No Gondolas

Who needs gondolas when you have statistics to take you where you want to go?

2008-08-08T15:34:00.016-04:00

One of my favorite pictures, this has become my computer and phone wallpaper.

1,000: The number of American dollars I began my trip with.
979: The number of pictures Nora and I took.
877: The number of sporchi touristi we dodged each day.
609: The number of Euros those dollars turned into.
120: The number of hours I should have slept during my visit.
90: The average temperature, in Fahrenheit.
83: The number of glass necklaces I wanted to buy.
75: The number of hours I actually did sleep during my visit.
73: The number of times I said, "Mmmmmmm" while eating or drinking.
43: The number of women we would have "given the paper" to, had we been in charge.
32.22222: The average temperature, in Celsius.
23: The number of spritzes Nora and I had. Okay, I'm guessing.
22: The number of church bells ringing at 6:00 each day. Okay, I'm still guessing.
18: The number of embarrassing things Nora made me do because it "would be good" for me. Yup. Still guessing.
17: The number of pictures Nora took of beautiful flowers close up or hanging from a window ledge.

And here are just two

15: The number of times Nora complained in Italian to a shopkeeper about how I could never make up my mind ( I might be exaggerating this one).
14: The number of times Nora quizzed me about which direction the boat we were waiting for should be pointing, or what stop we wanted.
12: The number of times I allowed the Bialetti coffee maker to overflow onto the stovetop.
11: The number of times I answered a quiz question incorrectly.
10: The average number of times I woke up during the night because it was too quiet.
9: The hour at which the neighbors start closing their shutters against the scary night air. Even when it's 93 degrees. Or almost 34 degrees Celsius.
8: The number of pictures we took of clocks.

The clock at the Arsenale

7: The average number of times in a night that winged insects dive-bombed my ear, waking me up from a semi-sound sleep.
6: The number of Venetian/Murano glass necklaces I returned with.
5: The number of Nora's family I saw who I knew by name.
3: The number of "meats of death" I ate on a regular basis: speck, sopressa and mortadella.
3: The number of dresses I had, thank goodness!
3: The number of phrases coined during this trip.
2: The number of times I was dressed inappropriately and therefore "given the paper" or "given the scarf."
2: The number of gerbils I met, the appropriately named Thunder and Lightning, who were both very noisy and bright.
1: Number of rings and balsamic vinegar I lost.
0: The number of gondolas I rode on.

A gondola cruising past the Fenice opera house

Poems about colors, reflections in windows and long shadows on stairs: Ooooh! I feel a metaphor coming!

2008-08-07T12:08:00.014-04:00

On a house on Burano

I realize today that I'm reluctant to finish this blog. I've been home for eleven days now, and I'm still trying to find a way to summarize, to finish. When people ask me about the trip, I easily respond that it was an amazing experience. Beneath that statement, however, what I don't say to the questioners, is that I somehow feel different upon my return. And I can't quite put my finger on how, yet.

Part of it is because I went alone. It was a strange feeling for me, a 47-year-old mother of two, married for 24 years, to take a vacation without her family. And this was definitely a vacation.

I've said good-bye to my kids as they had their own experiences at school, work and home and abroad, and I frequently say good-bye to Geof as he travels extensively for work. I was taken aback to realize that my trip to Venice was the first time in my adult life that everyone else said good-bye to me, and for no other reason than that I had chosen to take a trip.

Before I left, friends and family had lots of advice for me about other places in Italy to travel to. I trusted their advice and their good intentions. After all, my only previous experience in Italy had been to drive to Pisa from Austria and spend the night. But deep down, I knew I would ignore their advice. After all, the people advising me had never seen Venice. So. I've yet to see Rome. But they've yet to see Venice. Or Slovenia. This was, I finally, realized, MY trip, free of all others' preferences and desires and expectations. And I must say that it was more wonderful than I ever expected.

Because I didn't spend my time trying to cram all of Italy into my itinerary, I feel that I know Venice on some small level, the "sorta" level. I sorta know how to get around. I sorta feel like I could advise someone else about what they should do on their visit, and how to do it. Not bad for a couple weeks. And it's not a bad thing to walk into a bar and have the waitress know how you want your spritz even though you're a visitor.

I think of my life in terms of school years, and this trip was a wonderful way to end what was a sometimes difficult year. It let me put into practice what I've started to learn about myself. For starters, that I can have a great vacation with a close friend. That after years of lazily allowing others to document my trips, I can do it myself, and really enjoy it. That I can take my own pictures, and that they look pretty good. That I can spend a little money. To quote Nora on day 5: Huth, you're allowed to buy yourself something without feeling guilty. It's your vacation.

