of flight crew at the door did smile at me and thanked me for standing up for myself, although I finished their sentence by apologizing for being a disturbance myself. There were no air marshals, and I was free to make my way out of the airport without it being in the back of a police car.

Welcome home. I’m ready to go again.

10 Ottobre - Sabato : 10/8/09 Saturday : DInner and a Proposal

It rained all night and until early afternoon.

Mamma called me and asked me to come to dinner in the evening. It wasn't going to be a blowout extravaganza like a few days earlier, but Francesca and Chiara were coming over again from the mainland. I said I would love to, but only if she let me do the majority of the cooking. Once a week for the family is enough for her. She agreed and I said I would come over at 5 with everything.

I met up with Kathleen the Australian at the appointed time and place for lunch and we had a great time. She told me about her daily life in the UN compound as a contracotr in Chad - ugh - I don't wish that on anyone. She decided on her vacation to spend two weeks learning French in Paris, so she could be understood by those locals that deigned talk to a woman. Even locals working within the confines of a UN-run setting still don't feel they have to take direction from a woman, but she thought it might soften the blow to their egos if she spoke the same language (and hoping that French-French would be more commanding than Chadian-French.) This is a woman who spent a decade in the Australian army, eventually gaining status as an officer, and has worked around the world on postings as a logistics manager on every continent except North America. Good job, lady!

La Zucca is primarily a vegetarian restaurant, but over the years they have started bringing in meaty dishes to please all clientele. I chose to have an all-pumpkin meal, since it's October. Pumpkin soup, roasted pumpkin risotto, pumpkin lasagne, pumpkin flan. Heaven! I may turn orange. Kathleen joined me on the soup and risotto, but instead had a roasted chicken dish, and a tiramisu for dessert. Mmm... good times.

I made it out to the Rialto market before they closed up to grab some fish fillets for dinner and fava beans, basil, parsley and tomatoes. I stopped at the Co-op market for fusilli pasta, asiago and parmesan cheese. Called Marco at work and told him I was making dinner for his family and to be there by 7 - and bring dessert with him if he knew what was good for him! Something got lost in translation because he had no idea what I was talking about. Dolce, Marco, just bring dolce.

My menu was simple and light - fish fillets with parsley and herbs cooked in foil packets with the fava beans (but no Chianti and no Dr Lechter.) There was also a warm fusilli dish with the cheeses, tomatoes and basil. Marco brought home frutti di bosco gelato, fruits of the forest - mixed berries. My favorite fruit-flavored gelato. did they look at me funny when I wanted to take a picture of the dishes? Yep, but they like me anyway.



A good time was had by all and it was easy clean up. We watched a program on tv about the history of Roman army and Trajan's conquest of Dacia (modern day Serbia/Hungary/Bulgaria/Romania.) I could follow along because I'd seen it before on the History Channel. It's part of a series that uses video game technology to show the armies fighting. Pretty cool stuff.

I made it back to my apartment on the other end of town by 11pm. On the way home from the waterbus I was accosted by one of my neighbors, a guy who introduced himself as DiDi from Senegal. He is one of the immigrants that sell the knock-off Prada handbags on the street. They are known by the locals as 'vous-comprai' because they are always asking "would you like to buy?" in multiple languages to the tourists;the original immigrants were french-speaking Algerians. The immigrants come from all over Africa these days. They are usually undocumented and are put up in flats by the shady businesses that help smuggle them into the country for this work. I had seen him in the neighborhood with his roommates a few times. I have to sit in the doorway on the steps to make phonecalls at my place, as there's no phone reception inside unless I stand on a chair in front of the bedroom window. The stoop is the place to be, except the neighbors look at me funny because I'm always sitting on a blanket in the doorway with no shoes on. It's unseemly, I guess.

Didi asked me to stop and talk to him for a minute. It was late and I did want to get hime, but he knows I'm in the same neighborhood so it wasn;t like I was going to shake him off. He asked if I wanted a coffee. "No thank you, it's 11 at night, but thank you."

"I want to tell you I love you." Whaaaa? Just like that, out of nowhere.

"I see you on your doorstep. I love you. In my country we like your look. I would take you home to make you my wife." Oh, great... the "we like big ol' women because they can bear 17 children with those hips of yours" approach to my heart. Maybe I should introduce him to Kathleen. SHe needs men that can talk to her in Chad.

I told him I was married already and I appreciated him telling me that, but I had to go home now. Goodnight Didi from Senegal.

"Know that when I see you I am looking at you with love. Goodnight Kristina from America."

Oh boy.

My new hero

Imagine you live near a restaurant - a very popular one at that. Day after day and night after night you have people waiting literally outside your doorstep for a table at any given time from noon to eleven at night. You can't run around in your nightshirt with the windows open or Oopsie Here comes Grandma boobs...

It's bad enough that there are 15 tables outside where people are smoking, but the smoke isn't directly coming right at you on a constant basis.

However, it does come directly into your domicile when they are waiting for tables. What's a person to do? I know, put up a sign!



(Closeup)


Translation:

"Respect this family by not smoking in these windows, and do not throw cigarette butts on the ground. Thank you."

So what do you do when somebody doesn't pay attention and throws their butts in your pathway?


Bring out your broom and invite them to sweep up their mess.

I LOVE IT.

How to Spot a European Male

I'm just here to help.

In case you've been wondering how to tell just by looking - without embarrassing yourself by going up and speaking to one without knowing first, I present a primer on the euromale, part one.

The pants are a dead giveaway. In the young males, it's because they are tighter than jeans worn by American males (plus the over-shaping of the eyebrows.) This is for another day, however.

Behold - the colored pants:


Avocado



Lemon chiffon



Apricot



Cherry Red



Lime Sherbet


Raspberry



Tangerine Dream




Don't EVEN get me started on the MAN BAG





And just to show you that Americans aren't the only ones making the mistake of Crocs in public, here is a lovely example of a Swedish woman, awaiting the ferry from Torcello.

It just goes to show you, Americans aren't the only slovenly people on vacation.

9 Ottobre - Venerdi : 10/8/09 Friday : Padova and People-watching

I did not bring my camera today – so no pictures of the excursion. I figured I wasn’t going to be able to take pictures inside the church anyway, so no great loss. Sue me.

I met up with Mamma and Marco at the train station at 9am. It seemed silly for me to trek all the way over to Giudecca and then go to the station, or them come to me, so this was efficient use of everyone’s time. Padova is only about 30 minutes from Venice once you get on the mainland. Whereas they usually take a bus to the basilica, I offered to get us a taxi, and she agreed. Marco looked surprised that she agreed to be part of an expenditure. It was a few minutes in the cab and only 5Euro. I can handle it.

