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.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Tuesday, 24 February, 2009
Marco called me early to ask me when I thought I would come over to visit with Mamma. He was leaving work after working all night. His schedule was changed unexpectedly due to a co-worker’s extended illness. He will be working nights for the next two weeks, which actually could be a good thing. He is not likely to get called to do any fill-in work elsewhere and he could have a consistent schedule for more than a few days. I sHiWe had a brief conversation consisting of me making him promise he wouldn’t stay awake just because I was coming over – that he would actually go to sleep, that we would be quiet for him to get rest. I told him I could take Mamma to the market in his place. He just needed to sleep since he had pretty much worked non-stop for the past three days.
Today is the last day of Carnevale. At midnight the festivities end, and hopefully a giant broom will descend from the sky to sweep it all away. But I was sure the revelry would first have to go on into the early morning hours.
I left the apartment at eleven and walked to the Zattere to catch the boat to Guidecca. I made my way to the house and was greeted with hugs and kisses by Mamma. Marco was actually up and I gave him a sidelong glance and shook my head at him disapprovingly. He told me he had slept for three hours and would go back to sleep but we had business to get to first. We were going back to my favorite post office on the Zattere to pick up some paperwork.
Last year when I was here I started looking into creating a bank account of some kind so that could have money over here and not have to depend on ATMs one-hundred percent. How did I know how important this would end up being? This trip had been a disaster in money accessibility. The Italian Post Office has a banking branch and I wanted to start an account with them. The advantage of this, in my mind, is that I would be able to filter money into it all year long through wire transfers or possibly direct deposit from my paycheck (a $100 per paycheck could go unnoticed I figured.) When I come back I would have no fees from the bank for foreign ATM withdrawls, etc. And right now with the dollar doing its best against the euro I could transfer a lot into the account with the best exchange rate in years. But why put it in the Post Office and not a regular bank? Because there are offices the length and breadth of Italy and I can use any office to deposit or withdraw with no fees. If I were to go to Bank of San Marco they may not have an office in Naples I could readily find and possibly have fees to withdraw from the ATM. The Post Office is the Post Office and isn’t likely to go away anytime soon.
Marco was offering to go with me to inquire on the types of accounts and help out with the forms. I had intended to pick up forms the morning I was there but after the wire transfer-middle name mess I left without asking about anything. There was also too much of a language barrier. My Italian isn’t good enough to ask all the questions I wanted. We struck out for the vaporetto and hopped on one just as we arrived and ten minutes later we were in the office, the clerk smiling at me for bringing along my own translator this time. We were handed the forms but she suggested we go to the larger office near San Marco where the manager would be able to open the account for me. Bye-bye nice lady!
I was trying not to be concerned with the fact that my friend is giving up his sleep time for me to run around on my errands, but the speed that that guy can drag me through streets is pretty dizzying. We cut across the Dorsoduro to the Grand Canal and near Salute we got onto a traghetto – the gondola ferry. This is the cheaper and local version of the gondola ride. Rather than pay upwards of 80 euro for a 50 minute ride in the plush seats of a gondola, you can a spend euro and stand with a dozen people to cross the canal in about ten different strategically placed locations. This can save time from having to walk to one of the fours bridges that cross over the main canal in the city. We got over to the San Marco office and found the manager wasn’t in, but were able instead to speak with a clerk that Marco knows. She said if I have all my documents she would be able to open it up. I presented my passport and the codice fiscale I had generated online. Although this is an “unofficial” version of the code, I have been able to use it in the past to purchase a cell phone. A codice fiscale is the Italian version of a tax identification number and is required to purchase some simple items in the country. Unfortunately in this case I would need to get the official version, stamped and notarized by the Agenzia Entrata.
At this point I balked at doing anything further. Who knows how long we could spend in a bureaucratic office since it was almost the afternoon? I told him I could go tomorrow, as early as possible. We headed back to the vaporetto and to Guidecca. We told Mamma about our exploits and he headed off to the other part of the house to get some rest. Mamma said we could wait to go to the market until tomorrow and we settled into the couch to watch tv for a while. We started preparing for dinner after a few hours; I saw the makings for roasted red pepper soup (I am the soup queen!) and pounded out some chicken for breading. Mamma was interested in my soup recipe, but I usually just throw a bunch of stuff together and cross my fingers.
When Marco got up at six he found us on the couch looking at photo albums. I’m sure that’s exactly what he didn’t want to find, me squealing at his baby pictures, but hey, what are mothers for? We finished preparing dinner and had a wonderful meal together. The man even did the dishes! I kissed Mamma goodbye for the evening and told her I would be back in the morning after we finished our paperwork. He and I took off for the vaporetto at half-past seven and he took the boat heading toward San Marco while I waited for the one in the other direction to take me to the Zattere and Dorsoduro district.
I went home a putzed around for a while. I knew I would go out later for my usually nightcap at the Consulate, but I had another visit to make. I waited until ten to go out, when the dinner crowds had ebbed, to stop in at the Dona Onesta for dessert and to ask Safwat how the plans were going for the new restaurant. The last time I was in a few days before for lunch he told me he was opening a new restaurant in a nearby campo. He hoped it would be able to open on Saturday, but it would definitely be ready by the following week. I hoped it would be open by Saturday too, since it was my last day here in town.
I was received with the usual smiles and cheek-kissing all around. I settled in for tiramisu and an amaretto. Safwat came to sit with me and he told me about the new restaurant. I know the campo it is located in and it will be a wonderful site. It is the only restaurant on the campo, so in the summer he will be able to seat more customers outside in the center of the square. It is newly restored and refurbished with a brand new kitchen and appliances. How very exciting – but too bad I won’t be able to eat there until my next trip. Safwat grabbed my hand and said “Let me show you!” We hurried down the way, it’s only about 3 minutes from the Dona Onesta. It will be a great jumping off point for the younger crowd to go bar hopping afterward. The San Pantalon area has a lot of later-night spots they can hang out in. I toured the restaurant and kitchen and we came back to the Dona to find the remaining patrons singing and having a great time.
The music they play in the background of the restaurant is interesting. I have heard 50s and 60s American classics sung in Italian, I’ve heard the classic Neapolitan songs, 80s pop, 70s disco and opera. Tonight the soundtrack was 60s and 70s of the America/English/Italian/Greek variety. As we walked in there were two tables singing with their glasses in the air. The table next to mine with two middle aged Irish couples and the table next to them, full of 6 Germans, all singing “Those were the Days” you know the one – the lyrics go “Those were the days my friends, we thought they’d never end. We’d sing and sang forever and a day. We lived the life we’d choose, we hoped we never lose, those were the days oh yes they were the days.” With a mandolin as accompaniment, it sounds Russian or Greek. I remember that the version of the song that was most popular in the late 60s was produced by Paul McCartney and sung by Mary Hopkins (a Welsh girl) on their Apple label. HA! The Jeopardy expert strikes again!!!! Anyway, this version was being sung on the CD in Italian, but you wouldn’t know it. The patrons were all singing in English. More drinks were passed – the after-dinner cordial glasses of grappa, amaretto, limoncello and Montenegro all raised and waving about. This song segued into “Please Release Me” by Engelbert Humperdink so we were all listing about in our seats to the refrain for that one as well. Next up…”Delilah” by Tom Jones. I have a history with this song. My mother & I used to clean the house on Saturday mornings to Tom Jones. I remember twirling about in the living room with my dust rag as if I was a gypsy belly dancer…my my my Delilah…why why why Delilah?” And we were up on our feet, the fifteen of us. We kept up the impromptu dance session for a few more songs, the drinks flowed, and there was lots of laughter. It wasn’t the drunken revelry in the streets for the end of Carnevale, but was our own special brand of it.
I did my usual stop in at the Consulate, still giddy from the Dona and my friends all wanted to know what the heck I had been up to that I would arrive after midnight in such spirits. I gave them an account of the evening’s events, and of course they teased me endlessly about the owner having a crush on me. Bah…whatever. I left after a bit and said my goodnights to them all, and readied myself for what I hoped would be the last night of Carnevale celebrating in the streets. I cannot wait until I have my quiet streets at night once more.
As expected, there were many people still out there, and from a distance it still looked like a zombie movie with the bodies listing starboard and to-and-fro. Seven bridges later I arrived at Campo San Barnaba and was about to round the corner to my alley. There was a lot of commotion in the street behind me, a couple of girls in sombreros sitting on the ground and crying. I got inside, locked up and readied myself for bed. I heard the crying coming closer. Then it was outside the door. One was crying and wailing in lamentation of something lost – she was lost, her shoe was lost, her wallet, I don’t know. It sounded like she was speaking Spanish but honestly, the wailing was getting in the way. Her friend was commiserating and sniffle-crying herself. Then a male voice came down the alley. They were all sitting on my doorstep, making noise and not giving a flying fig that it was 2am and they were on someone’s stoop.
I turned the lights on, then off, and again a few more times. Waaaaaaah…still there. I went in the bathroom and opened and closed the window audibly a few times. Waaaaaaah…I pounded on my side of the door and said in Italian and Spanish “Go away! I want to sleep. Get off the stairs. I will call the police!” Waaaaaaaaaaah…but they did get up and cry themselves out of my alley.
Damn kids, get off my lawn. I’m going to bed.
Today is the last day of Carnevale. At midnight the festivities end, and hopefully a giant broom will descend from the sky to sweep it all away. But I was sure the revelry would first have to go on into the early morning hours.
I left the apartment at eleven and walked to the Zattere to catch the boat to Guidecca. I made my way to the house and was greeted with hugs and kisses by Mamma. Marco was actually up and I gave him a sidelong glance and shook my head at him disapprovingly. He told me he had slept for three hours and would go back to sleep but we had business to get to first. We were going back to my favorite post office on the Zattere to pick up some paperwork.
Last year when I was here I started looking into creating a bank account of some kind so that could have money over here and not have to depend on ATMs one-hundred percent. How did I know how important this would end up being? This trip had been a disaster in money accessibility. The Italian Post Office has a banking branch and I wanted to start an account with them. The advantage of this, in my mind, is that I would be able to filter money into it all year long through wire transfers or possibly direct deposit from my paycheck (a $100 per paycheck could go unnoticed I figured.) When I come back I would have no fees from the bank for foreign ATM withdrawls, etc. And right now with the dollar doing its best against the euro I could transfer a lot into the account with the best exchange rate in years. But why put it in the Post Office and not a regular bank? Because there are offices the length and breadth of Italy and I can use any office to deposit or withdraw with no fees. If I were to go to Bank of San Marco they may not have an office in Naples I could readily find and possibly have fees to withdraw from the ATM. The Post Office is the Post Office and isn’t likely to go away anytime soon.
Marco was offering to go with me to inquire on the types of accounts and help out with the forms. I had intended to pick up forms the morning I was there but after the wire transfer-middle name mess I left without asking about anything. There was also too much of a language barrier. My Italian isn’t good enough to ask all the questions I wanted. We struck out for the vaporetto and hopped on one just as we arrived and ten minutes later we were in the office, the clerk smiling at me for bringing along my own translator this time. We were handed the forms but she suggested we go to the larger office near San Marco where the manager would be able to open the account for me. Bye-bye nice lady!
I was trying not to be concerned with the fact that my friend is giving up his sleep time for me to run around on my errands, but the speed that that guy can drag me through streets is pretty dizzying. We cut across the Dorsoduro to the Grand Canal and near Salute we got onto a traghetto – the gondola ferry. This is the cheaper and local version of the gondola ride. Rather than pay upwards of 80 euro for a 50 minute ride in the plush seats of a gondola, you can a spend euro and stand with a dozen people to cross the canal in about ten different strategically placed locations. This can save time from having to walk to one of the fours bridges that cross over the main canal in the city. We got over to the San Marco office and found the manager wasn’t in, but were able instead to speak with a clerk that Marco knows. She said if I have all my documents she would be able to open it up. I presented my passport and the codice fiscale I had generated online. Although this is an “unofficial” version of the code, I have been able to use it in the past to purchase a cell phone. A codice fiscale is the Italian version of a tax identification number and is required to purchase some simple items in the country. Unfortunately in this case I would need to get the official version, stamped and notarized by the Agenzia Entrata.
At this point I balked at doing anything further. Who knows how long we could spend in a bureaucratic office since it was almost the afternoon? I told him I could go tomorrow, as early as possible. We headed back to the vaporetto and to Guidecca. We told Mamma about our exploits and he headed off to the other part of the house to get some rest. Mamma said we could wait to go to the market until tomorrow and we settled into the couch to watch tv for a while. We started preparing for dinner after a few hours; I saw the makings for roasted red pepper soup (I am the soup queen!) and pounded out some chicken for breading. Mamma was interested in my soup recipe, but I usually just throw a bunch of stuff together and cross my fingers.