On a more significant level, I've realized that I can make and live with my own decisions. That I know what makes me happy, and that happiness isn't that hard. That a little distance sharpens perspective even more.

And finally, that I can cram a lot of living and joy into a pretty short time. Who knew? I don't think I did.

So this trip allowed me to acknowledge what I always knew but never really took time to consider on my own, that there are other lives out there, other places to be, other ways to be.

And that's not a bad thing, to take some time to see what other possibilities exist, and then to choose to come home anyway.

I took a picture of myself reflected in the window. The Guideca is behind me.

And yet another picture I took of myself on a bridge. Wait a minute. Could these be metaphors?

Spritz withdrawal and other signs that I'm not in Venice

2008-08-06T19:54:00.015-04:00

Evening view from Nora's roof sort of looking toward San Marco, ultimately.

Evening view from Nora's rooftop looking toward the lagoon. The bridge to the mainland is in the left corner.

Evening view from Nora's rooftop overlooking the canal. The lagoon is to the right.

After a very long and boring flight from Zurich to JFK, during which I tried to play Who Wants to Be a Millionaire (the UK version, apparently) and could never get past the first question, I found myself being met at the airport by Geof and Tim. Erin was still at work, at Who Wants to Be a Millionaire (the US version).

I was not prepared for the strange feeling of riding in a car after two weeks of virtually nothing but boats.

At some point, on the drive to Erin's apartment in Astoria, or once we were there, it was decided that we would have dinner that night at a Venetian restaurant. After a little searching, we decided on Le Zie, a Venetian restaurant on 7th Avenue. We arranged to meet Erin and Jimmy there, so Tim, Geof and I headed out after a little relaxing, dispensing of Venetian gifts (sans dessert-grade balsamic . . . ) and a shower for me who felt totally disgusting after spending the last million hours traveling in the same clothes.

We had a great meal at Le Zie, including cichetti, spritzes for those over 21, various main courses and dessert.

We did not have the "meats of death" platter, although Nora would have appreciated the speck and mortadella.

I did have to tell the waiter what a spritz was, and so I didn't have much hope that it would taste very authentic. Authentic, by the way, is the way they make spritzes at Pontini. Because Nora is quite picky about her spritz, I figured I learned from the best. However, the spritzes were quite good, although on the more citrusy side. Geof, Erin and Jimmy each enjoyed theirs, too.

After an excellent dinner, we headed home. At midnight I pointed out that since I had now been awake for 24 hours, I was going to bed. And so I crashed, finally, on the pull-out couch, to sleep very soundly for the next eight hours.

Food was apparently quite important on this trip, since I seem to have taken lots of pictures of food and beverages. I now submit several pictures from establishments that Nora and I visited during my stay.

Ristorantechinatown always made us laugh. We sat outside here the night of the Redentore fireworks, ate Chinese-Italian food and watched the decorated boats go by. This restaurant is on the Canale di Cannaregio, right by Nora's apartment.

The wine menu from the enoteca Timon, where we often had a spritz or prosecco and once, cichetti.

This is where, after spending time on the beach, we decided to have dinner and beer. Although we had sworn not to have pizza while I was visiting, pizza is pretty much all this place served. The Adriatic is just beyond the beer glasses.

We never ate at the Ristorante Gam Gam, a kosher restaurant that hosted long tables full of orthodox Jews each Saturday who sang during their meal. This, too, is on the Canale di Cannaregio.

Heading home: or Facing life without grilled peaches

2008-08-03T09:49:00.015-04:00

Two pictures from my day at the Lido, which have nothing to do with this post.

I have several nice things to say about flying Swissair. First, even those of us in economy class get real metal utensils for our meals. And everyone speaks English quite well. And the Swissair definition of a snack, unlike the American airlines I've flown, is not a bag of nuts or crackers. The Swissair snack is a pocket pizza-type pastry roughly 6 x 9 inches, too much for me to finish.

And then there's the free wine.

My problem with Swissair is that its hub is Zurich, an incredibly annoying airport. Those on international flights are forced to go through security again although they are transferring to another Swissair flight. Most flights seem to arrive and depart from totally different terminals, necessitating a trip on the shuttle. Entertainment on the shuttle means flashing by little animations of Swiss milk maids and cows, and hearing frequent and incongruous mooing. And when I arrived at Zurich from Venice on my flight home, they took my dessert-grade balsamic vinegar.