Outside the basilica stands an equestrian statue (life-size) made by Donatello. It was the first of its kind in a thousand years when he cast it in bronze in the mid 1450s. He also created the altar inside the Basilica that I was about to see.

Saint Anthony was born in the very late 12th century to a wealthy Portuguese family and became a monk after receiving the best education possible for the time. He gave his life over to the church as a poor Franciscan monk and moved to Italy where he lived in a cave and meditated, barely ever needing to speak to anyone. He was asked to give a sermon one day during a service when the appointed speaker didn’t show up. As he spoke, Anthony was filled with the holy spirit and preached on eloquently to the audience. Francis of Assisi (still alive, not St. Francis yet) heard about his gift for speaking and sent him on tour to talk to the masses. He had found his gift and used it for the next decade until he died at 36 in 1231, having settled in Padova just the year before. The church started being built in his honor only a year later when he was canonized. He was fast-tracking to sainthood thanks to the miracles he performed during his life.

The Basilica is one of the most important pilgrimage sites in Christendom. People make the trip to place their offerings and prayers on the tomb. Anthony is the patron saint for the poor, the barren, the pregnant and for everything from horses to fishermen to lost articles. I brought prayers and wishes from friends and family to offer up, as did the Marsons.

There are also offerings of thanks for prayers answered – photos of babies born after years of trying, photos of wrecked cars thanking the Saint for helping them through it. About 10 years ago Marco was in a car crash with two friends; one was in bad shape and might have lost use of his legs. The families are convinced their prayers to St. Anthony saved him from amputation, and today the friend has to walk with use of a cane, but at least he can walk. The envelopes, photos and votives all have “PGR” inscribed, so I pointed and asked what it means. “Per Grazie Ricevuta” - for answered prayers.

Reliquaries usually freak me out, and there are definitely some interesting things to be found in this basilica. Along with pieces of the One True Cross of Christ (how big was that thing – I mean REALLY – there are more pieces of that wood than matchsticks in the world) are relics from the saint himself. Encased are the tongue and vocal chords of Anthony, brought out after exhumation in 1363. They are intact, even after the body had turned to dust. Plus the jawbone. Perfectly fitting, since he preached the word to so many people.

Right after the millennium the reliquary containing the tongue of St. Anthony was stolen, but then soon recovered. Who was responsible for getting it back so quickly? The mafia bosses. Even they were horrified that anyone associated with them would carry out such a heinous act. I would not have wanted to be in the room with that poor guy when “family” justice was meted out.

We caught a taxi and made our way back to the station. We were back in Venice just past noon. I left them to make their way back to Giudecca and I headed out to get some lunch near the Rialto market. I stopped at home to grab the camera, then across the Grande Canal to Bancogiro for a cheese plate with preserves. It was pretty amazing and a great way to relax and just people-watch for a while. Went on autopilot for a bit, then back to the apartment.

The rest of the day was spent puttering around with the computer, doing laundry and generally cleaning up after myself. I needed to eat some of the leftovers piling up before they went to waste. Around 9pm I received a call from Kathleen the Aussie asking if I was coming by the hotel that night, but I declined. We made plans for lunch on Saturday – I told her to meet me at the San Stae vap stop so we could go to La Zucca, one of my favorites. I figured since she has to be so sheltered in the ultra-male-dominated world in Chad it would be good to take her to a restaurant run by women and staffed almost exclusively by women. I think there’s only been one male server in all the years I’ve been going there.

I finally settled into bed after writing for a bit. It was 1AM when suddenly the sky opened up with a torrential downpour. Thunder and lightning all night. It was spectacular. You can’t hear anything from the sound of the water gushing through downspouts and onto the paving stones. It was that way for the rest of the night and I slept hard. I tend to sleep very well when it rains. I hope it doesn’t rain all day tomorrow. I still have some shopping to do, and my lunchdate with Kathleen.



Mmmm... cheese and bread



My favorite - Caffe del Doge (it's also fair-trade, y'all)



Olive in the Aperol spritz. Love the color.

On the banks of the Grand Canal, watching the vaporetti go by.

8 Ottobre - Giovedi : 10/8/09 Thursday : In the Ghetto, In the Streets and In the Piazza

nI had a leisurely morning to myself. I went out the Fondamenta Nove in the morning to look at the fog. Caught a boat that took me to where I could access the Ghetto quarter.

History lesson – Venice had the first ghetto for Jews, long before WWII – before the Inquistion. In medieval times the restrictions began. Specifically, Jews were not even allowed to live in the city until 1385, and thereafter only with strict laws and special taxes placed upon them. There were many moneylenders and doctors in practice who were Jewish, and the aristocrats saw their worth in the form of practical application. In 1397, the welcome mat was revoked, under speculation of irregularities in banking practices, and the government limited them to staying for only two-week stretches. In 1509 when the mainland was overrun yet again, the Jewish merchants and bankers sought refuge once again in the city. The Catholic clergy took up complaint with the ruling families and the doge and tried to stir up anti-Jewish sentiment calling for their expulsion, not their protection. Venice’s rulers saw the advantage to keeping them around for practical reasons (read: economical!) and in 1516 the doge made the compromise to corral them into one location, rather than expel them entirely from the city. They were forced into a small area in the northwest corner of the Cannaregio District and kept under lock and key (by two gates) at night. Unless they were a doctor tending to a sick patient, they were not allowed out after sunset, until sunrise. There were however, many musicians who were allowed out at night as well, playing at the parties of the denizens of the city. They were made to wear badges on their clothing to identify them also.

The ghetto is quite small and the cramped inhabitants were forced to build tenements, some 6 stories high, much higher than palazzi in the rest of Venice. By the late 1500s there were almost 5000 people living in the space of 6 blocks. Since Jewish law states that no man can live above a house of worship – they built their synagogues on the top floors. Practical.

So where does the word ghetto come from? The Venetian word for foundry is “geto”, from the verb “gettare”, to forge. The ironworks foundry had been in the location the moved the Jews into, but had recently vacated to new digs on the southeast part of the city at the Arsenale, where the ships were built for Venice’s impressive naval fleet.

History lesson over. So when some young urban fellow tells you that you don’t know anything about the ghetto, drop some knowledge on them, courtesy of Venice.

Errands and mundane tasks with Marco all afternoon. It is incredibly humid here right now, which I am not used to and his insisting on walking me all over town got on my nerves, and my foot. I’m in a cast for Pete’s sake, it doesn't mean we’re okay to lollygag all over creation, idiot. By the time we stopped at a sandwich counter (a place I usually love!), I had reached my limits. There was no air circulation in the place, it was crowded, I was sweatier than all get out, and I had a meltdown. I told him I needed to go outside in the air. “NO no no stay here” he asked. I would be waiting for him outside, but he insisted that I eat something to make me feel better. We had one of those moments where you would have thought we were married if you saw us on the street, but I liken it more to a sibling spat. I sat down on a bench and refused what he handed me and he of course became exasperated with me.