When Marco got up at six he found us on the couch looking at photo albums. I’m sure that’s exactly what he didn’t want to find, me squealing at his baby pictures, but hey, what are mothers for? We finished preparing dinner and had a wonderful meal together. The man even did the dishes! I kissed Mamma goodbye for the evening and told her I would be back in the morning after we finished our paperwork. He and I took off for the vaporetto at half-past seven and he took the boat heading toward San Marco while I waited for the one in the other direction to take me to the Zattere and Dorsoduro district.
I went home a putzed around for a while. I knew I would go out later for my usually nightcap at the Consulate, but I had another visit to make. I waited until ten to go out, when the dinner crowds had ebbed, to stop in at the Dona Onesta for dessert and to ask Safwat how the plans were going for the new restaurant. The last time I was in a few days before for lunch he told me he was opening a new restaurant in a nearby campo. He hoped it would be able to open on Saturday, but it would definitely be ready by the following week. I hoped it would be open by Saturday too, since it was my last day here in town.
I was received with the usual smiles and cheek-kissing all around. I settled in for tiramisu and an amaretto. Safwat came to sit with me and he told me about the new restaurant. I know the campo it is located in and it will be a wonderful site. It is the only restaurant on the campo, so in the summer he will be able to seat more customers outside in the center of the square. It is newly restored and refurbished with a brand new kitchen and appliances. How very exciting – but too bad I won’t be able to eat there until my next trip. Safwat grabbed my hand and said “Let me show you!” We hurried down the way, it’s only about 3 minutes from the Dona Onesta. It will be a great jumping off point for the younger crowd to go bar hopping afterward. The San Pantalon area has a lot of later-night spots they can hang out in. I toured the restaurant and kitchen and we came back to the Dona to find the remaining patrons singing and having a great time.
The music they play in the background of the restaurant is interesting. I have heard 50s and 60s American classics sung in Italian, I’ve heard the classic Neapolitan songs, 80s pop, 70s disco and opera. Tonight the soundtrack was 60s and 70s of the America/English/Italian/Greek variety. As we walked in there were two tables singing with their glasses in the air. The table next to mine with two middle aged Irish couples and the table next to them, full of 6 Germans, all singing “Those were the Days” you know the one – the lyrics go “Those were the days my friends, we thought they’d never end. We’d sing and sang forever and a day. We lived the life we’d choose, we hoped we never lose, those were the days oh yes they were the days.” With a mandolin as accompaniment, it sounds Russian or Greek. I remember that the version of the song that was most popular in the late 60s was produced by Paul McCartney and sung by Mary Hopkins (a Welsh girl) on their Apple label. HA! The Jeopardy expert strikes again!!!! Anyway, this version was being sung on the CD in Italian, but you wouldn’t know it. The patrons were all singing in English. More drinks were passed – the after-dinner cordial glasses of grappa, amaretto, limoncello and Montenegro all raised and waving about. This song segued into “Please Release Me” by Engelbert Humperdink so we were all listing about in our seats to the refrain for that one as well. Next up…”Delilah” by Tom Jones. I have a history with this song. My mother & I used to clean the house on Saturday mornings to Tom Jones. I remember twirling about in the living room with my dust rag as if I was a gypsy belly dancer…my my my Delilah…why why why Delilah?” And we were up on our feet, the fifteen of us. We kept up the impromptu dance session for a few more songs, the drinks flowed, and there was lots of laughter. It wasn’t the drunken revelry in the streets for the end of Carnevale, but was our own special brand of it.
I did my usual stop in at the Consulate, still giddy from the Dona and my friends all wanted to know what the heck I had been up to that I would arrive after midnight in such spirits. I gave them an account of the evening’s events, and of course they teased me endlessly about the owner having a crush on me. Bah…whatever. I left after a bit and said my goodnights to them all, and readied myself for what I hoped would be the last night of Carnevale celebrating in the streets. I cannot wait until I have my quiet streets at night once more.
As expected, there were many people still out there, and from a distance it still looked like a zombie movie with the bodies listing starboard and to-and-fro. Seven bridges later I arrived at Campo San Barnaba and was about to round the corner to my alley. There was a lot of commotion in the street behind me, a couple of girls in sombreros sitting on the ground and crying. I got inside, locked up and readied myself for bed. I heard the crying coming closer. Then it was outside the door. One was crying and wailing in lamentation of something lost – she was lost, her shoe was lost, her wallet, I don’t know. It sounded like she was speaking Spanish but honestly, the wailing was getting in the way. Her friend was commiserating and sniffle-crying herself. Then a male voice came down the alley. They were all sitting on my doorstep, making noise and not giving a flying fig that it was 2am and they were on someone’s stoop.
I turned the lights on, then off, and again a few more times. Waaaaaaah…still there. I went in the bathroom and opened and closed the window audibly a few times. Waaaaaaah…I pounded on my side of the door and said in Italian and Spanish “Go away! I want to sleep. Get off the stairs. I will call the police!” Waaaaaaaaaaah…but they did get up and cry themselves out of my alley.
Damn kids, get off my lawn. I’m going to bed.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Monday, 23 February, 2009
Bureaucracy almost had the better of me this morning. I understand their need to scrutinize and match up every detail but two little letters caused a lot of problem today. I asked for Mark to send me another money transfer to last the week over here. The bank is still suspending transaction from Italy and I didn’t want to get caught short. We opted to go with Money gram since the sender’s fees are lower by a lot and the conversion to euro is better by a little. He agreed to go to Longs on Sunday afternoon and I could go pick it up first thing this morning. The Poste Italiane offices are a pick up spot for Western Union or Moneygram. Mark emailed me the reference ID and I noted there was a different spelling to my middle name but crossed my fingers that it was a typo on his part in the email.
I was the first person in line a little before 7:30 at the office on the Zattere, facing out onto the Guidecca canal. The Zattere is one of the wide thoroughfares on the outermost of the island, like Fondamenta Nuovo on the northside in Cannaregio and Riva Degli Schiavoni that runs southeast through the Castello district. It makes up the southern border of the Dorsoduro district and takes you up to where the cruise ships are docked. The door opened and I went to the window with my reference number. “Sono qui ricevere un Moneygram per favore.” I’m here to receive a Moneygram please. The clerk handed me the form and explained to me to step aside to complete it. When I was done I could go to any open window, I wouldn’t need to stand in line. I completed the form but felt odd about barging back in to the window. There were about eight people there at this time, most looked like they were paying one of the multitude of bills the post office accepts on behalf of utilities or tv licensing or taxes. Full service indeed.
I got back into the line, but the clerk called me up anyway when her window was free. She gestured that it was okay, come on. She took the form and my passport and brought the transaction up on the screen, checking and re-checking the information from form, document and screen. And then a tsk tsk came out of her mouth. Passport up to the computer screen. Down to the form. Back up to the screen. “Signora…”
Aw crap. Here it comes. I can see the screen and it says “Strange, Kristen NoreEN.” My passport says “Strange, Kristen NoreNE.” Mark transposed the last two letters of my middle name on the Moneygram form. It was definitely not going unnoticed. She called over the supervisor and they discussed it. I gave up trying to understand them as they were speaking in the Venetian dialect, which always sounds to me as if one is talking with oatmeal in their mouth. The words are a lot more relaxed in shape, not as crisp as the more formal Italian. I don’t know how to explain it more than that. When I hear Marco speaking it with people in the streets I always remark about the oatmeal-y sound of it all. He thinks I’m crazy, but he’s never heard the colloquial street speak of Oakland either, and I can’t even understand that. But still, the conversation behind the plexiglas was definitely animated.
The clerk turned back to me and plunked the passport down and pointed to the screen and using her index finger she underlined the area with my misspelled middle name. In Italian she told me this is a problem and she did not know if she could complete the transfer to me. They would call Moneygram and they would call their management to see what they can do on their end. There was a lot of hand wringing and “I don’t know gestures” on both ends. She grimaced and said she just didn’t know what could be done. “Who sent this transfer?” I told her it was my husband back in the US. Then she smiled a little bit, but I wasn’t about to ask her anything more. The supervisor took my passport and went off to make some phone calls.
In the meantime, there was a line growing behind me of about fifteen people, and only one other clerk was handling their business. There was audible grumbling going on, but since they were speaking in Venetian I couldn’t understand, but of course I was getting the gist of it. How could you not? I told the clerk I would step aside to a chair and she could continue helping the others. “No signora, is okay.” The line behind me made some noise. What can I do with that? Sono spiacente – I’m sorry.
For the next hour – yes, that’s right – the supervisor was on the phone, back to the window to look at the screen, make copies of my passport, print out the transfer from the screen, make notations and generally make me feel about an inch high and absolutely miserable. To their credit, these ladies were never condescending or accusatory to me in anyway, which I completely and absolutely appreciated. The line was handled efficiently by the other clerks and soon I was the only one in the customer area and I was very close to tears. I wanted to just call Mark and ask if he could contact Moneygram on his end and restart the transfer. I have no idea if that was even possible, but I was very frustrated and tired already at nine in the morning. Have I stated recently how much I hate my bank for putting me through this?
The supervisor came back with the papers all notated, circled and initialed for the clerk. She nodded her head. Then I did start leaking tears. The clerk smiled at me, counted out the money and pushed it through the window tray to me. She help up her finger and said “wait, please.” Aw crap, what now? She got up from her seat, moved to the end of the plexiglss to the secured door and came through it to the customer area. I was putting my money in my wallet and she sidled up to me and put a hand on my shoulder. In very simple Italian that I would have no problem understanding she told me “My husband knows my middle name only because I insist my daughter has that name. We were married 12 years before my daughter came. I understand the problem.” She gave me a squeeze on the shoulder and I grasped it in both of mine shaking her hand over and over. Thank you thank you thank you. I have had a difficult time today. Thank you so very much. I knocked on the window and waved to the supervisor, thanking her as well. After walking back to the apartment I got on the magic jack and called mark, even though it was almost one in the morning. He answered the phone and I tearfully said “Two letters just caused a two hour problem. You’re getting a tattoo that says MY WIFE’S MIDDLE NAME IS N-O-R-E-N-E so you never forget again.” I’m just thankful they worked it through for me. Who says civil servants aren’t willing to go out of their way for anyone?
After my jangled nerves calmed, I had breakfast and headed out to catch the boat for Murano. I purchased some glass beads from the artists’ cooperative so I could make jewelry when I arrive back home. When the boat returned I was walking through Cannaregio when I saw my friend Tiziano. He’s a musician that plays the piano bar at the hotel often, and he is a riot. He told me where he is playing, only until Wednesday night, and asked me to come by and sing with him. I certainly will! I’ve listened to him so many times I know just about his entire repertoire, and I know the phrasing changes he makes. This is one of the things I find very endearing about the musicians in the hotel piano bars. Because the lyrics aren’t in their native language, there can be major changes to the phrasing. I have sung with Tizi in the past so I am comfortable with his changes. I can’t wait to sit with him and sing again. But I can’t continue being sick and do this, that’s for certain. I was still congested, but it didn’t seem like the phlegm monster was going to make an appearance. Yay!
I made some more soup and had an early night. I caught up on some writing I had been neglecting and went to bed early.
I was the first person in line a little before 7:30 at the office on the Zattere, facing out onto the Guidecca canal. The Zattere is one of the wide thoroughfares on the outermost of the island, like Fondamenta Nuovo on the northside in Cannaregio and Riva Degli Schiavoni that runs southeast through the Castello district. It makes up the southern border of the Dorsoduro district and takes you up to where the cruise ships are docked. The door opened and I went to the window with my reference number. “Sono qui ricevere un Moneygram per favore.” I’m here to receive a Moneygram please. The clerk handed me the form and explained to me to step aside to complete it. When I was done I could go to any open window, I wouldn’t need to stand in line. I completed the form but felt odd about barging back in to the window. There were about eight people there at this time, most looked like they were paying one of the multitude of bills the post office accepts on behalf of utilities or tv licensing or taxes. Full service indeed.
