Boat, bus and eventually plane: Saying goodbye to Venice and Nora

On the fondamenta, heading towards Nora's.

The turn to Nora's place.

Behind Nora's place, on the lagoon, at sunset.

The morning I left Venice, Monday, 21 July, I finally gave up on sleeping about 15 minutes before my alarm was set. Too many gnats, too much worrying about my lost ring, and definitely too much obsessing about whether I had done a good enough job packing. I had bought some breakable things, which I carefully packed in my carry-on bag, and tried to cram the rest into my suitcase. But more about that later.

Nora, of course, had awakened long before I had, and as I got dressed, she made me coffee and looked for my ring. Because we were taking a boat AND a bus to the airport, she had carefully checked schedules the night before to make sure I'd have plenty of time.

The boat and bus rides to the aiport were uneventful. During the boat ride I stood so I could see everything one last time, and I was again jarred by our arrival at the bus terminal at Piazzale Roma, where I always felt annoyed at the intrusion of the outside world in the form of cars, buses and industry.

In Nora's neighborhood, looking toward the lagoon. The airport is to the left in the distance.

At the airport, I quickly checked in, and then we went to the customs window to get my tax-free form stamped. Because I had spent a certain amount of money, as a tourist, I was able to get the tax back, in the form of 23 E. I then had to have the form stamped at the airport on my way home and mail it from the airport to verify this. We waited in line behind an enormous family of Asian tourists who were struggling to explain the vast amount of their purchases. Unfortunately for us, various members of the family kept inexplicably disappearing just as the man at the window needed to speak to them. This went on for minutes. We watched as they opened their suitcases crammed full of high-end purchases, all labeled Chanel or Gucci or with some other fancy designer label. They must have spent a fortune, and as I waited behind them to verify my tax rebate on my piddling, designer-free purchase, I was irritated. Finally, another person appeared behind the counter and so, I was quickly able to present my tax form, have it stamped and mail it. Then we were off for coffee.

For a woman who doesn't allow herself to be photographed, Nora took great joy in documenting my departure. She took a picture of me from the back, as I'm extending my arms heavenward in question, wondering where the bathroom is. She took a picture of me walking toward her after I successfully deciphered which mailbox slot in which to drop my tax form. Finally, she took a picture of me going through security mostly blocked by a large man behind me in line. When I realized she was trying to get a picture, I unsuccessfully tried to duck and weave around him, but the picture she got shows mostly him. Oh well. He was a very large man.

So far, so good. No problems. No issues. But I haven't reached Zurich yet. Duhduhduuuuuuuh.

The Rialto bridge, which I once made the mistake of saying was less attractive than almost any other bridge in Venice. As Nora noted, it is NOT very attractive when the shutters are down, but it IS attractive when the shutters are up, as they are here. I submit this picture here, as atonement.

Nevertheless, the Ponte Tre Archi is clearly the best looking bridge in Venice.

Just how many pictures of spritz is too many?

Crossing the pontoon bridge to Chiesa dell SS. Redentore

Strangely enough, I'm sitting in a hotel on the 48th floor, overlooking the Olympic Park in Atlanta, Georgia, posting one of the last, entries on my trip to Venice.

As I mentioned, Nora and I visited three synagogues in the Jewish ghetto in her neighborhood. That night, however, we had our final two spritzes at the gelateria in the San Stefano campo, and we joined the masses of humanity crossing the pontoon bridge to Redentore. I believe my most frequent comment was, "Woo hoo! We're on the bridge!"

Boats in position to watch the gondola races

We paused at the arch of the bridge to watch the swarm of boats that had gathered to watch the gondola race. When we finally made it across, we didn't do much more than buy two t-shirts to commemorate the occasion. Nora's is one that shows the recipe for a spritz, and mine has a funky fish with a tail notched in six for the six sestiere of Venice.

Gondola races

Hot, tired and full of spritz, we wandered back home so I could pack and relax for a bit. Relaxing ended up watching two episodes of Black Adder on DVD.

Even though I dutifully went to bed at 11:30, in preparation for my getting up at 6:00 to catch my 9:30 a.m. flight, I spent much of the night swatting bugs that attacked me from the screenless window, repacking my suitcase, losing my little emerald ring somehow and desperately searching for it throughout the apartment, and emailing my daughter who kept saying things like, "Mom! It's 3:30 in the morning! Go to sleep now!"