It stems from a cultural difference that we have where people in the US think nothing of sitting down in public, whether eating or not. Italians tend not to lean on anything, because it might get on your clothes. Okay, whatever. It’s not like you have to take it down to the riverbanks and beat it on rocks to get the dust off, pal. Besides that, your mother does your laundry, quit being such a ninny.

He did the next best thing, to get me a bottle of water and some napkins to cool my face down, and to stop talking to me for a few minutes. He sat on the bench with me quietly eating his sandwich, which is another wonder of wonders – for he never eats outside unless it’s a pizza slice and he’s at a standing table. I’d like to see this guy at a drive-thru just off the interstate someday. After he finished, and I finished my water he quietly issued an apology, “I am sorry. I forgot you have the foot problem. We need to take the boat for you. I don’t want you to hurt when you are being on vacations.” And in my frustration with everything I burst into tears. Jeeeeez, Kris, way to go. He told me that when he is being “the pighead” I can thump him in the neck like his mother does. Alright, I’ve got carte blanche! I told him that I could also just sit down in the middle of the calle and wait for him to realize I’m not behind him. Okay, squabble over.

That evening I went in search of Tiziano, my friend who plays piano. He is currently booked to play at the Gran Caffe Quadri on Piazza San Marco. He’s not in the orchestra outside playing on the piazza itself, but in the restaurant/bar. It’s still a prestigious gig for certain, though. I found him and he gave me a shout out in song in a “doobie doo riff kind of way" (you had to be there, and those that were didn't catch it as they sipped their overpriced drinks.) He motioned me over during a quick break and told me I needed to sing with him before I left. I protested – this isn’t some hotel bar, Tizi, this place is famous and had been here since 1750-something. He told me nobody is paying attention, and even if they didn’t like it, they would be too afraid to ever say anything anyway. I relented and agreed. We’ve sung together before and there’s a certain number of songs that work really well for us. When he started back up he played Ray Charles’ “You Don’t Know Me” and we had our duet. I had my debut performance “on” Piazza San Marco. I left before I caused any more of a scene and ducked over to the “consulate” for my nightcap and then home to bed.

Tomorrow is another Mamma excursion; we’re going to Padova/Padua to the Basilica of St. Anthony’s to make a prayer pilgrimage.

7 Ottobre - Mercoledi - 10/7/09 - Wednesday : Someone's in the Kitchen with Mamma

I arrived at their doorstep at 9:30 and after some tea Mamma and I headed out to the vaporetto. She’s in decent health for someone over 80 but she does have joint and arthritis issues. She doesn’t go out daily to the big market. Living on the Giudecca, there are definitely smaller markets and merchants which are closer. When there is going to be a big dinner, she likes to go to Rialto where the selections are more plentiful and she can get fresher fish. She always goes with Marco as her arm to lean on/bag boy.

Francesca and Chiara were coming from their home in Pordenone on the mainland for dinner tonight. They usually get together on weekends, but this was for me to be able to visit with them. We were going to make a big Sunday dinner on a Wednesday with classic Venetian dishes: zuppa di pesce (seafood stew), seppia al nero (cuttlefish and its ink over tagliatelle noodles), and moleche col pien (fried softshell crabs). Oh my goodness this is going to be amazing.

moleche - this kind of softshell crab is found only in the Venetian lagoon. They are a little larger than a Kennedy half dollar.

Rialto market

Little fishies, gonna eat you up.

Pesce, e gamberetti, e ghozziti, oh my!

I don't know this fish in particular, but it sure is pretty.

I bought the makings for some soup for lunch and a caprese salad to munch on while we prepared everything for dinner. Once back at the house I started the pot for my squash soup (she fell in love with it the last time I was there) and we eased into a comfortable rhythm of chopping, measuring (with pinches and handfuls only- none of this stuff is on recipe cards, until I write it out for myself anyway) and tasting the goods along the way.

The lord of the manor woke up at 1pm and we sent him to go find a dessert of some kind for that evening. Francesca and Chiara arrived at 6 and we ate around 7. Normally they wouldn’t eat until 8 or 9, but we took into consideration their drive back and Francesca working in the morning. Plus Marco had to leave to work overnight again at 10. Chiara has graduated from high school - where does the time go? - and is taking a year off before deciding on university or a trade school. It was so good to see the whole family together and much too short-lived. We cleaned up and all said goodnight to Mamma; Franecsca and Chiara took the boat one direction to the train station and Marco & I toward San Marco. Arriving at the hotel, he took the employee entrance to get changed and get started, I made my way to the bar to see Aldo and Serena.

There were two American men in the corner at a table and I recognized the younger of them eventually. It was Mark Spitz, the swimmer, and his father. I make it a rule never to approach famous people; I don’t want to be a bother when they are obviously just trying to have a vacation as well. The next time he came up to the bar to order something I waited for him to acknowledge me and I gushed a little - which is a big deal for me. “Mr Spitz, I just want to tell you that you are one of the reasons I got into competitive swimming as a kid. I even had a competition suit in the same fabric as yours, the dark blue with the US flag in the stars.” Annnd I felt like such a dork! He was very gracious (he still has that great smile) and shook my hand. He introduced me to his father as well. At this point the woman sitting next to me spoke up and introduced herself as well. She spoke in an Australian accent and mentioned what a legend he is still considered in Australia and how important he was to inspiring the generations for their swim programs as well. He thanked us both and after a moment more of smalltalk he went back to his table.

I stayed for another hour talking with the Australian, Kathleen. She has a pretty fascinating job as a logistics manager at the UN compound in Chad. It’s not a place I’d want to go from the sounds of it - if she leaves the compound she has to go with a driver and two bodyguards, just because she‘s female. It’s scorching hot constantly - currently 50 Centigrade, which is at least 30 degrees to warm for me. But she makes really good money from it at least.

I bid everyone goodnight, went up front to the reception area and worked on the hotel’s computer (a great perk for knowing the concierge.) I loaded some pictures to the blogsite. This will hopefully cut down on time when I go to publish the next time. Onward, home and to bed.