I got back into the line, but the clerk called me up anyway when her window was free. She gestured that it was okay, come on. She took the form and my passport and brought the transaction up on the screen, checking and re-checking the information from form, document and screen. And then a tsk tsk came out of her mouth. Passport up to the computer screen. Down to the form. Back up to the screen. “Signora…”
Aw crap. Here it comes. I can see the screen and it says “Strange, Kristen NoreEN.” My passport says “Strange, Kristen NoreNE.” Mark transposed the last two letters of my middle name on the Moneygram form. It was definitely not going unnoticed. She called over the supervisor and they discussed it. I gave up trying to understand them as they were speaking in the Venetian dialect, which always sounds to me as if one is talking with oatmeal in their mouth. The words are a lot more relaxed in shape, not as crisp as the more formal Italian. I don’t know how to explain it more than that. When I hear Marco speaking it with people in the streets I always remark about the oatmeal-y sound of it all. He thinks I’m crazy, but he’s never heard the colloquial street speak of Oakland either, and I can’t even understand that. But still, the conversation behind the plexiglas was definitely animated.
The clerk turned back to me and plunked the passport down and pointed to the screen and using her index finger she underlined the area with my misspelled middle name. In Italian she told me this is a problem and she did not know if she could complete the transfer to me. They would call Moneygram and they would call their management to see what they can do on their end. There was a lot of hand wringing and “I don’t know gestures” on both ends. She grimaced and said she just didn’t know what could be done. “Who sent this transfer?” I told her it was my husband back in the US. Then she smiled a little bit, but I wasn’t about to ask her anything more. The supervisor took my passport and went off to make some phone calls.
In the meantime, there was a line growing behind me of about fifteen people, and only one other clerk was handling their business. There was audible grumbling going on, but since they were speaking in Venetian I couldn’t understand, but of course I was getting the gist of it. How could you not? I told the clerk I would step aside to a chair and she could continue helping the others. “No signora, is okay.” The line behind me made some noise. What can I do with that? Sono spiacente – I’m sorry.
For the next hour – yes, that’s right – the supervisor was on the phone, back to the window to look at the screen, make copies of my passport, print out the transfer from the screen, make notations and generally make me feel about an inch high and absolutely miserable. To their credit, these ladies were never condescending or accusatory to me in anyway, which I completely and absolutely appreciated. The line was handled efficiently by the other clerks and soon I was the only one in the customer area and I was very close to tears. I wanted to just call Mark and ask if he could contact Moneygram on his end and restart the transfer. I have no idea if that was even possible, but I was very frustrated and tired already at nine in the morning. Have I stated recently how much I hate my bank for putting me through this?
The supervisor came back with the papers all notated, circled and initialed for the clerk. She nodded her head. Then I did start leaking tears. The clerk smiled at me, counted out the money and pushed it through the window tray to me. She help up her finger and said “wait, please.” Aw crap, what now? She got up from her seat, moved to the end of the plexiglss to the secured door and came through it to the customer area. I was putting my money in my wallet and she sidled up to me and put a hand on my shoulder. In very simple Italian that I would have no problem understanding she told me “My husband knows my middle name only because I insist my daughter has that name. We were married 12 years before my daughter came. I understand the problem.” She gave me a squeeze on the shoulder and I grasped it in both of mine shaking her hand over and over. Thank you thank you thank you. I have had a difficult time today. Thank you so very much. I knocked on the window and waved to the supervisor, thanking her as well. After walking back to the apartment I got on the magic jack and called mark, even though it was almost one in the morning. He answered the phone and I tearfully said “Two letters just caused a two hour problem. You’re getting a tattoo that says MY WIFE’S MIDDLE NAME IS N-O-R-E-N-E so you never forget again.” I’m just thankful they worked it through for me. Who says civil servants aren’t willing to go out of their way for anyone?
After my jangled nerves calmed, I had breakfast and headed out to catch the boat for Murano. I purchased some glass beads from the artists’ cooperative so I could make jewelry when I arrive back home. When the boat returned I was walking through Cannaregio when I saw my friend Tiziano. He’s a musician that plays the piano bar at the hotel often, and he is a riot. He told me where he is playing, only until Wednesday night, and asked me to come by and sing with him. I certainly will! I’ve listened to him so many times I know just about his entire repertoire, and I know the phrasing changes he makes. This is one of the things I find very endearing about the musicians in the hotel piano bars. Because the lyrics aren’t in their native language, there can be major changes to the phrasing. I have sung with Tizi in the past so I am comfortable with his changes. I can’t wait to sit with him and sing again. But I can’t continue being sick and do this, that’s for certain. I was still congested, but it didn’t seem like the phlegm monster was going to make an appearance. Yay!
I made some more soup and had an early night. I caught up on some writing I had been neglecting and went to bed early.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Sunday, 22 February, 2009
I woke up at 4am to find Luke and Charlene in the kitchen, still feeling no pain from being out all night. They had been at Campo Santa Margherita and the Rialto with the rest of the all-night revelers. Luke was waxing philosophically about the amazing sausage he had eaten from a stand. I’m glad that he had eaten something. It was bound to be a long day for him. After not sleeping, he was going to fly to Amsterdam at 6:20 (a flight just under two hours) then a five hour layover before the flight to Los Angeles. Hopefully he didn’t continue being polluted and actually got some sleep at some point. The guy is starting a new job on Monday morning after all.
(somebody lost their costume, hope they have on clean underwear.)
He grabbed his suitcase and we headed out the door at 4:30, walking the back streets to the Piazzale Roma bus station. I have made this trek numerous times, and it was always a quiet walk; the only sound being my feet on the pavements and my luggage wheels bumping along. If I saw one person on the way to the station it was odd. Not this time. There were still lots of youngsters out on the streets, on the bridges, in the campos, in alcoves and doorways. Around every corner there were three or four people. I saw three pizza and kebab houses were actually still open for these people up all night. A lot of them were still drinking as well. There were a few occasions when walking past groups there was some passionate and heated conversation, the kinds that arise when too much alcohol is involved. Yay drunks!
(Campo Santa Margherita at night)
Back at the house Charlene was sleeping. Smart girl – get a few hours in before getting in that plane. We left the house a little after eight and went to the vaporetto, and sat in the warmth of the cabin for 25 minutes before emerging into the blast freezer outside. Once the bus arrived I walked over to the Co-op grocery store and did some shopping. Time to stock back up and get my cooking groove back on. I got everything I needed for a few days of meals (soup, soup and soup) but not too many fresh vegetables at this time. I like to buy my fruits and veggies at the Rialto market or from the local greengrocer on the boat near the apartment, but since it was Sunday, I got the minimum to get by for Sunday dinner. I started a pot of minestrone at the apartment, did my laundry and mopped the floors. Pretty glamorous on vacation, I know! It was going to be a lazy day.
Charlene left me the Magic Jack to use for the remaining week, but I needed a cord to plug into the phone. In the afternoon I walked over to the hardware store but he didn’t have one for sale. Shops are so compartmentalized in Italy. You have to go to a phone store for a phone cord, unlike in the US where you can pick one up at Longs, Safeway or Ace hardware with ease. I even went to the Vodafone store, but since they deal almost exclusively with cellular phones the shop clerks had no idea what I was talking about. The streets were still a crush of people, with the cops doing traffic control on the bridges to prevent people from stopping. I darted in and out of the main drags using the side passages I know, thank goodness. I made it to “the Consulate” to pop in for a coffee and to see Aldo. After telling Giorgio and Aldo about my unsuccessful hunt for a phone card, Aldo reached into a drawer under the bar and smiling, produced a cord for me. It was like magic! I want one of those drawers at home.
I made my way back to the apartment, tested the Magic Jack by calling home, but Mark wasn’t answering. I called my mother and checked in with her. I got a text message from Marco that he would be by to pick me up to go have dinner at his house with Mama. He arrived about twenty minutes later, swearing under his breath and apologizing. He got inside and made a call to his mother and spoke animatedly for a few minutes, apologizing to her as well. In the time between him leaving his work and getting to the apartment he received a call from his association manager (like a union steward) telling him he needed to fill in at another location for someone who was a no-show for the night shift. Carnevale strikes again. He explained this happens with every holiday and festival, and he is the one who always answers the phone to fill in. He didn’t have enough time to get back to the Guidecca for dinner with Mama before he needed to be there, and he offered to go get a pizza for us instead. I told him I had soup ready and some chicken breasts, so I could whip something up. Fifteen minutes later we were having a delicious chicken involtini that was a makeshift saltimbocca. Mmm!
(The following pictures are Charlene's - you get the idea of the partying that goes on all night. I'm kind of glad I passed on it.)
(in the Rialto)
(somebody lost their costume, hope they have on clean underwear.)
He grabbed his suitcase and we headed out the door at 4:30, walking the back streets to the Piazzale Roma bus station. I have made this trek numerous times, and it was always a quiet walk; the only sound being my feet on the pavements and my luggage wheels bumping along. If I saw one person on the way to the station it was odd. Not this time. There were still lots of youngsters out on the streets, on the bridges, in the campos, in alcoves and doorways. Around every corner there were three or four people. I saw three pizza and kebab houses were actually still open for these people up all night. A lot of them were still drinking as well. There were a few occasions when walking past groups there was some passionate and heated conversation, the kinds that arise when too much alcohol is involved. Yay drunks!
(Campo Santa Margherita at night)
We made it up to the station through the fog, to find a scene reminiscent of Night of the Living Dead. There had to be over one hundred people across the parking lot, but most were doing the zombie shuffle of various stages of drunkenness. And of course there’s always the one poor person in the group that isn’t drunk, or has sobered up and are acting as guide for the rest of the fools along, keep them from destroying things or themselves. There was plenty of that going on as well. Sizing up the situation, there were going to be a lot of besotted folks taking the buses off the island to various points on the mainland. The most sobered up group seemed to be ours, those that were waiting for the airport bus, but there were a few I was looking at sideways. Luke seemed to be pretty sober at this point as well. The bus arrived and we hugged goodbye. And Luke was off to the airport!
I walked back to the house the same way we had come. One thing that struck me was that I was on edge with every group of people I passed. It’s the same feeling I have when walking through the Tenderloin in San Francisco, in that you just are not entirely sure of the sketchy characters. This was the first time I was remotely concerned with safety in this city, ever. I realize now it was unfounded, but being alone in the dark moving among people hanging about after having been up to no good for the past few hours once the bars closed did instill a heightened awareness of my surroundings. As I approached the alley where the apartment is I had three guys holler after me from across the campo, asking me to use the bathroom. Mmm, no. I just wanted to get inside and away from it all.
(bottles, go-cups and confetti)
The biggest crappy by-product of the celebrating throughout the night is all of the trash. The city is pretty clean at all times. Seeing the beer and wine bottles stacked up by any available garbage can make me give a mental “A for Effort” to the urchins, but there were many more areas without receptacles that had bottles, a lot of them broken. Plus the trash. Just piles of it. I’m definitely not used to the garbage piling up. To their credit the garbage men diligently pick up trash six days a week here in all neighborhoods, but there are many more helpers at work at this time, apparently. Confetti pieces are all over the city in all nooks and crannies, as part of the celebrating people toss a lot of it. Bags are sold everywhere and the tiny circles and squares of brightly colored paper are hard to escape. In church there were people with it caught in their hair. Interesting sight at mass. Also, silly string is still a big deal here – fluorescent pieces are everywhere. I’ve been walking through the streets and curling my lip at the garbage and confetti everywhere, but in the morning it is almost entirely gone, save for a few errant pieces of confetti. Walking back from the parking lot, I saw a number of sweepers getting their start on the street cleanup. It will be over soon.Back at the house Charlene was sleeping. Smart girl – get a few hours in before getting in that plane. We left the house a little after eight and went to the vaporetto, and sat in the warmth of the cabin for 25 minutes before emerging into the blast freezer outside. Once the bus arrived I walked over to the Co-op grocery store and did some shopping. Time to stock back up and get my cooking groove back on. I got everything I needed for a few days of meals (soup, soup and soup) but not too many fresh vegetables at this time. I like to buy my fruits and veggies at the Rialto market or from the local greengrocer on the boat near the apartment, but since it was Sunday, I got the minimum to get by for Sunday dinner. I started a pot of minestrone at the apartment, did my laundry and mopped the floors. Pretty glamorous on vacation, I know! It was going to be a lazy day.
Charlene left me the Magic Jack to use for the remaining week, but I needed a cord to plug into the phone. In the afternoon I walked over to the hardware store but he didn’t have one for sale. Shops are so compartmentalized in Italy. You have to go to a phone store for a phone cord, unlike in the US where you can pick one up at Longs, Safeway or Ace hardware with ease. I even went to the Vodafone store, but since they deal almost exclusively with cellular phones the shop clerks had no idea what I was talking about. The streets were still a crush of people, with the cops doing traffic control on the bridges to prevent people from stopping. I darted in and out of the main drags using the side passages I know, thank goodness. I made it to “the Consulate” to pop in for a coffee and to see Aldo. After telling Giorgio and Aldo about my unsuccessful hunt for a phone card, Aldo reached into a drawer under the bar and smiling, produced a cord for me. It was like magic! I want one of those drawers at home.