Not one of my better night's sleep, but I can always sleep when I'm dead. Or on an airplane.

The last spritzes of the trip . . .

. . . and a little movie of the crowds and the bells at S. Stefano, as Nora and I enjoyed our final spritz. I especially enjoy Nora noticing that I'm taking another movie, waiting for me to swoop around and capture her on film. Unfortunately, all I have of her is her voice, and her hand reaching for chips.

Being given the scarf: or Oy, it's too hot to be appropriate

Last night, Nora and I watched the Redentore fireworks from her rooftop. While I do realize that we missed some of the exhibition that was along the canal, I have a hard time regretting watching it from the roof. It was beautiful, quiet, warm . . . and the fireworks were the most amazing I have ever seen. For 45 minutes, we took pictures, movies, and just enjoyed being up there in that wonderful place.


I think it fitting that on my last day here, while visiting three synagogues in the Jewish ghetto in Nora's neighborhood, I didn't get the paper, but I did get "the scarf." I hope it is clear that I am an equal opportunity defier of propriety.

Let me first say that I knew I was running a risk of "getting the paper" when I chose to wear a sleeveless dress, dress # 2, for those keeping track. However, dress #2 has wide straps, and since it is horribly hot and humid once again, I went for it and decided against carrying around my only possible cover-up, a silk sweater. So once again, I found myself being told to cover my incredibly attractive shoulders. From the basket, I chose a lovely beige-merging-to-brown scarf, as the men without hats chose yarmulkes.

I did note that the large French man sprouting curly black hair from his back, armpits and shoulders (beneath his sleeveless tank top) was NOT given a scarf. His yarmulke did nothing to make his torso less offensive, unfortunately, and I spent the rest of the tour trying not to look at him.

Unfortunately, he and his wife had chosen a tour given in English despite the fact that they could not understand it. They continually made their presence known by taking illicit pictures, forcing our tour to stop while they asked our tour guide to recap her presentation in French, and generally leaning on and touching everything that was forbidden.

Please note that this couple's internal obnoxiousness forced me to comment on their physical obnoxiousness.

The holocaust memorial in the campo

Several Americans were equally obnoxious, especially one youngish man who asked whether the campo had ever had more "stuff" in it, that is, had there ever been buildings in it. Our tour guide answered no, since the campo was a gathering place, a place to get water, and for the cistern to collect water. The obnoxious American needed to say, "Yeah, but it could have." At this point, Nora and I contemplated wrestling him to the ground and beating him to a red, white and blue pulp. However, we restrained our more animal instincts, and I casually disengaged my lovely borrowed scarf from the film of sweat across my lovely shoulders.

Oy.

Me in the campo, in dress #2, looking pensive, I think. Since I don't have a picture of just the campo, I must include myself. Oh well.

As I have been writing this, Nora has surreptitiously (she thought) taken a picture of me at her kitchen table, writing (or blaaaaahhging, as she says). In my defense, I write only when it is siesta time anyway, to entertain myself. Nevertheless, she has taken what she has determined to be a "typical" picture of me at her table.Later, we will try to cross the pontoon bridge to the Redentore, and probably have a spritz, our last one together here. This has been an amazing, wonderful chance of a lifetime trip, and I am so grateful to be able to have done it.

Virgil crosses #143, 144 and 145 off the list

As my time here winds down, Nora has moved into hyper-tour-guide-Virgil mode. As a result, as we leave a museum or church or campo or beautiful view she has wanted me to see she says, with seeming relief, "Well, we can cross that one off the list." In the last 24 hours, we have crossed several things off the list, including visiting several churches and San Michele, the cemetery island.

San Michele, the cemetery, is a peaceful "city of the dead," as it is sometimes called. It is highly stratified into sections for nuns, friars, soldiers, regular citizens, various religions and even children. We took our time walking through, taking pictures.

Unfortunately, as the sun rose and we consciously walked in the few shady areas, we found ourselves being eaten up by gnats. By the time we found the graves of two of S. Michele's more famous residents, Igor Stravinsky and Ezra Pound, I was really itchy and crabby. Nevertheless, I persevered and managed a few pictures before giving up. I was particularly interested to find a letter to Ezra Pound on a bush by his unobtrusive gravesite.