6 Ottobre - Martedi: 10/6/09 Lagoon Day

I could not sleep to save my life. I got home from the meet & greet and was wide awake. I hadn’t had caffeine since early afternoon, but it didn’t matter. I wrote and read and at 5:30am when it was still obvious I wasn’t going to be able to pack it in anytime soon I took the computer out for a walk along the Strada Nova. I walked to Campo Santa Sofia where I had found a wi-fi signal earlier. Since the café was not open I sat on a public bench and set up the Magic Jack to call home. Only problem was that I needed to speak softly so as not to be a nuisance on an empty street at that time of the day. Mark and I had difficulty communicating so promised to try later in the day and rang off. Couldn’t get on to my regular Facebook account, which is getting very frustrating. I continue to get a message that my account is under maintenance, but it’s been a number of days now, so I’m locked out for some reason unbeknownst to me. I can get access to the one I have all the Italian friends on, but not the one I use daily. Fricking franking frou frou! The website says to send them a picture of the screen so they might try to fix the problem. Grr…

Finally drifted off just before 7am, with the alarm set for 10. I didn’t want to end up sleeping the day away and getting into a bad cycle of being up all night every night. My goal was to get out the door by 10:30 and head over and go island hopping in the lagoon - Torcello, Mazzorbo, Burano and Murano. Off to the Fondamente Nove on the north end of the island, only 2 minutes away.

I made it to the boat at the time I’d hoped and grabbed a seat on the back deck. The water buses that run along the lagoon are different from those in Venice proper. The 41/42 lines circumnavigate the whole of the city with only selected strategic stops, then go out to Murano. Since they are on a course with more open water and subject to more waves and weather, they sit low and the seats are all in the interior, unlike the lines that course up and down down the Grand Canal that can hod a 100 people in the open deck and seat 60 in the back end under cover. (numbers approximated)


Catching the vap to the islands



Looking back onto Venice

The first island in the lagoon to the north of the city is San Michele, the cemetery island, walled in brick and lines I cypress trees. It is named for the church there - San Michele in Isola, designed in the 1460s. This is the first Renaissance church in Venice, a marvel in design at the time and copied off a church in Rimini, as everything around was Byzantine and Gothic along the canals a short distance away. It housed a Franciscan monastery but didn’t become the official cemetery island until Napoleonic rule in the 1800s. Napoleon stopped all burials in the city proper to stop unhygienic Venetians from digging graves in the land around the parish churches. But not all Venetians these days can be buried there because of the lack of space available now in the cemetery. It reached the saturation period at the turn of the 20th century- they have come up with a novel approach - which in essence makes it a parking lot. So while a family pays through the nose for a plot - the loved one can only be buried on the island for about 12 years. After that, it’s head ‘em up, move ‘em out. The family can then decide to move them to a plot on the mainland or to an ossuary on one of the smaller lagoon islands. My friends that Marsons never bothered to try to bury their family members there - didn’t want to deal with it later - a resting place is a resting place, as Francesca says. They have a family plot about an hour north of Venice in Portonuove; I’ve been there when they’ve done the plot-sitting before All Souls Day.



San Michele in Isola


The boat moves on to Murano - the island of glassmakers, but I’ll come back to that. I used it only as a transit point to get to Burano, then to Torcello. Most visitors take the trip in that order, Murano, Burano, Torcello, and are tired and most likely dismayed at the end result, as the this order presents a decline in sights to see and inhabitants. In actuality, Torcello is the most historic og these islands and in all the lagoon, because it’s where the history of Venice begins.


In the 600s this where the people from the mainland fled from the thundering hordes of barbarians overrunning the land. These were Romans in the last throes of the fallen empire, now reconquered and emerging as the Byzantine Empire under Justinian, used to being overtaken by Huns, Visigoths and Lombards. They would escape to the islands and stay for weeks, then months at a time. It took decades for the barbarians to attempt to go out there and attempt to get at them, which led to serious issues. First issue, their boats were too deep for the shallow lagoon. Second issue, mosquitoes and malaria. The settlers stayed so long they decides it wasn’t a refuge anymore - it was home, and started bringing the beams to build the church and altar from the mainland. Torcello was consecrated by the archbishop in the late 600s, and the first Doge was elected in 697. The settlers had mastered farming the islands by creating canals from directing the silted shores as they pleased. Not long after the farmers worked this out, along came aggressive noble families from the mainland to settle their own islets and build palaces and became masters of trade in fish and salt, then spice routes from the East. In the space of 150 years Torcello was left behind in the progression of building Venice into a powerhouse economy. Farming was not making a booming economy, just subsistence, and the Rialto area over at clustered settlement of 100-plus islands was where the Doge sat in power. Torcello eventually pretty much became abandoned - where there were once 60,000 people living on the island, there are now 20. It is actually put in the newspaper around the region when someone moves off the island. The only things on the island are the church and its museum, the ultra-expensive Hotel Cipriani and a handful of cafes to handle the daytrippers.



The floor of Santa Maria Assunta on Torcello. Inlaid stone.




The frescoes are still viewable in the alcoves outside the church.




Mosaic in the apse of the church. About 40 feet high.



Torcello boat landing

It’s a three minute trip on the boat to cross back to Burano, the island known for lace making. It’s a fishing community, famous for its brightly colored houses. My mission here was lunch at Al Gatto Nero. A fantastic meal was to be had, but I was in a pickle going there alone - the best dishes they are famous for are usually a 2 person minimum. After talking with the host and explaining how I really wanted the risotto alla burranella and the ghizzotto grigliata or the turbot but I was only one person. He flashed a smile, held up his hand in a “wait please, one minute” gesture and came back with the thumbs up. There were enough people just seated for lunch that there were bound to be orders of the desired risotto and he would add the extra portion in for me. Bad news on the fish dishes though - no one else had ordered those. I certainly could have eaten 2 portions, but at 25-30Euro per portion, that felt a little steep even if I was treating myself to one of the most fabulous dining experiences out there. I settled for grilled scampi and was pleased with the choice. I don’t usually go for shellfish or crabs because I don’t like to work that hard for my food and it’s difficult for me to not look like a savage trying to crack and break the meat out. How do these people do it so elegantly? I end up like a caveman with a rock growling “Must. Eat. Food.”

Wine carafe - front and back

Risotto alla Buranella - I liked it well befor Tony Bourdain gave it his seal of approval.

Destroyed 'em all...

The only drawback to the meal was the French couple sitting next to me smoking the entire time. Outdoor dining is not suspect to the smoking regulations in Italy, and this woman was taking great advantage of this. She smoked 12 cigarettes during the time there, about 90 minutes. 12!

Thanks for smoking

Brightly colored houses all in a row - Burano is called the place where the rainbows end.