I made my way back to the apartment, tested the Magic Jack by calling home, but Mark wasn’t answering. I called my mother and checked in with her. I got a text message from Marco that he would be by to pick me up to go have dinner at his house with Mama. He arrived about twenty minutes later, swearing under his breath and apologizing. He got inside and made a call to his mother and spoke animatedly for a few minutes, apologizing to her as well. In the time between him leaving his work and getting to the apartment he received a call from his association manager (like a union steward) telling him he needed to fill in at another location for someone who was a no-show for the night shift. Carnevale strikes again. He explained this happens with every holiday and festival, and he is the one who always answers the phone to fill in. He didn’t have enough time to get back to the Guidecca for dinner with Mama before he needed to be there, and he offered to go get a pizza for us instead. I told him I had soup ready and some chicken breasts, so I could whip something up. Fifteen minutes later we were having a delicious chicken involtini that was a makeshift saltimbocca. Mmm!
I watched some tv after he took off, but not before calling his Mama to see that she was okay and verify when I would be coming over. Since he was going to be working most of the time, she asked me to come keep her company on Tuesday and Wednesday. Sure thing! We watch television, she gives me cooking lessons and tried to each me lace making, but I can’t figure that one out yet. Since his father passed away at Christmas 2007 she doesn’t have as much to do nor as many people to fuss over. I’m happy to fill that void for a few days at a time. She reminds me a lot of my grandma Norma who passed away when I was sixteen. Anamaria is about 4’11”, round, soft and white-haired like Grandma. She watches stories on tv in the afternoon and wildly gesticulates while talking with knives in her hand in the kitchen, just like Grandma.
I’m looking forward to seeing her.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Saturday, 21 February, 2009
I woke up with my face hurting. I can feel the congestion growing in my sinuses and nasal passages. Noooooooo! I don’t want to be sick. I have been taking precautions and have been getting a lot of sleep to stave this off. But since Luke and Charlene have each had a day or two of being under the weather, I guess it’s my turn. I can feel the floodgates of the phlegm surging. I know, I’m a charming soul. After everybody got themselves together, Charlene and I struck out for the Campanile. Luke stayed behind checking Craigslist for a room share in LA, since he’s heading there for work after he leaves Italy. It’s not an immediate need, but he was getting a head start on getting messages out there. Go Luke!
Charlene and I took the vaporetto to Salute, and I showed her around the inside. There were no fantasie costumes today. Santa Maria della Salute is an interesting church in that it looks like a dollop of fancy Baroque icing on the bank of the Grand Canal. It is an octagonal church with a circular nave topped by a huge dome, and the façade has lots of whorls and doo-dads, scrolls, leafy Corinthian columns and statues. A good part of it is under scaffolding for restoration, but I can forgive that, as long as it keeps the place standing.
(Exterior of Chiesa Santa Maria della Salute)
It is named after Mary, “our lady of health” due to its consecration after one of the many plagues that hit Europe. In 1630 after yet another wave of death where Venice lost over one third of its population, the populace vowed to build a church in her honor for interceding and sparing them further suffering. Even today, the city celebrates with the Festa della Salute, where a pontoon bridge is built for the worshippers to visit the church, say a prayer, light a candle for friends and relatives, eat a particular feast dish of castradina (a mutton stew) and celebrate another year of good health.
If there was castradina around that would assure me not getting a full-blown cold I would take it right about now. But no…on we went to San Zaccaria just south of San Marco. We crowded in with the rest of the cattle herd to pass in front of the Bridge of Sighs surrounded by plastic wrap for a restoration on the Doge’s Palace and take photos with everyone under the sun. We then sidled up to the front of the belltower to stand in line with everyone for the elevator to the top of the Campanile.
(Bridge of Sighs, shink wrapped for your viewing pleasure, temporarily.)
(The Campanile and the Basilica)
This is a copy of the original. That one fell in 1902 after standing for roughly seven hundred years, supposedly only killing the bellkeeper’s cat. This one has been standing for almost one hundred years and if it’s shape seems familiar to those of us in the East Bay area, that’s because it’s the very similar to Sather Tower, the Campanile at UC Berkeley. Cal’s is granite over steel rather than red brick, which is a smart idea considering we’ve been known to have earthquakes.
While waiting in line (or in the mob, I should say – Europeans just can’t get it together to queue up properly) for entrance, there was another one of the masked “fantasie” creatures posing on the wall at the Campanile. People were mobbing up to snap photos, as per usual. This sparked a conversation with Charlene and a self-realization about my personality. I am somewhat extroverted, a little less so now that I am growing older and wider (yep, I said it!) but I have always been a social butterfly of sorts. I speak my mind and enjoy doing things not entirely expected of me in contrast to family and friends, but I am missing the chip these people have. I have never been a peacock – these people are human peacocks, after all, preening and posing for the cameras and making certain they are seen. Sure, the costumes warrant being seen, they are beautiful pieces of work after all, but the people behind the masks are particular in making sure they are caught in the right angle and are in the middle of everything.
I made the decision at the last minute not to bring my costume. Herr Scheffler (my little German host for the balls) was not coming due to his wife being ill, and while I wouldn’t be going to the parties and the balls I could certainly still have worn my costume in the streets and paraded in the Piazza San Marco. Only I didn’t feel like going through the hub-bub of it all. Granted, my costume is a historical period costume and not one of these “fantasie” dealios, but everyone is stopped and photographed. I am more of an action kind of gal. I want to wear my costumes while having fun at a party, not for the pomp and circumstance. So if that makes me a stick in the mud, so be it. I don’t like being stared at when I don’t want to be stared at or stopped at every turn when I just want to go dance a minuet in the square with random strangers. But my costume still beats the snot out of a good lot of these silly people in the Piazza, even if it is at home!
We made it up top and took photos, even though the air was a little thick with smoke and fog – I could smell it but could see nothing burning. Back at the ranch I made a feast of balsamic glazed chicken with rosemary and garlic, spinach salad with a warm pancetta dressing, and toasted tortellini. One of my favorite things to cook, mmm! Later, Luke went back out roaming the streets while Charlene and I went to mass at Saint Mark’s Basilica. We had to brave the waves of crushing crowds in the streets along the way on the bridges and in the arcades of the Square, but we would make it eventually.
(Charlene overlooking the city to the north)
(Overlooking the Basilica of San Marco)
From the outside the church looks like a twisted Dali fairy-castle on acid. The oddly shaped exterior is a mix of east and west added upon for a number of centuries, with roman arches, five Muslim-inspired domes, byzantine mosiacs, gothic pinnacles and spindly spires. Mark Twain called it a warty-bug, most likely on a bad day. I prefer Goethe’s attitude that it “can only be compared against itself” for there truly is no other place like it. It glitters and glistens in the afternoon light, the mosaics on the outside shimmering in the fading sunlight. But inside is truly a marvel. I love coming to church here, because everywhere you look are millions of tiny pieces of golden tiles about an inch square, background to the millions of colored glass creating the scenes on the walls, arches, ceilings, just everywhere.
After mass we tried to get on a vaporetto to head for a restaurant for dinner, but the crush of bodies was massive, at the stop and in the streets, so I decided we would go somewhere close by. I opted for Ristorante al Teatro, next to the opera house. It was crowded out front of the theater, as the grand ball was being held that night, and photographers abounded to catch the partygoers on their way in. This is definitely a place where the period costumes were in fashion, rather than the fantasie and the oddball. People pay serious money for these tickets and wear what is deemed appropriate to be there. And to think, I was almost one of them…sniff…
But then again, we had some dinner to eat. I like this restaurant because of the service. All these handsome men in their white jackets dashing about. They can debone your fish at the table with flair and present your flambé with the grandiosity it deserves. I’m happy to see time and again the same staff with very little change over the years. We shared a pizza for mushroom and prosciutto with a soft thin crisp done to perfection. Our second dish was divine – a risotto nero en seppie, black with the cuttlefish ink, a Venetian specialty. And so creamy. One would expect it to taste fishy, but it is not. I love risotto of any kind!
We stopped at ”the Consulate” to check in and have a glass of wine with Giorgio and Aldo at the helm. The music was supplied by a guitarist with a lovely voice and it was a nice respite from the crowds in the streets outside, even at ten at night. After arriving back at the house, Luke and Charlene decide to go back out to the streets and rage all night. All I asked is that they have their bags packed for departure. For Luke, 4:30 is awful early. Charlene wasn’t leaving until about 8am, but both were ready to go before they went a-carousin’…
Charlene and I took the vaporetto to Salute, and I showed her around the inside. There were no fantasie costumes today. Santa Maria della Salute is an interesting church in that it looks like a dollop of fancy Baroque icing on the bank of the Grand Canal. It is an octagonal church with a circular nave topped by a huge dome, and the façade has lots of whorls and doo-dads, scrolls, leafy Corinthian columns and statues. A good part of it is under scaffolding for restoration, but I can forgive that, as long as it keeps the place standing.
(Exterior of Chiesa Santa Maria della Salute)
It is named after Mary, “our lady of health” due to its consecration after one of the many plagues that hit Europe. In 1630 after yet another wave of death where Venice lost over one third of its population, the populace vowed to build a church in her honor for interceding and sparing them further suffering. Even today, the city celebrates with the Festa della Salute, where a pontoon bridge is built for the worshippers to visit the church, say a prayer, light a candle for friends and relatives, eat a particular feast dish of castradina (a mutton stew) and celebrate another year of good health.
If there was castradina around that would assure me not getting a full-blown cold I would take it right about now. But no…on we went to San Zaccaria just south of San Marco. We crowded in with the rest of the cattle herd to pass in front of the Bridge of Sighs surrounded by plastic wrap for a restoration on the Doge’s Palace and take photos with everyone under the sun. We then sidled up to the front of the belltower to stand in line with everyone for the elevator to the top of the Campanile.
(Bridge of Sighs, shink wrapped for your viewing pleasure, temporarily.)
(The Campanile and the Basilica)
This is a copy of the original. That one fell in 1902 after standing for roughly seven hundred years, supposedly only killing the bellkeeper’s cat. This one has been standing for almost one hundred years and if it’s shape seems familiar to those of us in the East Bay area, that’s because it’s the very similar to Sather Tower, the Campanile at UC Berkeley. Cal’s is granite over steel rather than red brick, which is a smart idea considering we’ve been known to have earthquakes.
While waiting in line (or in the mob, I should say – Europeans just can’t get it together to queue up properly) for entrance, there was another one of the masked “fantasie” creatures posing on the wall at the Campanile. People were mobbing up to snap photos, as per usual. This sparked a conversation with Charlene and a self-realization about my personality. I am somewhat extroverted, a little less so now that I am growing older and wider (yep, I said it!) but I have always been a social butterfly of sorts. I speak my mind and enjoy doing things not entirely expected of me in contrast to family and friends, but I am missing the chip these people have. I have never been a peacock – these people are human peacocks, after all, preening and posing for the cameras and making certain they are seen. Sure, the costumes warrant being seen, they are beautiful pieces of work after all, but the people behind the masks are particular in making sure they are caught in the right angle and are in the middle of everything.
I made the decision at the last minute not to bring my costume. Herr Scheffler (my little German host for the balls) was not coming due to his wife being ill, and while I wouldn’t be going to the parties and the balls I could certainly still have worn my costume in the streets and paraded in the Piazza San Marco. Only I didn’t feel like going through the hub-bub of it all. Granted, my costume is a historical period costume and not one of these “fantasie” dealios, but everyone is stopped and photographed. I am more of an action kind of gal. I want to wear my costumes while having fun at a party, not for the pomp and circumstance. So if that makes me a stick in the mud, so be it. I don’t like being stared at when I don’t want to be stared at or stopped at every turn when I just want to go dance a minuet in the square with random strangers. But my costume still beats the snot out of a good lot of these silly people in the Piazza, even if it is at home!
We made it up top and took photos, even though the air was a little thick with smoke and fog – I could smell it but could see nothing burning. Back at the ranch I made a feast of balsamic glazed chicken with rosemary and garlic, spinach salad with a warm pancetta dressing, and toasted tortellini. One of my favorite things to cook, mmm! Later, Luke went back out roaming the streets while Charlene and I went to mass at Saint Mark’s Basilica. We had to brave the waves of crushing crowds in the streets along the way on the bridges and in the arcades of the Square, but we would make it eventually.