Letter to the left

Not a great picture of the letter, but I was fighting the breeze and swarms of gnats. The letter is dated 2008, and I kind of liked the holes permeating it. Ezra Pound is not my favorite guy for all sorts of reasons, but as a former English major, I had no choice but to find his grave. Fortunately for him he is far away from the Jewish cemetery.

Another site on Nora's list was the church of San Nicolo dei Mendicoli, a beautiful, comparatively small church founded in the 7th century and situated in the sestiere Dorsoduro. Mass was in progress as we tried to quietly sit down. Nora asked me if I wanted to leave until mass was over, but I said no, let's stay. It was almost time for communion, so I knew there wasn't much longer to wait. We watched the tiny congregation, at least for a Friday evening, 16 worshippers, receive communion and then sing to end mass. It gave me goosebumps. I have long been a lapsed Catholic, but I was quite happy to experience a part of mass here, especially in that church.

The church of San Nicolo dei Mendicoli

One thing Nora is not eager to cross off her list is experiencing the feast of the Redentore, which is this weekend and seems to be similar to experiencing Times Square on New Year's Eve. The Redentore is a church built to commemorate the end of the 1576 Plague, and the festival is held on the third Sunday of July. The church sits on the island/sestiere of Giudecca, and each year, a bridge built of pontoons spans the very wide Giudecca canal. On Saturday night, there are fireworks displays and lots and lots of tourists. Nora and I are debating about whether to try to go to San Marco to experience the festivities, but we're not sure it's worth the effort and chaos. We may go early and then return to see what we can see from her roof.

As we returned from visiting S. Nicolo dei Mendicoli, we walked on the fondamenta across from the Giudecca, and I took some pictures of the festival preparations.

Yellow paper lanterns stretching the length of the fondamenta, with the Redentore in the back

Partially built pontoon bridge to the Redentore

Boat decorated for the Redentore feast, on the Canale di Cannaregio

Redentore "party" boat on the Canale di Cannaregio

Today we also crossed off the church of San Pietro. As has become our habit, we lit a candle, and, as usual when we have a choice, we chose to light a candle at the shrine that seemed to receive the least attention. We tend to ignore St. Anthony, an ever-popular saint, apparently. So we lit two candles at Saint Rita's shrine. Although Nora frowns upon holy water, I surreptitiously dip my finger in whenever it's available. I find it almost impossible to pass by without doing so. Old habits definitely die hard, I guess.Campo S. Pietro

I am happy to say that I was not "given the paper" at any church I have visited in the last 24 hours. Tomorrow, Nora would like to cross "visit local synagogues" off her list, so I will try to avoid getting the paper, or its Jewish equivalent, once again.

Doorbells with tongues and creamed cod. Mmmmmm. Creamed cod.

I've visited enough places around the world to understand the distinction between simply appreciating the visit and feeling an affinity for the place and life it presents. As Nora told me this morning, I "took to Venice like a duck." What?? Well, I understood the rest without her finishing.

My visit here has provided Nora with some company and some amusement. As I've noted before, she is fond of testing me, and the longer I've been here, the harder the tests have become. First, it was whether the second elevator door to her apartment slid or was pushed (pushed). Or how to pay for two spritzes or beers ("Due spritz, per piacere.") Then it became whether I recognized a place, usually a campo. Or which way the vaporetto or motoscafo needed to point for us to reach our destination. Now, she is amused by the way I occasionally know which way to turn, or that I know which stop to get off at. One recent test that I didn't think was so hard was whether I could read "gelateria" backwards through the awning we were sitting under.

She is especially amused when I mumble, "Sporchi turisti," as I plod my way through the tourists stopping to take pictures through shop windows or clogging up a bridge. Okay, so I was stopping on bridges a week ago to take pictures. I, however, would always move thoughtfully aside to allow traffic to continue. Mostly, I enjoy saying the phrase because it forces me to practice my "R's," which Nora says I'm much better at now.