Fully satiated, I happily wound my way back to the dock and got onboard in the direction of Murano. This is the island of glassmakers. A law in 1292 restricted the furnaces needed for the factories to stay out of the crowded Venice center, after one too many destructive fires. They also were trying to preserve the secrets of glassmaking to keep it specialized and in demand from only this region. The factories are all brick, unlike the houses and buildings in Venice, which are wooden frames, plaster and stucco. The glassmakers started becoming famous for making mosaic tiles, which morphed into glass beads and glassware, vases and the ornate chandeliers and sconces still seen today in the hotels and palazzi around Italy (and the world.)

I was here for beads. There is an artists cooperative I buy my beads from, as it’s the only one on the islands where I can pick and choose size, shape, and color to my heart’s delight. It’s a heck of a lot cheaper than the bead shops in Venice, by almost half. I loaded up and got back on the boat for the Fondamente Nove.

Murano glass factories

Woman of glass

Marco came over with a pizza for dinner before he had to work the overnight. We watched one of my favorite game shows, the Italian version of “Deal or No Deal” which I prefer to good old Howie Mandel at home. It’s been around longer for one thing, and they don’t use briefcases held by the modelkins dressed alike in the studio. There are 20 packages, tied with twine and wax sealed on the front. Each package is held by an everyday person (and the next hopeful contestant for the game) from one of the 20 regions of the country - so for example you have Giuseppe the retiree from Emiglia-Romagna, Patrizia the housewife from Lombardy, Father Franco from Puglia or Chiara the university student from the Veneto. The most they can win is 500,000Euro, and the smallest is 50Eurocents 9or worse, a serenade from an Andrea Bocelli imitator.

I went out to the “consulate” to see my friends at the bar & tell them about my day and then to bed. I still need to tackle the best and most expedient way to get the internet wi-fi connection to upload the blog and photos. Will keep trying. Tomorrow is my day with Mamma - we’re going to the Rialto Market (just us, no Marco) and I’m getting a cooking lesson. Whoo hoo.

5 Ottobre/ October 5 : (re)acclimation

I woke up around 1am, knowing that I hadn’t slept where I had intended to but it took me a moment to realize I was at Mamma’s. Went to the kitchen and left a note thanking them for their hospitality but it felt odd for me to sleep there overnight. I told her I would call her in the afternoon, so we could decide which day we are going to Padua, and that I will be coming back to spend the day with her on Wednesday while Marco works.

I managed to time arriving at the vap stop right as a night-route boat was coming. A few moments later and I would’ve been waiting for an hour.

I got back to the apartment a little before 2 crashed until 8. I puttered about writing and making a grocery list until 9, when the Co-op store down the street opens. I brought back the makings for a few kinds of soup, eggplant rollitini, and chicken saltimbocca. Plus my breakfast stuff - yogurt, juice, fruits, etc. It should last me pretty much all week, taking into consideration the meals I’ll have out at restaurants and with the Marsons.

Showered and scrubbed (but with wet hair because of a broken hairdryer - grrr), I set out on the most important task at hand - finding a wi-fi location. I walked through the neigborhood with the NetBook opened, stopping to refresh the network list. Zip.Zero. Zilch. The problem wasn’t that there weren’t any unsecured networks to poach from, rather that there were NO networks available at all. I put the computer away and headed to the nearest vap. I would go the old standby places to get the connection in the short term and find something closer to home later. Campo Santa Margherita near my other favorite apartment held the most promise - I’d connected there in the past but couldn’t see the screen in the afternoon light. Morning would probably prove better. I kept seeing “unsecured” on the screen, but every one I tapped into needed a password. What gives? If a password is necessary, doesn’t that defeat the phrase “unsecured” ???? I tried near the University - nope. I tried at Campo San Polo - nope. I tried near the Academia - in hopes that the artisan galleries and workshops in the Dorsoduro district (Venice’s “left bank”) wouldn’t be savvy enough to get with security protocols -nope. I gave up and went to my consulate at the hotel where my friends work. Giorgio or Aldo would have something magically work for me.

I was greeted in the bar by Giorgio who was surprised to see me so early in the day. I usually start popping in after lunchtime after roaming about. He hugged me but we didn’t have to spend much time catching up - only the past few days. Facebook does wonders for keeping your friends a third of the way around the globe abreast of your every move. Yay social networks! Giorgio did surprise me with the news that I was expected to be at the hotel that evening at 10 pm to meet up with some of my Venetian face book friends. To meet them face to face for the first time. I was going to have a coming out party of sorts, like the debutante I am.

When I started my Italian account/page earlier this year I had only Giorgio, Serena and Donato (all friends from the bar). Since Giorgio is Mr. Italian Barman Association for the Nation and the World At Large he has about a zillion friends - mostly all in the industry and all over the world. He suggested a few people in Venice for me to befriend, since I would likely meet them at some point in my travels, and over the past six months I have amassed a few dozen people I read about on a daily basis but have never met. It’s interesting because on my “real” account I don’t befriend people I don’t know. I have to at least met you face to face already. Except for one Mr. Clay, but he’s special, and he knows why.

Anyway, Giorgio had arranged a get together for that evening, since a good lot of them have Mondays off. I don’t know - hanging out with bartenders in a town where you don’t have to worry about designated drivers could spell trouble. I told him I would definitely be happy to meet them all, but I wasn’t planning on wrecking my liver or anything.

I told him about my situation with the wi-fi connectivity and he promised me he would work on getting a password for me to use on the VeniceConnected community site. It has the strongest signal throughout town and is available to residents of the city for free. Hmmm, why doesn’t Marco know about this? Giorgio would ask Luana (another employee) if she would loan me her password later in the day. In the meantime, I popped over in front of the hotel next door, the Bauer Palazzo and found their unsecured wi-fi to actually be unsecured. If all else fails, I’ll just hang out in their lobby to read and post as needed.

The Bauer is one of the only modern facades in the city, as the Germans used it as their HQ during WWII. Offhand I can only think of three - that hotel, the train station (designed by Mussolini but not built until the early 1950’s) and a bank on Campo Manin are the only buildings that look 20th century. Many buildings have been remade time and again - tourism and refurbishment drive the economy in this city, but always in the manner of the original eras of the 14th-18th century. “Com’era, dov’era” is the phrase - “How it was, where it was.“ When the Opera house burnt down in 1996 (arson, no less) they were able to reconstruct it exactly because of the photographically archives of it’s interiors and the construction notes on file from the 18th century were kept elsewhere in town.