(Charlene overlooking the city to the north)
(Overlooking the Basilica of San Marco)
From the outside the church looks like a twisted Dali fairy-castle on acid. The oddly shaped exterior is a mix of east and west added upon for a number of centuries, with roman arches, five Muslim-inspired domes, byzantine mosiacs, gothic pinnacles and spindly spires. Mark Twain called it a warty-bug, most likely on a bad day. I prefer Goethe’s attitude that it “can only be compared against itself” for there truly is no other place like it. It glitters and glistens in the afternoon light, the mosaics on the outside shimmering in the fading sunlight. But inside is truly a marvel. I love coming to church here, because everywhere you look are millions of tiny pieces of golden tiles about an inch square, background to the millions of colored glass creating the scenes on the walls, arches, ceilings, just everywhere.
(The Basilica of San Marco)
As we were rounding the front of the church to go around the side, in the midst of the goings-on in the Piazza, I saw there were groups of young adults on the low steps and in front of the alcoves, hunkered down with their bottles of drink and trash. This really bothered me and I noted it to Charlene. Couldn’t they wait to hang out on the steps of the church until after the services were over for the day?? It was just all kinds of wrong to me, and I’m not Catholic, or even religious. It was just terribly disrespectful in my eyes. We made it inside and took a seat. It so ethereal inside I can’t give it justice in a description. While St. Peter’s in Rome is certainly huge inside, and certainly ornate, it’s ostentatious; it doesn’t have this mystical feel to it that this basilica does. It is definitely eastern in feel. Once the myrrh and frankincense is burning I feel truly transported to feel a part of the ritual performed centuries ago in this spot, as they are today. Except for the cheering and music outside during this particular mass.
After mass we tried to get on a vaporetto to head for a restaurant for dinner, but the crush of bodies was massive, at the stop and in the streets, so I decided we would go somewhere close by. I opted for Ristorante al Teatro, next to the opera house. It was crowded out front of the theater, as the grand ball was being held that night, and photographers abounded to catch the partygoers on their way in. This is definitely a place where the period costumes were in fashion, rather than the fantasie and the oddball. People pay serious money for these tickets and wear what is deemed appropriate to be there. And to think, I was almost one of them…sniff…
But then again, we had some dinner to eat. I like this restaurant because of the service. All these handsome men in their white jackets dashing about. They can debone your fish at the table with flair and present your flambé with the grandiosity it deserves. I’m happy to see time and again the same staff with very little change over the years. We shared a pizza for mushroom and prosciutto with a soft thin crisp done to perfection. Our second dish was divine – a risotto nero en seppie, black with the cuttlefish ink, a Venetian specialty. And so creamy. One would expect it to taste fishy, but it is not. I love risotto of any kind!
We stopped at ”the Consulate” to check in and have a glass of wine with Giorgio and Aldo at the helm. The music was supplied by a guitarist with a lovely voice and it was a nice respite from the crowds in the streets outside, even at ten at night. After arriving back at the house, Luke and Charlene decide to go back out to the streets and rage all night. All I asked is that they have their bags packed for departure. For Luke, 4:30 is awful early. Charlene wasn’t leaving until about 8am, but both were ready to go before they went a-carousin’…
Friday, 20 February, 2009
I woke up about seven and came down to the kitchen so as not to wake the others. I wrote and read until eight, then showered and dressed. At nine, still not hearing the two upstairs stirring, I decided to make breakfast and coffee. The plan had been to go to Verona today, to see the Roman sites (since there would be no going Rome on this trip we may as well see ancient roman objects) and to see the King of Gnocchi parade. I had hoped we could be there by ten, but it looked like it was going to be a later day than expected. I finished breakfast and cleaned up somewhat, and readied myself to go. They had both been out pretty late, and after all it wouldn’t hurt to have a day off of sightseeing. Everyone needs a recharge. I left them a note and started off to the vaporetto stop to leave town. Marco called and I told him I was going by myself since they were still sleeping. He offered to come with me but I didn’t expect him to spend his day off babysitting me, when he had errands to run for his mother, sister and niece. The women in his life rule his days and nights. He’s a good guy. But he did ask me why I was leaving without talking to my housemates first. Maybe they did want to go.
I went back to the apartment and woke them up. It was a bit of a reveille (spelling?) of "Hey, it’s ten o' clock, what do you want to do today?" To their defense, one of the things I love about the apartment is that you can make it absolutely blacked out from the inside, but it can cause you to hibernate like a bear way too easily. After a short discussion it was decided we would forego Verona, I would go to Santa Maria della Salute while they got themselves together. Charlene still wasn’t feeling 100% so we’d stick around town and go out in short jaunts. But we would go out for lunch at Alla Zucca, another favorite haunt of mine.
I arrived at Santa Maria della Salute about the same time as the horde of photographers, waiting to snap the Carnevale costumes. Apparently this is the place to see and be seen in the mornings during Carnevale. The decked out masqueraders preen and pose on the steps while the photographers, some with press passes so they must be from news outlets, snap away. Now just differentiate, these are the fantasy costumes – usually a male and female figure behind the full face mask and enrobed on lots of layers of frippery and tulle, bright and colorful, mystical and a little creepy (to me anyway.) They seem like large dolls come to life, and only up close do you see them moving inside their masks, the lampblack around the eyes to heighten the illusion and anonymity. It’s all very much staged; they pose with these coy mannerisms around columns of the church or on the steps. The male/female couples hold hands in a frozen ballet and with the head angled just so to catch the theatricality of it all. And later we buy the postcards and calendars with their images.
There are many types of costumes in the town to celebrate Carnevale; this is only one faction. There are also the historical costumes, the 17th and 18th century period costumes- Casanovas, and nobility, the doges and popes and priests and courtesans. There are the Commedia dell’Arte costumes, with their masks of Pantalone, Dottore, Columbina, Pierrot and Arlecchino. And then there is everything else. Stormtroopers, Johnny Depp pirates, slugs and Barbie Dolls, children in Disney characters, everything is welcomed and celebrated. But today, at this time, is the fashion show of the "fantasie": the nameless and faceless figurines in their expressionless masks.
I came back to apartment and we set about making our way to Zuccha, near San Stae and Giocomo del’Orio. I understand this is considered one of the first progressive restaurants here in Venice, as it was all vegetarian at first. Since I have been coming to town I see they do have some meat dishes, but it is widely veggie-friendly. I ordered the Zuppe di zucca with lentils, Char had the lasagna with zucca and funghi, Luke had a lamb with couscous. We all had desserts to share; a pistachio semifreddo, a lemoncello iced mousse with berries, and tiramisu. Mmm! On the way back to the apartment I stopped and showed them the Frari church with its Titans, tombs and Bellinis.
(Tiramisu)
Back at the apartment I attended to a work related issue (which I would rather not have had interrupt my vacation, especially in the manner in which the news came to me via someone else’s Facebook account, but I am just trying to be a team player and do everything asked of me.) After a few calls back home and getting information on how to access a version of my work email, I sent off the info as requested and we readied ourselves for what we hoped would be a highlight of the festivities – the International Drag Queen show in the Piazza. We come from San Francisco and we love our drag queens, so bring it on! In keeping with the festive atmosphere and essentially doing as we were seeing it done, we opted to bring our own refreshments with us, some wine in water bottles. I don’t want to carry a glass wine bottle around with me, and I certainly don’t want to be attempting to crowd into the cafes and bars around the Piazza. It’s a madhouse down there.
The crowd was fun and into it, the stage management and hosting was putting on quite a show, but the contestants were not all up to snuff, in my opinion. There were definitely people who had done this before, don’t get me wrong, very professional and out-there costumes that you would see in any club or video or movie, there were also those who looked hot in their leather pants and fetish wear (but not necessarily in drag, mind you – dressing like a boy in a lot of makeup is not DRAG, kiddos!) and then there were the others. I don’t know the criteria for getting a chance to walk on the stage on the contest, but I think there were some people up there who were only there because they lost a bet. My dad and his full beard in a frock with rouge and fishnets kind of stuff. And in the middle of this I got a phone call from the States again. Ugh, more stuff to attend to “in an emergency.”
I texted Luke & Char that I had to go back to the house and take care of something right away. At the end of it I was in a foul mood, the stomach acid was making my insides churn and I opted to stay in the rest of the night. Luke & Char went out, finding their way to the nighttime outdoor gathering in Campo Santa Margherita in the next neighborhood over. Tomorrow will be a better day and I will not let outside forces interfere in my vacation any longer.
I went back to the apartment and woke them up. It was a bit of a reveille (spelling?) of "Hey, it’s ten o' clock, what do you want to do today?" To their defense, one of the things I love about the apartment is that you can make it absolutely blacked out from the inside, but it can cause you to hibernate like a bear way too easily. After a short discussion it was decided we would forego Verona, I would go to Santa Maria della Salute while they got themselves together. Charlene still wasn’t feeling 100% so we’d stick around town and go out in short jaunts. But we would go out for lunch at Alla Zucca, another favorite haunt of mine.
I arrived at Santa Maria della Salute about the same time as the horde of photographers, waiting to snap the Carnevale costumes. Apparently this is the place to see and be seen in the mornings during Carnevale. The decked out masqueraders preen and pose on the steps while the photographers, some with press passes so they must be from news outlets, snap away. Now just differentiate, these are the fantasy costumes – usually a male and female figure behind the full face mask and enrobed on lots of layers of frippery and tulle, bright and colorful, mystical and a little creepy (to me anyway.) They seem like large dolls come to life, and only up close do you see them moving inside their masks, the lampblack around the eyes to heighten the illusion and anonymity. It’s all very much staged; they pose with these coy mannerisms around columns of the church or on the steps. The male/female couples hold hands in a frozen ballet and with the head angled just so to catch the theatricality of it all. And later we buy the postcards and calendars with their images.
There are many types of costumes in the town to celebrate Carnevale; this is only one faction. There are also the historical costumes, the 17th and 18th century period costumes- Casanovas, and nobility, the doges and popes and priests and courtesans. There are the Commedia dell’Arte costumes, with their masks of Pantalone, Dottore, Columbina, Pierrot and Arlecchino. And then there is everything else. Stormtroopers, Johnny Depp pirates, slugs and Barbie Dolls, children in Disney characters, everything is welcomed and celebrated. But today, at this time, is the fashion show of the "fantasie": the nameless and faceless figurines in their expressionless masks.
I came back to apartment and we set about making our way to Zuccha, near San Stae and Giocomo del’Orio. I understand this is considered one of the first progressive restaurants here in Venice, as it was all vegetarian at first. Since I have been coming to town I see they do have some meat dishes, but it is widely veggie-friendly. I ordered the Zuppe di zucca with lentils, Char had the lasagna with zucca and funghi, Luke had a lamb with couscous. We all had desserts to share; a pistachio semifreddo, a lemoncello iced mousse with berries, and tiramisu. Mmm! On the way back to the apartment I stopped and showed them the Frari church with its Titans, tombs and Bellinis.
(Lasagne di zucca e funghi)
(Zuppe di zucca e lenticche)
(Semifreddo di pistacchie)
(Semifreddo di pistacchie)
(Tiramisu)
(Giacchie di limoncello e frutti di bosco)
Back at the apartment I attended to a work related issue (which I would rather not have had interrupt my vacation, especially in the manner in which the news came to me via someone else’s Facebook account, but I am just trying to be a team player and do everything asked of me.) After a few calls back home and getting information on how to access a version of my work email, I sent off the info as requested and we readied ourselves for what we hoped would be a highlight of the festivities – the International Drag Queen show in the Piazza. We come from San Francisco and we love our drag queens, so bring it on! In keeping with the festive atmosphere and essentially doing as we were seeing it done, we opted to bring our own refreshments with us, some wine in water bottles. I don’t want to carry a glass wine bottle around with me, and I certainly don’t want to be attempting to crowd into the cafes and bars around the Piazza. It’s a madhouse down there.
The crowd was fun and into it, the stage management and hosting was putting on quite a show, but the contestants were not all up to snuff, in my opinion. There were definitely people who had done this before, don’t get me wrong, very professional and out-there costumes that you would see in any club or video or movie, there were also those who looked hot in their leather pants and fetish wear (but not necessarily in drag, mind you – dressing like a boy in a lot of makeup is not DRAG, kiddos!) and then there were the others. I don’t know the criteria for getting a chance to walk on the stage on the contest, but I think there were some people up there who were only there because they lost a bet. My dad and his full beard in a frock with rouge and fishnets kind of stuff. And in the middle of this I got a phone call from the States again. Ugh, more stuff to attend to “in an emergency.”