She is pleased that I have come to love a spritz each day between 6 and 8 p.m., and today she introduced me to another Venetian dish, creamed cod, or baccala mantecato. We had it at our other favorite enoteca, Timon, as we enjoyed a midday glass of prosecco. It is surprisingly fluffy, and sat atop a piece of bread. One small piece was just enough, and although I told her it was "fisherrific," it was not very fishy, and I enjoyed it very much.

I also amuse Nora when I eat or drink. Apparently, I say "mmmmmmm" a lot. When I'm drinking a spritz. Or when I'm eating gorgonzola with mascarpone. Or as I devour my grilled fish lunch in the shade on Murano. I also tend to say, "Ah, life is good!"

I don't know if I feel as if I could live here solely because of the city, or because my best friend lives here. Probably because of both. I do know that Venice is a city that requires some time and attention, that while the wide views are spectacular
sometimes you need a little perspective, and someone who really knows the city, to help you really appreciate the details.

Being given the paper: or I'm too sexy for my shoulders

Our trip to Murano, Burano and Torcello yesterday allowed me to visit three beautiful lagoon islands that are easily visible from Venice.

It also allowed

1. Nora the opportunity to buy my Christmas gift months in advance: a Murano necklace that she said was somehow "me."

2. us to stop for lunch out, a rare occasion, and enjoy branzino, orata (which, in English seems to be "gilthead bream"), langostines and a nice white wine.

3. us to take tons of pictures that turned out pretty well.

4. me to translate from French to English for Nora that the tower was indeed closed (as I overheard a French tourist ask the person in charge)

Most importantly, however, the trip allowed us to coin and frequently use the phrase, "giving someone the paper."

Etymology
The Basilica di S. Maria Assunta at Torcello is an incredible structure that dates to the 7th century. However, it does require that visitors cover their shoulders. Sort of. Some visitors. Well, me.

As we handed our tickets to the woman, she asked me if I had something for my shoulders. I said no. She handed me a brown papery shawl-like thing, which I draped over myself and continued into the cathedral.

I had been careful of the no-shorts requirement at some religious sites, and I had even asked Nora, who has visited here a lot, whether shorts were a problem. They were not. However, my spaghetti straps were, and so, I was "given the paper."

As we entered, Nora grumbled a bit about how I didn't have to wear it. I said it was fine; following rules is a thing I do well, and actually, the brown papery-thing matched my ensemble, so I was set. As a formerly good Catholic girl who barely pre-dated Vatican II, I willingly accepted my penance.

As we settled down to look at the space, however, we began to notice women in various stages of undress who had not been "given the paper." A loud French woman, fat arms tumbling from her tank top, bra straps akimbo. Another woman with flabby cleavage to her knees, again with bare shoulders and arms. And another. And another.

As Nora seethed and told me to "take the damn thing off," I told her it was okay. Nevertheless, I did begin to question why my clean, neat, cleavage-less top deserved "the paper," while others in seemingly more advanced stages of undress did not.

As has become our habit, we put some money in the offering tin and lit two candles. Because I was still wearing my lovely shawl, Nora was reluctant to give money to light the candles, so I donated for her. I was superstitious enough to believe that it was especially important to light candles here, where I had been "given the paper." And so I did, as we had for the previous three cathedrals and chapels we'd recently visited.

On the vaporetto home, we bided our time watching the sweaty masses on board with us, deciding who, at that point, should be "given the paper." Perhaps the large woman who seemed to have her dress on backwards and whose entire back was exposed, her bra stretched to breaking prominently displayed. The woman whose tank top descended to her navel, who clearly needed a foundation garment of some type. The young woman who thought that the world wanted to hear her voice and see her black thong beneath her tiny white negligee-looking dress. Oy. Yes, we would have given them all "the paper."

We will not discuss the Speedo-wearing men at the Lido, all of whom should be given the paper. Perhaps a canvas tent.

I accepted my paper quietly and with dignity because my shoulders should be covered, so man may exist peacefully next to me, without temptation to sin.

Sun, sand, sporchi turisti and, eventually, spritz

A cappuccino with a heart on top began my day too full of sun and activity, specifically visitng Murano, Burano and Torcello, the big lagoon islands.