I decided I would keep searching, closer to home and use the Bauer only if absolutely necessary. Time to head somewhere for lunch. I caught the vap and rode up a 5 stops to San Toma to walk to the Dona Onesta and see Safwat and company. See previous entries for my history with the D.O. and its owner, but suffice to say, he is slowly becoming a friend and the restaurant is a place I go to with regularity. His brother was working and he greeting me with more warmth than on previous occasions. It’s not that he’s unfriendly, just not as friendly as his brother. I can never remember his name either… I want to call him something like Mufasa or Mustafa but I know it’s nothing like it. I’ll call him Jimmy for these purposes, as he resembles a more rounded, cherubic and cuter Jimmy Kimmel in the face. It’s only in the eyes; they are shaped the same. I assumed that Safwat was at the other restaurant - the new one, and that I would stop in there when finished. I ordered taglioni with scampi and a pork cutlet, a glass of white wine and acqua frizzante. Just as the pasta arrived, Safwat breezed in and greeted me with kisses on my cheeks and a big hug. Jimmy had called him to tell him I was there to eat. He asked me to stop in afterward over there. I agreed.

The taglioni hit the spot - flat noodles, half the width of fettucine, but lighter in substance, with small shrimp mixed in and the sauce was a kind of aurora - a pink sauce made of a blend of red sauce and béchamel. Not heavy like béchamel and alfredo tend to be, and not runny like some marinara can get. It was made with red bell peppers, by the taste of it. Even better! The pork cutlet was as big as my head, lightly breaded and baked, so it wasn’t greasy at all. Yum yum yum - an excellent choice of dishes! While I have never had a bad meal there, I hadn’t had the taglioni dish before. I certainly will again.

Afterward, I made my way to the new restaurant and chatted briefly with Safwat and his nephews working there, and promised to come try them for dinner on Tuesday. Safwat promised to sit with me for the meal and leave the hosting to others. I told him that’s impossible for him - those regular patrons expect him to hop about and chat them up - and I didn’t mind at all dining alone. He laughed told me I know his business too well, but he promised to sit with me during dessert.

On the way back to the apartment I stopped along the main drag in front of a few of the larger cafes. I figured if there was wi-fi available at any of them it would be more respectable to drink a coffee while working at the computer, rather than hang out in the hotel lobby of a place I wasn’t staying at. The café at Campo Santa Sofia struck gold. Plus, I know that when the café isn’t open, the tables and chairs are still out there in front. I don’t have to wait in the morning for them to open. I can hit it around 7am and call home on the Magic Jack, where it’ll be 10pm. At that hour there also won’t be scores of people walking by looking at me like a crazy person. Jackpot!

Back at the apartment I started cooking veggies for a pot of minestrone soup. I was in no way hungry and wouldn't be for hours, just preparing a hearty dinner if I was going out carousing later. I got a call about 6pm from Serena, verifying that I would be there later to meet up with everyone. Yes, around 10, will you be coming along? Unfortunately, she is working. Damned shame. Going anywhere with Serena is fun. She is stunningly beautiful and heads turn from all points in a room. I like watching the people watch her. She has no idea how gorgeous she is and doesn’t believe it anyway when you tell her. Photos do her no justice, but picture a cross between Penelope Cruz and Monica Belluci. And she’s a goofball to boot. This is a woman who when hard-pressed for a date by Nicolas Cage while he staying at the hotel (after his divorce from Patricia Arquette and before he got really creepy looking) told him she could not go out with a guest. He changed hotels and took her to dinner that night. They went to the beach on the Lido the next day and she couldn’t figure out what she had done wrong - he’d shied away very quickly, pretty much almost leaving her there. When she told me the story I immediately figured it out. Second date at the beach and her being topless in public probably kind of messed with his head. Because we’re American and don’t expect that. How do you have a “get-to-know you conversation” with a mostly naked woman, after all? But she said he was too introverted and quiet anyway, not talkative at all (even before the topless public beach action.) True story. She also had a handful of dates with one Mr. George Clooney about the time he was scouting for his villa in Italy. Truth.

A few hours later, with my dinner eaten I headed out to meet up with my peeps. I was thinking earlier of inviting Marco to come with me, but decided that wasn’t a good idea. I would’ve welcomed his company and to see him go out and have fun in a group, but there is bad blood between him and Giorgio. These are Giorgio’s friends, so I felt it inappropriate. He would not have accepted the invitation knowing Giorgio was involved anyway. Why can’t all my friends be friends with my friends because they are all my friends?

There were a dozen people waiting when I got to Bar Tiepolo. Giorgio made all the introductions and we headed out into the night. Normally I would feel not quite at ease with a large group of almost-strangers (save for Giorgio and Aldo) who I only understand about 70% of the time with the pretense of drinking, which can cause a person to be even more unintelligible because they are bound to drop the “speaking English” thing, but this time I felt alright. These are all bartenders in a tourism-driven city visited by people all over the globe. They all speak at least four languages with a pretty good knowledge base. We could always revert to Spanish if need be. I promised myself I try out new cocktails to me, after all - these are people to suggest them, right? I also made the mental note to be home before 1am. Not too difficult, as there are only a handful of places in Venice open after that time anyway. And I was not going to the Piccolo Mondo disco if they threw out that as an option. Eurotrash in a bar or jazz cub is one thing, but I draw the line at watching the Eurotrash dancing to bad house music.

How did it work out? It was great! It was great seeing Giorgio and Aldo out from behind the bar and kicking up their heels for once. I also tried something you would never suspect would exist. I see it every time I go to the grocery store here, but never at home - it’s called “Cynar” and it’s a liqueur made from…. artichoke. It’s a little on the bitter side but diluted with seltzer and an orange wedge, it was pretty good. At least it doesn’t taste like Nyquil, which is what a lot of the sips of drinks I had of theirs while deciding upon my concoction. What is it about Italians and bitter drinks? Americanos, Negronis, Montenegro, Amaro - ugh. Worse than the worst cough syrups. We ended up singing karaoke in the Scala Martini next to Vino Vino, where I was serenaded by Aldo singing the Four Seasons' "Can't TakeMy Eyes Off of You" - not awkward at all... eesh! I eventually bade my new friends and promised to make my way to their places of business and cut out at about 12:30 to head home.


(Cynar spritz)

I acknowledge I haven’t been taking pictures, so tomorrow’s goal is all pictures, all the time. As soon as I see that the wi-fi connection at the café will not take 15 hours to upload photos to the blog, I will feel better about providing some visual content. Buona notte a tutti!

3 & 4 Ottobre : Travel Day & Arrival in Venice

The day started early, but it was actually the usual time when my alarm goes off on any weekday - 5AM. So much for sleeping in on vacation, but I’ll get to that point soon enough. First I have to get ‘there’ and inasmuch, this day should be considered a waste. I will be traveling for the next 24 hours in total. More on that later.