I texted Luke & Char that I had to go back to the house and take care of something right away. At the end of it I was in a foul mood, the stomach acid was making my insides churn and I opted to stay in the rest of the night. Luke & Char went out, finding their way to the nighttime outdoor gathering in Campo Santa Margherita in the next neighborhood over. Tomorrow will be a better day and I will not let outside forces interfere in my vacation any longer.
Thursday, 19 February, 2009
We woke around seven and finished packing the odds and ends, along with some cleanup around the apartment, ready to exit by half-past. And yes, the one bottle of Star Trek Wine remaining was making the journey north with us. We cleaned the store out of it - I can imagine the proprieter wondering what caused the run on Rubicone Sangiovese that week... Anyhow, I took the garbage out with us since there was signage reminding that the rentals do not have garbage service. Gianna and Gabriella don’t expect to have little bags of refuse outside of each apartment door, nor in the hallway by the front entrance on the ground floor. They ask the tenants take their refuse to the nearest public dumpster to deposit. In walking around, I didn’t see where one was in the vicinity – at either end of the block. One would expect dumpsters near the San Lorenzo market, or near the Duomo, but I must be blind. I felt bad about it, but we ended up dropping the small bag at the foot of a regular garbage can at the corner. There wasn’t space to put it inside the can, and we were not the only bag at the base of the can. At least I wasn’t leaving it in some shop’s doorway.
We walked on to the ferrovia, the train station at Santa Maria Novella, along with a group of high school kids. They ended their journey at the bus stop across the street and we went inside the station, which was fuller than I have ever seen it – even the height of summer. After buying the tickets we stood/sat on the platform waiting to see which binario (track) our train would depart from. You could tell that this train to Venice was going to be crowded. Many on the platform were already in festive gear. Little hats and masks out, children half in their costumes already. It was nice to see that being festive wasn’t only relative in close proximity to the Veneto region. Another way we could tell it was going to be crowded – our seats. We had purchased our tickets together for second class, but one seat was four cars down. Luke opted to take that seat by himself – he could sleep, but also if we were separated at the station in Venice he could find his way back on his own.
Back at home I went down early for the night. I had twisted my knee a bit while descending from the train at the station, and Charlene said she thought she was getting sick, we both headed to the bed. She got up later and went out roaming the streets with Luke. They ended up in the campo listening to music until after midnight. I barely remember them coming in and out. Ah, sleep!
We walked on to the ferrovia, the train station at Santa Maria Novella, along with a group of high school kids. They ended their journey at the bus stop across the street and we went inside the station, which was fuller than I have ever seen it – even the height of summer. After buying the tickets we stood/sat on the platform waiting to see which binario (track) our train would depart from. You could tell that this train to Venice was going to be crowded. Many on the platform were already in festive gear. Little hats and masks out, children half in their costumes already. It was nice to see that being festive wasn’t only relative in close proximity to the Veneto region. Another way we could tell it was going to be crowded – our seats. We had purchased our tickets together for second class, but one seat was four cars down. Luke opted to take that seat by himself – he could sleep, but also if we were separated at the station in Venice he could find his way back on his own.
(Waiting for our binario to come up on the big board)
There were many people traveling together who must have had the same seat assignment situation with the ticket issuance, because there was more than one group in our car that needed to negotiate with the true seat holder to allow them to sit with their friends. “But please, we are travelling together; we don’t want to have to sit in car 8. Please?” Most of these pleas were heard from what I could see, and the groups were able to remain together. Funny thing, after the train started up everyone fell asleep. So that’s it – you “need” to sit together so you can take a nap? Oh well…
(Passing the time on the train. There's not much to see now, but I imagine the colors of these fields are spectacular in spring and summer.)
Luke came to sit with us during the last 20 minutes of the ride. We arrived back in Venice with no fanfare, but the city was definitely full of revelers. Masks, costumes and painted faces everywhere. We walked back through the streets to the apartment, about twelve minutes away, versus squeezing onto an overcrowded vaporetto to stand for a half-hour to Ca’Rezzonico.
Back at the house Luke set himself to creating easier access for us all on the wireless internet. The signal was very weak in the kitchen where the router is located and not only did we have slow reception, it was also intermittent and cut us off. We moved the router upstairs where there is a stronger signal and all is better now. I just needed to remind them both that we need to disconnect when we aren’t using the internet. When I checked into the apartment, Antonio told me he had just switched the service and wasn’t sure if it would be unlimited yet or if it would be on the next billing cycle. He previously had a program that allowed ten hours per day of service. I told him I would be mindful and not jam him up in that respect.
We were hungry and it was past noon, so we walked over near Campo San Toma to the Trattoria Dona Onesta. I was introduced to this restaurant by my friend Giorgio about five years ago. The owner is a very sweet man named Safwat, whose origins are from Egypt. He looks a bit like Tony Shaloub but has this voice that I can only describe as the timbre of what I would think a pear would sound like. A bit grainy but dripping with sweetness. He is a kind little man with black eyes, who is very warm and attentive to his customers. He always sits with me and we talk about our travels. The last time I was here he asked if he could take me for dinner to somewhere away from his restaurant. He wanted to be able to give me his undivided attention and not have to worry about someone dragging him into the kitchen with a question. I refrained, simply because I didn’t want it to end up being a miscommunication of some kind. Did dinner mean something else? I have made that mistake in the past, and sheepishly had to explain to my husband back home that “dinner” or “a drink” or “borrowing batteries” means something more clandestine and racy away from home. The lone woman travelling myth rears its head again. We are not all out looking for gigolos - really. I have run into this a few times. Once in Rome the bartender told me he could “help me out” for the evening after his shift. Ummm…no, but thanks. He probably has takers more often than not. Good for him. Not interested. Maybe one day I will take Safwat up on dinner elsewhere, I’m certain his aims are not untoward, but I feel we should know each other much better before then.
Arriving at Dona Onesta, I saw that the proprietor wasn’t in; his brother was manning the hosting duties. He did recognize me and asked how I have been. He told me his brother would be back in the morning if I wanted to stop in, but he would tell him I was back in town. He will be pleased to see me again, he said. And then in he walked through the doors, like it was scripted. The owner came over immediately and shook hands, hugged and kissed. I introduced my friends and he chatted a few minutes with us. Our food arrived and we dug in. I had tortelloni in a cream sauce, Charlene had a spaghetti carbonara and Luke had a pasta course of some kind, along with a zuppe de pesche. And the zuppe was fantastic; not only the broth, but the prawns and clams in there alongside. The broth is very flavorful with or without the barnacles. Mmm good! Safwat came along and made certain we had frittelle and limoncello to top off the afternoon. I promised I would be back in a few days and we toddled off.
Back at the house Luke set himself to creating easier access for us all on the wireless internet. The signal was very weak in the kitchen where the router is located and not only did we have slow reception, it was also intermittent and cut us off. We moved the router upstairs where there is a stronger signal and all is better now. I just needed to remind them both that we need to disconnect when we aren’t using the internet. When I checked into the apartment, Antonio told me he had just switched the service and wasn’t sure if it would be unlimited yet or if it would be on the next billing cycle. He previously had a program that allowed ten hours per day of service. I told him I would be mindful and not jam him up in that respect.
We were hungry and it was past noon, so we walked over near Campo San Toma to the Trattoria Dona Onesta. I was introduced to this restaurant by my friend Giorgio about five years ago. The owner is a very sweet man named Safwat, whose origins are from Egypt. He looks a bit like Tony Shaloub but has this voice that I can only describe as the timbre of what I would think a pear would sound like. A bit grainy but dripping with sweetness. He is a kind little man with black eyes, who is very warm and attentive to his customers. He always sits with me and we talk about our travels. The last time I was here he asked if he could take me for dinner to somewhere away from his restaurant. He wanted to be able to give me his undivided attention and not have to worry about someone dragging him into the kitchen with a question. I refrained, simply because I didn’t want it to end up being a miscommunication of some kind. Did dinner mean something else? I have made that mistake in the past, and sheepishly had to explain to my husband back home that “dinner” or “a drink” or “borrowing batteries” means something more clandestine and racy away from home. The lone woman travelling myth rears its head again. We are not all out looking for gigolos - really. I have run into this a few times. Once in Rome the bartender told me he could “help me out” for the evening after his shift. Ummm…no, but thanks. He probably has takers more often than not. Good for him. Not interested. Maybe one day I will take Safwat up on dinner elsewhere, I’m certain his aims are not untoward, but I feel we should know each other much better before then.
Arriving at Dona Onesta, I saw that the proprietor wasn’t in; his brother was manning the hosting duties. He did recognize me and asked how I have been. He told me his brother would be back in the morning if I wanted to stop in, but he would tell him I was back in town. He will be pleased to see me again, he said. And then in he walked through the doors, like it was scripted. The owner came over immediately and shook hands, hugged and kissed. I introduced my friends and he chatted a few minutes with us. Our food arrived and we dug in. I had tortelloni in a cream sauce, Charlene had a spaghetti carbonara and Luke had a pasta course of some kind, along with a zuppe de pesche. And the zuppe was fantastic; not only the broth, but the prawns and clams in there alongside. The broth is very flavorful with or without the barnacles. Mmm good! Safwat came along and made certain we had frittelle and limoncello to top off the afternoon. I promised I would be back in a few days and we toddled off.
(Lovely limoncello, my bit of sunshine on a winter's day)
I did need to stop at the grocery on the way back for provisions. We loaded up on juice, wine and breakfast items and I got the makings for a feast of chicken, spinach salad and pasta for us all. One more stop before home – a much needed mezzo kilo of gelato from “Il Doge” – my favorite gelateria in Venice. A fine mixture of coffee, tiramisu, berry and chocolate/hazelnut 'bacio' would we awaiting us after dinner. Mmmmm.
We rested up a bit and went down to the Piazza San Marco to check out the festivities. A large staging area takes up a third of the square. As we arrived there was an aerialist hanging from a balloon doing a routine for the crowd. The balloon was “floated” by a team with ropes and in time to the music the girl would spin and swoop the crowd, rotating and turning a la Cirque du Soliel, but on her descent she would reach out to the crowds' outstretched hands and throw glitter and confetti to them. Maybe she passed out candies as well, I wasn’t close enough to tell.
(Aerialist in the Piazza)
I did need to stop at the grocery on the way back for provisions. We loaded up on juice, wine and breakfast items and I got the makings for a feast of chicken, spinach salad and pasta for us all. One more stop before home – a much needed mezzo kilo of gelato from “Il Doge” – my favorite gelateria in Venice. A fine mixture of coffee, tiramisu, berry and chocolate/hazelnut 'bacio' would we awaiting us after dinner. Mmmmm.
We rested up a bit and went down to the Piazza San Marco to check out the festivities. A large staging area takes up a third of the square. As we arrived there was an aerialist hanging from a balloon doing a routine for the crowd. The balloon was “floated” by a team with ropes and in time to the music the girl would spin and swoop the crowd, rotating and turning a la Cirque du Soliel, but on her descent she would reach out to the crowds' outstretched hands and throw glitter and confetti to them. Maybe she passed out candies as well, I wasn’t close enough to tell.
(Aerialist in the Piazza)
We moved on around the Piazza, with me giving Charlene a mini-tour of the sites there. I promised we would see the inside of the Basilica when we went to mass, and we could go up to the top of the belltower on Friday or Saturday. The piazza was thick with people in full-dress costumes, some just in masks or face paint and loads of us not dressed festively but enjoying themselves anyway. There was hardly room for the pigeons. Where do the birds go when there are so many people, I wonder?
(Giraffes at St. Mark's?)
(Too cute!)
Back at home I went down early for the night. I had twisted my knee a bit while descending from the train at the station, and Charlene said she thought she was getting sick, we both headed to the bed. She got up later and went out roaming the streets with Luke. They ended up in the campo listening to music until after midnight. I barely remember them coming in and out. Ah, sleep!
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Wednesday, 18 February, 2009
We were all up by 7 AM even without alarms, each doing our own routine, whether showering, writing or reading. Luke went out at 8 after the store opened and bought more bread. We were finishing off the soup for breakfast. We each had a huge bowl of it with warm buttered bread and pear juice. So good!
Charlene and Luke left a little after 9 to go to the Campanile. They wanted to climb those steps and see the Duomo from up on high. That’s the great thing about having both those venues – while climbing the duomo gets you an excellent view of the city from up top, along with the trip from within the walls between the inner and outer domes, going up the belltower is the only place where you can get the up close and personal view of the Duomo. Was that convoluted?