Due spritz (sans olives, unfortunately), one for Nora and one for me, ended my day.
In between, we visited Murano (the glass island)
Burano, the island known for its lace, fishing and colorful houses,and Torcello, a less populated island known for its 7th century cathedral.By the end of the day I had just enough energy to take some pictures of the sun setting over the lagoon at the end of the Fondamenta Cannaregio. Tomorrow is another day to think about how to describe the lagoon islands and to wade through the hordes of pictures we both took today. With no big excursions planned, I may even be able to explain the newly-coined phrase, "to give someone the paper," and why "Lightning" and "Thunder" might be really good names for gerbils.

Slovenia in the morning and blede in Friuli-Venezia Giulia in the afternoon

Today was exciting because I was able to add a new country to my list of those I've visited. Nora and I spent the day visiting her childhood home, the city of Gorizia in very northeastern Italy. We took the train from Venice early this morning finally arriving in Gorizia about 10:00. We stopped for a cappucino and croissant and then decided (at my prompting) to walk to Slovenia, the former Yugoslavia, to find the house she lived in as a very young girl. When she lived there, the house was in Italy, so yes, she is acually Italian. Just to clarify.

On the way, we passed the building she lived in as an older child and teenager.

Nora's former bedroom window

We also passed the Catholic church she attended partly so the neighbors wouldn't think her family were Communists. (The Communist party headquarters were in her building and prominently displayed their flag out the window next to Nora's apartment.)

We also passed the hospital Nora was taken to at age five, where her pediatrician offered to adopt her, take her to Boston eventually and encourage her to become a doctor. Nora's mother politely declined this offer.

After walking some discussion of which way road sign arrows were pointing, and some crossing of streets and walking up hill, we arrived at the border crossing. I had my passport with me and was sort of hoping to have to argue my way across, but no such luck. The crossing was completely unmanned. Nevertheless, I am proud to say that I am the first of my immediate family to be able to add Slovenia to my list of visited countries.
We walked into Slovenia and tried to find Nora's childhood home. On the way, I gathered Slovenian flora to press in my little leather notebook. Unfortunately, the flowers look exactly like Schenectady flora. I actually unwittingly gathered some fauna as well, in the form of a little buggy-thing I found crawling around among the flowers in my notebook.

When she spotted the church, she remembered that it had been on her left as she used to walk to her house. That, as it turns out, was enough information. We kept walking and suddenly, Nora spotted her house.
As I took pictures, Nora explained how the house and grounds had changed slightly since she had been there as a very young child. It is a beautiful house in a beautiful neighborhood that reminded me of some neighborhoods in Florida, strangely enough. Nora thought there were more palm trees now than she remembered, that she knew that when she was young, they had had one of the few palms in the neighborhood.

We started back to Italy, and ultimately to Castello Gorizia, at the top of a huge incline (as it should be, I guess). By this time the sun was hot, and the incline was steep. We made it up, after taking a couple short breaks, to be told that the castle would be closed until 3:00. In all the information we had (and Nora has visited this place several times) does it say it will be closed midday. So, after many apologies from the lady who greeted us with this news, we decided to descend and have some lunch. We finally went to a place that specializes in local food and had gnocchi with mint, some local red wine, a plate of meats and potatoes, some blede (Friuli-Venezia Giulia dialect for beet greens), and a small glass of a homemade liqueur: red wine, rum, cloves, cinnamon, lemon and some other stuff. A nice but heavy lunch, after which we had to ascend to the castle once more.

View of Gorizia from top of the castle

Finally, we descended once more and made it to the train station. The only excitement on the way home was when Nora discovered, after an hour, that we had plunked our tired selves down in the first class section. We'd both been dozing and enjoying the comfy seats and air conditioning. Once we realized our mistake, we moved to second class, where the seats were less comfy, and the air conditioning was barely evident. Oh well. No one ever checked our tickets, so we could have stayed where we were, but we are honest people.

Now I sit in the kitchen, the open window and the almost gibbous moon at my back and the sound of vaporetti and the neighbors closing their shutters against the night air. Today was interesting for many reasons, but one thing I didn't realize until I was walking in Gorizia. While I enjoyed my time there, I realized that I missed Venice. How strange that I could miss a place I've known for only ten days. I didn't enjoy having to dodge cars for the first time in ten days. I missed the water. Even though it was a great day filled with new experiences, I missed the other-worldly feel of Venice.