The tasks at hand were in order to get me ‘plane ready‘ and to get me out of the house. I had cooking to do for Mark as the first priority of the day. Because he isn’t joining me on this trip I promised to have food for him for dinners while I’m gone. I made him a huge casserole of baked ziti. For those of you who think this is an awful lot of starches/pasta, never fear. Mark also eats a huge salad twice a day. He definitely gets his roughage. Nice trade-off though, isn’t it? I get the trip and he gets home cooking even when I’m not home.

Next up, a quick touch-up on the hair color, In the appropriate shades of reds that don’t exist in nature, so I might better blend in with the ladies of Italy. They seem to have three groups of hair color in stores and salons that I can tell: raven black, dirty blonde with chunky platinum streaks and wild plum/burgundy/reds. And then there are the remarkably few women who don’t color their hair at all and are varying shades of salt & pepper. I don’t color my hair just to go abroad - I’ve been doing it since I was 15.it’s the 85 year old ladies with bright plum hair teased into a four inch halo/helmet that scare me. I fit in with the punched up red/burgundy though. It’s my “fall/winter” color scheme. Hair done by 8am, casseroles just about to come out of the oven. I’m doing very well time wise.

I tried to paint my nails but couldn’t sit still long enough for it to dry completely. Oh well. Bring the bottle and fix it later. I still was not completely packed. I had all my things grouped up but not in the suitcase. It’s typical for me - I can pack the suitcase and have it ready for days, but in the clinch of the last hour before leaving I will reconsider everything three times and repack at least twice, change luggage completely, etc. I think about what I’m bringing too much, bring too much, then don’t ever take it out of the case when I get there. You’d think after all these trips I’d have it together - and I do - pretty much. I bring way less clothing changes than I used to. I have a washing machine at my disposal at the flat - I don’t need to bring three changes of clothes for each day. I’m hanging out with workaday people who wear uniforms at their job and are in the same thing day after day - they can handle seeing the same blouse at the beginning and the end of a trip. It‘s all the accoutrements that I get bogged down with - do I bring my kitchen knives or not? (Don‘t laugh, I cook a lot and the knives in rental places aren‘t going to be that great - otherwise people will bring them home with them, am I right?). Do I bring my immersion blender? I actually voted both those down - I can deal with the knife issues no matter what, and if there’s no blender this time out I can always buy one for 10Euro and leave it there. I tend to do that in places I know I will stay at again. Over the years I’ve bought casserole dishes and better knives from IKEA (not as good as my Wusthofs at home, but better) and boom boxes for radio/CD playing. The owners appreciate it when I leave them a note upon leaving telling them about the gifts for the house. Another reason why I get deep discounts on renting again, I am contributing to the betterment of the living experience.

Mark got up around 8:30 and we prepared ourselves for the one non-trip related task to be done. The story is way too long to get into, and it’s work-related so there’s no real pertinence here, other than I know I will end up having a conversation with my boss during vacation around this issue. In short - I took care of a payment a few weeks ago to a speaker because the Accounting department was taking MONTHS to issue a check. He spoke for us in June and I ended up paying out of my pocket (to be reimbursed later) in September. I sent a Bank check, but he never received the envelope. After hearing the man bellyache for quite a while now I opted to do this and just deal with it later. My mis-step was in sending the check “regular mail“ and not FedEx or in a manner where it would be signed for. The envelope is probably stuck to the inside of a mailbox in Boston. Anywhoodle - I got a panicky message from the boss yesterday that the gentleman STILL didn’t have the check. Happy fricking vacation! The task for this morning was to go to the bank and start the process for stopping payment on the bank check, signing affidavits, getting the statements notarized and getting monies reissued. Ugh! The good thing is that since Mark has been a customer for umpteen years we received excellent service, and after paying an extra $25 as insurance in case someone attempts to cash the check in the next 24 hours, they reissued the check. Hot damn! But it did take 2-½ hours to complete the deal. I left Mark the information and FedEx account number and after taking me to the airport he would finish the task of mailing that sucker out in a manner that is traceable. And here I was trying make it a short backstory. Sorry. I did call the boss’ voicemail at work and told her I got the message, I sent out another check by FedEx and we can deal with the details when I get back. I can check online from Europe to verify it was signed for and breathe sigh of relief. It won’t be my problem any longer once somebody in Boston signs for it. I’ve done my due diligence in this matter. Above and beyond.

We drove to MacArthur Bart and were met by a train full of mid-day drunks in partygear, going to the LOVE parade/festival in San Francisco. I haven’t been on a train that full since New Years Eve a decade ago. Lots of yelling, lot of glitter, lots of costumes, lots of “I’ve got all my rave toys around my waist and oh! that’s the tiniest Hello Kitty backpack I’ve ever seen! You‘re so awesome!” And it was PACKED. It was like the trains you see in India or NYC where people are pressed up against one another in full-on sardine mode. Except when everyone exited the train at the Civic Center station there were lots of cans and bottles left behind on the floor.

Arriving at SFO’s International terminal is a breeze on BART. I whipped out my cane to go with my cast-boot and pulled my luggage along. A dude in a cart drove up alongside and had me hop on and took me to the KLM/Northwest counter on the far end of the terminal. I got out, walked up to the Skyteam member / Business class counter and was issued my boarding pass lickety split. Nobody asked me the security questions about having control of my baggage - it’s been years since I wasn’t assaulted with those questions. Curious. Maybe it was because cart dude was waiting to take me up to Security check-thru? I don’t know. It was great because there were about 100 people already in line, but I don’t feel guilty. I would’ve been able to check in at that counter anyway - I’m a gold medallion traveler. Whoop whoop!

Cart-dude sped me over to Security and due to cast & cane I went to a separate line for the metal detectors and such. Reserved for the old and infirm - it said “medical” on the sign. I breezed through that too - skipping about 200 folks in line (ha ha!) But they did perform a rather thorough pat-down. She even swiped over my cast straps to put in a reader of some kind. Making sure I am not another shoe bomber… then cart-dude reappeared and drove me to my gate. Sweet! All in all, I was through with checking in and security and in a seat at the gate in under 15 minutes. Not bad at all. Gimpy-ness has its advantages. I hung out for a while, no sense in working the foot when I didn’t have to.