I went down and met up with them at the piazza, miraculously at the same time they were exiting the tower. I’m so psychic… We walked through the streets down to the river and made a left toward Santa Croce. I ended up second-guessing myself about where to turn from the riverbank and we overshot the route by a few blocks. Walked into the square from a side entrance I am not familiar with, but we made the destination nonetheness. It was chilly outside. I didn’t have my hat and gloves, but thankfully had my scarf wrapped tight and my heavy ankle-length coat on.
We walked to the Oltrarno to find a restaurant that had been recommended to Luke. We slogged through the streets with the bitterly cold wind pelting our faces for blocks until we reached the place a bit after 12 noon. The restaurant is “Il Santo Bevetore” on Via Santo Spirito. It looked like a wine bar with all of the racks and displays, but the wooden tables were widely spaced and not cramped for comfortable dining. The gentleman at the door and I had a very disjointed conversation. We went from being told it wasn’t open to being told they would open early for us, but when I began to set foot inside, I realized I was mistaken in the conversation and he was offering to let us in at 12:30 when they opened, with a reservation. Huh? We said we’d come back at 12:30. Thanks and see you in 20 minutes!
We spent the next 20 minutes around the corner in a spot of sunshine against the Ponte Trinita staring across the street into a gelateria. Charlene and I took photos of a bunch of cars with boots on the wheels. The Florentine traffic cops do not put up with illegal parking. There were three cars booted and immovable on that corner. Since Charlene’s nickname is Boot (yep, she had some ticket issues working in San Francisco, another overzealous parking infraction society) she posed with a boot for posterity.
This began the segment of the day that was pretty much “the Amazing Race.” Our task was to get out of the damned museum before they shut us all in for the night. See the sign, walk into a the room – no apparent staircase, but go throught three more rooms in succession, boom! There’s the way out. Down three flights of stairs, round two corners, down a hallway or five – all dimly lit and built up to hide the restauration and construction behind. Making our way past these darkened rooms, with their eery lighting Charlene stated we were in the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland. I felt like we were in a Rod Serling “Night Gallery” episoide. Down another two flights of stairs, round more corners and voila! We were on the ground floor. I told them I was heading for the toilet. They should have gone with me – I descended another two levels, walked about another mile and a half and ended up in the newly renovated basement lavatories. Hurrah! They are so new that the signage isn’t very large and I almost walked into the mens's room– but then again the old signage isn’t much to speak of, hence trouble that we’d had been trying to get out of the joint for about thirty minutes now!
Finally, as we made our way into the cold early evening air we all breathed an audible sigh of relief – and walked back home. Luke & Char went on a last minute run to the San Lorenzo market for souvenirs while I climbed up the 72 steps to the apartment with my lame achilles tendonitis-ridden left foot. I went to bed very early, taking some meds to help repair my damage for a good day tomorrow. Luke & Char headed out late in the evening to check out the nightlife and I understand Luke came very close to having an assignation with a dutch student. But that is his tale to tell.
Tomorrow we head back to Venice, where it should be warmer.
Charlene and Luke left a little after 9 to go to the Campanile. They wanted to climb those steps and see the Duomo from up on high. That’s the great thing about having both those venues – while climbing the duomo gets you an excellent view of the city from up top, along with the trip from within the walls between the inner and outer domes, going up the belltower is the only place where you can get the up close and personal view of the Duomo. Was that convoluted?
I went down and met up with them at the piazza, miraculously at the same time they were exiting the tower. I’m so psychic… We walked through the streets down to the river and made a left toward Santa Croce. I ended up second-guessing myself about where to turn from the riverbank and we overshot the route by a few blocks. Walked into the square from a side entrance I am not familiar with, but we made the destination nonetheness. It was chilly outside. I didn’t have my hat and gloves, but thankfully had my scarf wrapped tight and my heavy ankle-length coat on.
Santa Croce is the church that has most of the tombs and monuments for the great Florentines, except for the Medicis themselves. They are mostly in the Medici chapels of San Lorenzo, up the street from our house. But at Santa Croce you can find Michelangeo, Galileo, Dante, Enrico Fermi and Marconi among the notables. His was also the church that sustained heavy damage from the flood of 1966. I showed Luke and Charlene the water marks in the back of the church and pointed out where Giotto’s cross had been mounted when the mud and water came barreling through. When we went outside and crossed the piazza I showed them the plaque marking the flood waters from both 1557 and higher up, 1966. It’s incredible that the river flooded quite that much in a matter of hours. Having seen the tsunamis in Indonesia and witnessing the devastation of Katrina via television in recent years, it brings it home to me how completely powerless we are in most natural disasters. My first trips here to Florence I knew about the flood markers and had stood under them for photos, and although I was amazed at the height of the markers, I had no idea what it must have been like. I couldn’t relate it to anything, In the years since, after Banda Aceh and New Orleans I have a much better idea of what sorrow and heartbreak these people must have experienced. Yes, the artwork and artifacts lost were a travesty, but the lives lost and the work to be done to restore and carry on were monumental.
We walked to the Oltrarno to find a restaurant that had been recommended to Luke. We slogged through the streets with the bitterly cold wind pelting our faces for blocks until we reached the place a bit after 12 noon. The restaurant is “Il Santo Bevetore” on Via Santo Spirito. It looked like a wine bar with all of the racks and displays, but the wooden tables were widely spaced and not cramped for comfortable dining. The gentleman at the door and I had a very disjointed conversation. We went from being told it wasn’t open to being told they would open early for us, but when I began to set foot inside, I realized I was mistaken in the conversation and he was offering to let us in at 12:30 when they opened, with a reservation. Huh? We said we’d come back at 12:30. Thanks and see you in 20 minutes!
We spent the next 20 minutes around the corner in a spot of sunshine against the Ponte Trinita staring across the street into a gelateria. Charlene and I took photos of a bunch of cars with boots on the wheels. The Florentine traffic cops do not put up with illegal parking. There were three cars booted and immovable on that corner. Since Charlene’s nickname is Boot (yep, she had some ticket issues working in San Francisco, another overzealous parking infraction society) she posed with a boot for posterity.
Finally it was time to head back for lunch. After standing in the cold while the hostess finished her cigarette, we were finally allowed in and to a table. Oh my, was it worth it go there!!! I hope to meet Luke’s friend who recommended the place, because I want to kiss him. While the menu was simple, three appetizers, three primi and three secondi choices are offered on a daily basis, all were fantastic. First Luke opted to get a cheese plate for us to share. I thought I was going to be ordering more than enough food for me to be full for the meal so I thought I wouldn’t need an appetizer to start me off. That doesn’t matter – when I took a small bite to try the cheese I knew I was a goner. These three cheese were sublime. The first had a garlicky taste, the second was reminiscent of apples and the third was definitely aged but not so strong it knocked you out. There was a small thimble of lime-pepper jelly to spread on as well. We demolished that appetizer. So so good.
For the primi Charlene and I had a serving of the artichioke risotto, which was done to perfection. Little arborio rice pillows of love….mmmm! Luke had vegetable minestrone that he said was the best soup he had ever had. I protested that he liked my soup that morning, but hey, I’m okay with it that my soup takes a backseat to this place. For our main entree Luke & Charlene had curry chicken medallions with a bed of cardomom-cinnamon lentils. Mine was branzino (sea bass) stuffed with sundried tomatoes on sauteed spinach. Phenomenal meal! We topped it off with tiramisu and rolled out of there stuffed to the gills. Bravo, Il Santo Bevetore!!!!
Walking back, I realized I needed to do my souvenir shopping. I don’t get to Florence nearly as often as Venice and it was time to stock up on scarves and pashminas. I split up with them at the market and told them I’d meet back with them at the house in time for us to leave for the Uffizi. I am very pleased with my selections and can’t wait to start wearing them as soon as possible.
We made our way down to the Uffizi for our reservation at 4:45 pm. Even though it is winter and doesn’t appear that there are lines into any of the museums, the Uffizi still has a sign up saying “No same day visits.” That’s pretty hardcore for people coming to town in winter to avoid the lines and crowds of summer. In this day and age I guess reservations online or by phone are the only way to go. I‘ve watched people almost pass out in lines that are three hours long in 100 degree heat, so now are they worried about people getting frostbite in winter? I don’t really think that’s the case here.
I took them through the museum at not quite breakneck speed, but it was an abbreviated “Art history 101 by Kris” with the highlights of the changes in technique and methods over the middle ages and renaissance eras. While I could sit and stare at a painting for hours, I don’t think we had the stamina or the inclination for that right now. I didn’t want their eyes glazing over while I droned on overly long. We stopped at the café for coffees and water. The Uffizi café overlooks the rooftop and you are just beneath the Palazzo Vecchio’s tower next door. We stepped out and took some photos before leaving the museum. It was getting late and the announcements overhead began intoning their end of the day messages, so we began looking for an exit. I remembered there was an exit at one point, but I didn’t see very good signage or flashing lights telling me exactly where it was locate, and we ended up walking to the entrance staircase where we had come in. The museum worker wouldn’t let us exit there and we were turned around and told to go “just past the caravaggios” which meant absolutely nothing to me. If I missed the exit sign once, why wouldn’t I miss it again?
We made our way down to the Uffizi for our reservation at 4:45 pm. Even though it is winter and doesn’t appear that there are lines into any of the museums, the Uffizi still has a sign up saying “No same day visits.” That’s pretty hardcore for people coming to town in winter to avoid the lines and crowds of summer. In this day and age I guess reservations online or by phone are the only way to go. I‘ve watched people almost pass out in lines that are three hours long in 100 degree heat, so now are they worried about people getting frostbite in winter? I don’t really think that’s the case here.
I took them through the museum at not quite breakneck speed, but it was an abbreviated “Art history 101 by Kris” with the highlights of the changes in technique and methods over the middle ages and renaissance eras. While I could sit and stare at a painting for hours, I don’t think we had the stamina or the inclination for that right now. I didn’t want their eyes glazing over while I droned on overly long. We stopped at the café for coffees and water. The Uffizi café overlooks the rooftop and you are just beneath the Palazzo Vecchio’s tower next door. We stepped out and took some photos before leaving the museum. It was getting late and the announcements overhead began intoning their end of the day messages, so we began looking for an exit. I remembered there was an exit at one point, but I didn’t see very good signage or flashing lights telling me exactly where it was locate, and we ended up walking to the entrance staircase where we had come in. The museum worker wouldn’t let us exit there and we were turned around and told to go “just past the caravaggios” which meant absolutely nothing to me. If I missed the exit sign once, why wouldn’t I miss it again?
This began the segment of the day that was pretty much “the Amazing Race.” Our task was to get out of the damned museum before they shut us all in for the night. See the sign, walk into a the room – no apparent staircase, but go throught three more rooms in succession, boom! There’s the way out. Down three flights of stairs, round two corners, down a hallway or five – all dimly lit and built up to hide the restauration and construction behind. Making our way past these darkened rooms, with their eery lighting Charlene stated we were in the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland. I felt like we were in a Rod Serling “Night Gallery” episoide. Down another two flights of stairs, round more corners and voila! We were on the ground floor. I told them I was heading for the toilet. They should have gone with me – I descended another two levels, walked about another mile and a half and ended up in the newly renovated basement lavatories. Hurrah! They are so new that the signage isn’t very large and I almost walked into the mens's room– but then again the old signage isn’t much to speak of, hence trouble that we’d had been trying to get out of the joint for about thirty minutes now!
Finally, as we made our way into the cold early evening air we all breathed an audible sigh of relief – and walked back home. Luke & Char went on a last minute run to the San Lorenzo market for souvenirs while I climbed up the 72 steps to the apartment with my lame achilles tendonitis-ridden left foot. I went to bed very early, taking some meds to help repair my damage for a good day tomorrow. Luke & Char headed out late in the evening to check out the nightlife and I understand Luke came very close to having an assignation with a dutch student. But that is his tale to tell.
Tomorrow we head back to Venice, where it should be warmer.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Tuesday, 17 February, 2009
First, Happy Birthday to my brother Michael!