The KLM personnel working the boarding gate announced the flight and that they would start pre-boarding in 10 minutes. This is where I love to people-watch. You can spot the really type-A personalities as well as separate the Europeans from the Americans. It’s true! I’ve done scientific research (I.e. - been on a lot if international flights) and the Americans are better at chilling out until their rows or group is called. Not so for the Europeans. Pre-boarding is called and within seconds there at 70 people milling about in front of the counter with their passports and boarding cards in hand. Mind you, I said milling - these people cannot ever queue up in an actual line to save their lives. After the pool of milling-abouters comes the people who create some semblance of a line. Standing two and three abreast, the line goes back in between the two seating areas for about 30 yards, about 100 people. Are they all pre-boarding because they etiher have small children, are elderly or need extra time/help to get in their seat or have something gimpy like me? No, they are all perfectly healthy looking, they just can’t listen to directions in any of the three languages given. I see there are a large number of them with the same shoulder bag from a convention. It reads “International Continence Symposium” but the way the bag is sagging in on itself it reads “InContinence Symposium” which starts me into a fit of giggles. Imagine that conference…lots of breaks for the bathroom. Perhaps not, if they are all wearing Depends.


(Learn to line up, people. We're all going to eventually get on the plane...)

I got to pre-board with a couple with three kids under 5 in tow (oy, that’s gonna be a fun section to sit in - hope I’m not nearby) and an hour later we were off the ground. We left 15 minutes earlier than expected, and the flight ended up arriving in Amsterdam 45 minutes ahead of schedule. Whoo hoo. I was sleepy but didn’t sleep more than one hour at a time, even after a muscle relaxer, but I had a lot of little powernaps.


(I know I'm not William Shatner, but I expect to see Gremlins on the wing...)

I slowly made my way to the gate for the flight to Milan. It was two terminals away from the gate we arrived at. I watched the overhead tv screen with CNN World channel on it. Jon Stewart and the Daily Show broadcast on CNN around the world. Who knew? I hope the rest of world understands the tongue-in-cheek faux news angle. Especially since he was interviewing Rod Blagojevich.

The flight to Milan Malpensa is only 1 hour 20 minutes but I still managed to fall asleep briefly a few times. Our luggage took 40 minutes to get onto the carousel inside. That blew my chance of making my preferred train into Venice, but that’s okay. I had hoped to catch a train that got me there around 5:30. Looked like I would be very lucky if I caught the next one - and that would get me there at 7:15. Caught the bus into Milan’s train station, the Malpensa Shuttle> On weekdays this is an absolute crapshoot about the length of time it takes because traffic is awful. I had my fingers crossed for a Sunday afternoon. The shuttle didn’t have a single seat open on it. Good to see people are traveling, in any case. There was no traffic stoppage at all so we made it in 45 to the Stazione Centrale. I purchased my ticket from the machine and lugged my bag up the ramp with only 5 minutes to spare. Whew! I’d make it In at 7:15pm after all. I called the landlords, Maria end Leo to let them know I would be able to meet them at the flat at 7:45. Then a quick call to the Marsons to tell them I’d be at their place around 9 and I would be READY to eat. Marco wanted to meet me at the apartment and escort me over, but I told him that was impractical and to just meet me at the vaporetto stop near his house on Guidecca island.

\
(Random hilltown somewhere in the Veneto region)

The train was uneventful, except that as it grew darker I could see a beautiful golden full moon on the rise. Two and a half hours later, as the train glided across the water between the mainland and the islands of Venice I could see it hanging over the city. It was a magical “welcome home” for me. La Serenissima, indeed.


(Where else but Italy can you find a married man pushing 60 wearing silver and golod lame sneakers?)



(I realize the picture is crappy, but you get the idea that the moon was bright in the evening sky. Moon over Murano.)

Maria and Leo were charming as ever and the apartment had not changed in arrangement whatsoever. I like this place because it has an oven. It is in Cannaregio on the northern part of the city by the Fondamenta Nouva This is wonderful working class area with families. The flat is next to a middle school and I will hear them coming to and from school. I’ll have to remember to keep the shutters in the bedroom closed - the last time I stayed here I forgot and when I walked out of the shower and was toweling off when I looked out to see kids playing ball in the courtyard. The curtains are gauzy and lacy so someone would have had access to an eyeful! They seemed very intent on their game so I don’t think they caught a glimpse. They certainly didn’t let on if they did, because how often do 12 years olds who just saw boobies not talk about it?

I quickly unpacked and freshened up, changed my clothes and headed back out. Called home and let Mark know I made it okay, and got down to the vaporetto in time to slip on board a Number 2, which took me around the northwestern part of the city and down the Giudecca canal. I arrived at the Redentore stop to find Marco leaning out of the bus shelter, smiling at me. He remarked on my fabulous walking cast and asked me if he needed to get a wheelbarrow because I must be exhausted. Honestly, if he had one with him, I would have probably taken him up on the offer.

Mamma gave me hugs, kisses, more hugs and we both ended up crying a little. Maybe it was from exhaustion on my end, but she takes on more and more of the amalgamation of my three grandmothers every time I see her. We had a wonderful dinner of lasagne, Bolognese style and roast chicken breasts and salad. We sat down to talk and I soon found that if I wasn’t doing the talking I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I told them I needed to go before I dropped right there on the rug, and after a quick conference Mamma insisted I needed to sleep at their place rather than trek back to the absolute opposite side of the city. It was not quite 11pm, but I had pretty much been awake for over 24 hours. I protested, but she held my purse in her hands and in Venetian dialect (I assume, because I didn’t completely understand it) told me I was staying. I guess when she‘s scolding she changes dialect so you know she means it. Marco just shrugged his shoulders, told me she would keep insisting and so I gave in to her. She turned down the bed in her room and I asked where she was sleeping. “Right next to you - there is room. Lorenzo and I slept here for 50 years together, you are okay.” Lorenzo is Marco’s father, who died two (or is it three?) years ago this Christmas. There last thing I remember before nodding off was to excuse myself in advance in case I snored. “Va bene, cara” she responded, “You are fine, darling.”

Return of the Blog - Sunday 27 September 2009

Here we go again.

I'm leaving inside of a week to return to mia bella Venezia; this time with a heavy heart. Two deaths in my world in the very recent past and I don't know how right I feel about going off to have a good time and writing about carefree days when the weight of these losses looms about.

I will just make myself accept that I need the release - and that this trip was planned some time ago. If anything, I feel a definite need to reconnect with my adopted family there. I want to spend as much time with Mamma Marson as possible. I fear the day I get the call that she is gravely ill, or worse.

Marco called me yesterday in advance of the trip. Mamma is expecting me for dinner on Sunday, the night I arrive. I hemmed and hawed about it, making sure he relayed the info that I will be landing in Milano in the afternoon - then a bus to the train station - then a 3 hour train trip across the north of Italy and into Venezia. I won't get into town until about 730, then I am meeting the landlords for the apartment key and dropping my bags. I doubt I will be ready to head over to Giudecca island until at least 9 and I don't want to hold up their dinner time.

The response - Mamma wants you to come for dinner.

Okay then. Five days and counting.