We all woke up pretty early and I started on getting the soup started so we would have it for lunch. It was a tuscan bean minestrone and promised to be so good. After getting the soup on the flame I made a mushroom-pancetta frittata and we all sat down for breakfast with tea and juice. It was drizzling outside and we were just having a lazy morning. I think it’s important to have some downtime when vacationing; too much on the go and rushing around doesn’t let your body relax enough. My brain needs to relax and recharge also. It’s nature. We found the morning radio show djs pretty appalling, and have decided that Charlene needs to help them out over here. It’s great to sit and look out the window and see the top of the Duomo and the Campanile belltower from where I’m seated. Even better since I’m inside and warm not being rained on. There are a couple of cats who are ducking across the roofline across the street as well. I keep catching glances of them, but as the drizzle grows more steady I am seeing them less. I would like to get a picture of they’ll sit still long enough.
We all woke up pretty early and I started on getting the soup started so we would have it for lunch. It was a tuscan bean minestrone and promised to be so good. After getting the soup on the flame I made a mushroom-pancetta frittata and we all sat down for breakfast with tea and juice. It was drizzling outside and we were just having a lazy morning. I think it’s important to have some downtime when vacationing; too much on the go and rushing around doesn’t let your body relax enough. My brain needs to relax and recharge also. It’s nature. We found the morning radio show djs pretty appalling, and have decided that Charlene needs to help them out over here. It’s great to sit and look out the window and see the top of the Duomo and the Campanile belltower from where I’m seated. Even better since I’m inside and warm not being rained on. There are a couple of cats who are ducking across the roofline across the street as well. I keep catching glances of them, but as the drizzle grows more steady I am seeing them less. I would like to get a picture of they’ll sit still long enough.
I’ve been people-watching as well, into the windows across the street. There is a girl at the window who lays in her bed, leaning out and smoking cigarettes. She leaves the butts out on the ledge when she’s through. We made eye contact and she smiled at me. Two people connected by the act of staring out windows into the rain. On the floor above her is a young man who was practicing his guitar for a while. He was really into it. I wonder if he’s a student or a working musician. He was not aware of anything going on outside his window; only seemed concerned with the instrument in his lap.
Luke ventured out to the store for bread and butter to have with our minestrone for lunch. The soup was really hearty and flavorful. Mmmm! After lunch when it stopped drizzling we walked over to the Museo dell’Opera del Duomo (Museum of the works of the Duomo.) This is the museum where most of the original sculptures and statues from the Duomo, Campanile and Baptistery are stored. Replicas are outside the church now, to keep the originals preserved. The original bronze panels of the Baptistery doors are there – copies are outside on the building (copies are also on Grace Catheral in San Francisco.) Models made by Brunelleschi of the schematics for the dome, along with tools and pulleys used help one to understand how it was built. Two of my favorite sculptures, as well, a Pieta by Michaelangelo and Donatello’s Mary Magdalene.
Michelangelo made three (possibly four – the argument still rages if another is actually his work)Pieta pieces, which are representations of Mary mourning over the body of Jesus. The word in Italian means “sorrow” or “compassion.” While I am not a religious person, I cannot help but be moved at the scene of a mother mourning the loss of her child. Michelangelo’s first Pieta is in St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, completed when he was 25 and was basically his introduction to the world. These in Florence (one here and the other in the Accademia with the David) are not finished and were from the end of his life. Michaelangelo planned to use this piece as the centerpiece of his own tomb, and there a few details that make this a very personal and introspective piece. He has three mourners here with Jesus, and while most Pieta paintings represent his mother and Mary Magdalene, he has Nicodemos there as the topmost figure in the triangulation of supporters of the body coming down from the cross. Michelangelo inserts himself as Nicodemos, this is a self-portrait of the artist in his late 70s, and this changes the perspective of the mourning and loss in the figures. Instead of Mary bearing the weight of the loss, it is Nicodemos. Michelangelo was very old for a man in those days – not many people lived into their 70s over 500 years ago. He had lost his companion of 30 years recently and he must have been tired and ready to pack it all in. But in the sculpture he is looking down onto the figure of Jesus as if to say he is letting go of his creation, of all his creations, and the expression is sad and accepting of his own fate.
Luke ventured out to the store for bread and butter to have with our minestrone for lunch. The soup was really hearty and flavorful. Mmmm! After lunch when it stopped drizzling we walked over to the Museo dell’Opera del Duomo (Museum of the works of the Duomo.) This is the museum where most of the original sculptures and statues from the Duomo, Campanile and Baptistery are stored. Replicas are outside the church now, to keep the originals preserved. The original bronze panels of the Baptistery doors are there – copies are outside on the building (copies are also on Grace Catheral in San Francisco.) Models made by Brunelleschi of the schematics for the dome, along with tools and pulleys used help one to understand how it was built. Two of my favorite sculptures, as well, a Pieta by Michaelangelo and Donatello’s Mary Magdalene.
Michelangelo made three (possibly four – the argument still rages if another is actually his work)Pieta pieces, which are representations of Mary mourning over the body of Jesus. The word in Italian means “sorrow” or “compassion.” While I am not a religious person, I cannot help but be moved at the scene of a mother mourning the loss of her child. Michelangelo’s first Pieta is in St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, completed when he was 25 and was basically his introduction to the world. These in Florence (one here and the other in the Accademia with the David) are not finished and were from the end of his life. Michaelangelo planned to use this piece as the centerpiece of his own tomb, and there a few details that make this a very personal and introspective piece. He has three mourners here with Jesus, and while most Pieta paintings represent his mother and Mary Magdalene, he has Nicodemos there as the topmost figure in the triangulation of supporters of the body coming down from the cross. Michelangelo inserts himself as Nicodemos, this is a self-portrait of the artist in his late 70s, and this changes the perspective of the mourning and loss in the figures. Instead of Mary bearing the weight of the loss, it is Nicodemos. Michelangelo was very old for a man in those days – not many people lived into their 70s over 500 years ago. He had lost his companion of 30 years recently and he must have been tired and ready to pack it all in. But in the sculpture he is looking down onto the figure of Jesus as if to say he is letting go of his creation, of all his creations, and the expression is sad and accepting of his own fate.
Donatello’s Maddalena is a very haunting piece as well. It is a wood carving of Mary Magdalene depicted in the years after Jesus has died. She is a wraith-like figure, gaunt and hollowed, but she is in prayer with the fire of her conviction still burning within her. Donatello had been away from Florence for many years and on his return he worked on this piece. Wood was not his usual medium to sculpt in, and he was known for his classically beautiful pieces, so the community must have been turned on its ear when this was debuted. It is not a classically beautiful piece by any means. It is definitely ahead of its own time, and it is a passionate piece that stays with me afterward.
We moved on to our reservation to see the David at the Accademia. Along the way I needed to call in to the bank to see what was going on with my bank card and why I was unable to take any money out. I called as soon as the phone lines opened and was astonished to learn the reason for the drama. The bank has suspended ALL transactions to and from or involving Italy for ALL customers, beginning last Thursday. They do not know when they will lift the block.
This leaves me to wonder why they could not contact their customers to let them know of this. The institution requires customers to let them know when they will be travelling overseas, exactly where and for how long. Otherwise, transactions would not be approved for fear of card fraud. If I have to let them know, and it is noted that I am in the country they are temporarily suspending transactions from, why in the hell can’t they communicate this with their customers? I was left abandoned by my bank in a foreign country, ostensibly with no access to my own money in my own account. UGH! FRUSTRATING!! I asked the customer service agent what she would suggest I do since I was overseas and the institution couldn’t tell me when I would be able to make transactions – they were effectively leaving me high and dry away 6000 miles from home. She said that I could seek out a local financial institution and request something akin to a promissory note between the banks. They would verify with my bank I was a customer and verify the funds were available, then my bank would cut a check to that bank, who would in turn cash the check to me – with everyone taking their own fees on all sides. When I asked how long this generally takes I was told upwards of four or five business days, which on Italian bureaucratic time is more like eight or nine. UGH! Looked like western Union was going to be the way to go if I wanted to see anything coming my way before next week. I phoned Mark and let him know the upshot and asked him to withdraw money from my bank and send it to me. I knew it was going to be a crappy exchange rate, and there would be transaction fees more than I would like, but I would be able to have money in my hands within a few hours. There is a Western Union receiving office in the money exchange on the Piazza del Duomo a block away from the apartment, and Mark could send it from the Safeway near our house, but what a pain in the ass to have to go through all this. Thank goodness my husband was able and willing to do the legwork for me to make this happen. I love that man.
And off we went to spend some time with the David. I needed to see something beautiful for a while, because I had a lot of ugly thoughts churning around inside. When I get home I am changing banks. This is ridiculous behavior on their end.
We went back to the apartment to wait for Mark to finish business on his end for me. Charlene hooked up something called a Magic Jack to the computer. It gives you access to make telephone calls for nothing, after paying the initial one-year rate of $25. People can call in to you as well. The calls sound great. We are technological in our place. We have our little internet café set up in the corner of the living room. Two computers, phone chargers, battery chargers, camera chargers. Cords cords cords. I have adapters and converts and Italian plugs for everything, but it still a lot of cords. Luke in his awesomeness managed to make the ASDL into a wireless sharing network and so Charlene and I don’t have to take turns at with the internet ASDL cord; one computer has the plug, the other works off a wireless signal. Luke then can use his iPhone on piggyback. He also fixed the satellite connection to the television. Whoo hoo, technology guy!
Mark called and gave me the passcode to pick up my Western Union transaction. I walked down to the Forexchange and showed my passport with the code I was given and bam! I had cash in my hand. I called the apartment and told them to meet me in the restaurant downstairs for dinner. I was in a much better mood now. I had beefsteak Fiorentina and roasted potatoes. My belly was fully and things were (kind of) right again with the world. I could sleep well again for the night.
The irony is not lost on me that this situation with banks and money changing and transactions came to a head while in Florence. The Medici were bankers and money lenders who rose to power, then were exiled due to their corruption.
This leaves me to wonder why they could not contact their customers to let them know of this. The institution requires customers to let them know when they will be travelling overseas, exactly where and for how long. Otherwise, transactions would not be approved for fear of card fraud. If I have to let them know, and it is noted that I am in the country they are temporarily suspending transactions from, why in the hell can’t they communicate this with their customers? I was left abandoned by my bank in a foreign country, ostensibly with no access to my own money in my own account. UGH! FRUSTRATING!! I asked the customer service agent what she would suggest I do since I was overseas and the institution couldn’t tell me when I would be able to make transactions – they were effectively leaving me high and dry away 6000 miles from home. She said that I could seek out a local financial institution and request something akin to a promissory note between the banks. They would verify with my bank I was a customer and verify the funds were available, then my bank would cut a check to that bank, who would in turn cash the check to me – with everyone taking their own fees on all sides. When I asked how long this generally takes I was told upwards of four or five business days, which on Italian bureaucratic time is more like eight or nine. UGH! Looked like western Union was going to be the way to go if I wanted to see anything coming my way before next week. I phoned Mark and let him know the upshot and asked him to withdraw money from my bank and send it to me. I knew it was going to be a crappy exchange rate, and there would be transaction fees more than I would like, but I would be able to have money in my hands within a few hours. There is a Western Union receiving office in the money exchange on the Piazza del Duomo a block away from the apartment, and Mark could send it from the Safeway near our house, but what a pain in the ass to have to go through all this. Thank goodness my husband was able and willing to do the legwork for me to make this happen. I love that man.
And off we went to spend some time with the David. I needed to see something beautiful for a while, because I had a lot of ugly thoughts churning around inside. When I get home I am changing banks. This is ridiculous behavior on their end.
We went back to the apartment to wait for Mark to finish business on his end for me. Charlene hooked up something called a Magic Jack to the computer. It gives you access to make telephone calls for nothing, after paying the initial one-year rate of $25. People can call in to you as well. The calls sound great. We are technological in our place. We have our little internet café set up in the corner of the living room. Two computers, phone chargers, battery chargers, camera chargers. Cords cords cords. I have adapters and converts and Italian plugs for everything, but it still a lot of cords. Luke in his awesomeness managed to make the ASDL into a wireless sharing network and so Charlene and I don’t have to take turns at with the internet ASDL cord; one computer has the plug, the other works off a wireless signal. Luke then can use his iPhone on piggyback. He also fixed the satellite connection to the television. Whoo hoo, technology guy!
Mark called and gave me the passcode to pick up my Western Union transaction. I walked down to the Forexchange and showed my passport with the code I was given and bam! I had cash in my hand. I called the apartment and told them to meet me in the restaurant downstairs for dinner. I was in a much better mood now. I had beefsteak Fiorentina and roasted potatoes. My belly was fully and things were (kind of) right again with the world. I could sleep well again for the night.
The irony is not lost on me that this situation with banks and money changing and transactions came to a head while in Florence. The Medici were bankers and money lenders who rose to power, then were exiled due to their corruption.