Granted, this was my fault. However, security at Venice airport had no problem with this being in my carry-on bag, but Zurich did. Of course, the destination of my Zurich flight was JFK, the airport with the real problem with a bottle of balsamic vinegar in my carry-on.

At some point, as I was obsessing over the quality of my packing for my return, I ceased thinking of the vinegar as a bottle of liquid. It had been beautifully packaged and wrapped at the store, and it merely became another breakable thing I was attempting to take home as a gift and which should not be in my suitcase. And so, I blithely, stupidly put the bottle in my carry-on bag, where it was promptly noticed at Zurich.

When the kind security person said, "You have a bottle in your bag?" my first thought was, What? Bottle?

My next thought was Ohhhhhhhh. Crap. Right. I am so damn stupid I can hardly believe it.

What I said was, "Oh. Right. It's balsamic vinegar."

She kindly tried to explain how I could get the bottle approved for my flight. I needed to descend stairs, turn left, follow exits, leave Switzerland, reenter, go through security, telling them I needed to hurry, and find my way back to this gate. Then I could take the bottle. She verified that I had enough time to do this, and I was on my way.

Unfortunately, the signs in the Zurich airport are not the most clear. They're in English, but not easy to follow. I had to ask several people to explain where the exit signs had disappeared, explaining why I needed to know. Each person was kind and seemingly clear, but unfortunately, each gave me slightly different directions. I went through customs twice, once leaving and once reentering, and that's really where the compilation of directions broke down significantly. No signs for security. Up and down giant escalators. Through sliding doors and around corners. Past restaurants. Past bathrooms that I needed to visit but had no time to now. The person I asked seemed confused and directed me to a place where there was only the shuttle back to my gate, but no security. Back on the mooing shuttle. Oy. And I was seriously running out of time.

I finally had to return to my gate and its security, without whatever verification I needed for my balsamic vinegar. I finally and reluctantly (and totally out of breath) surrendered it at gate E22, feeling like the biggest loser in the world.

And so I left Venice, Nora, my little emerald ring, and my dessert-grade balsamic vinegar.

In honor of my flight home, I submit these pictures I took with specific people in mind.

For Erin, outside the Arsenale

For Tim, in Gorizia

For Geof, his favorite herb, by the Campo dei Mori

For Nora, her favorite graffito in the city (she actually took this picture)

And finally, for me, a sign on the Lido

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

2008-07-29T11:38:00.020-04:00

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?

2008-07-24T16:28:00.013-04:00

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

2008-07-20T08:30:00.011-04:00

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

2008-07-19T08:21:00.037-04:00

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.

2008-07-18T10:25:00.013-04:00

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

2008-07-17T10:00:00.004-04:00

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

2008-07-16T22:20:00.002-04:00

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

2008-07-15T14:19:00.015-04:00

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.

Beautiful places I can't take pictures of

2008-07-14T17:00:00.002-04:00

Today, in between storms, we visited the Palazzo Ducale, an immense and beautiful structure that is in San Marco. Because Nora and I both had passes, she had the sense to ask a docent whether we needed to wait in line. We probably did anyway, but he very kindly lifted the gate and allowed us to cut the line. It was a beautiful thing, indeed. We were not allowed to take pictures inside, but I'm not sure any picture I could have taken would have done it justice. The rooms were filled with paintings by Titian and Tintoretto, among others, incredibly detailed gold and fresco ceilings, enormous fireplaces, and marble floors. In lieu of further description, I will include these pictures, mostly from the upper windows, which show at least the outside and the views from inside.

View from the Bridge of Sighs inside the prison.

Window inside the palace at the top of the Scala Dei Giganti

Detail of outside staircase (see first two pictures)

Later, we visited the Basilica Santa Maria Gloriosa Dei Frari, and among other things, lighted candles and saw Titian's Assumption behind the altar. Another beautiful place that did not allow pictures, understandably.

Finally, tired and dry, we stopped at our favorite place for a spritz. Well, two actually. I've decided, having tried three of the four types, that I like the traditional one made with Cinzano, the best. Unfortunately for me, Schenectady has not yet made the spritz its drink of choice. I believe it's just a matter of time, though.

Cianfrusaglie varie (bits and pieces)

2008-07-12T17:25:00.024-04:00

Today was a day of random things.
A short play about squid
(As Nora drains liquid from squid she has just cooked)
Me: I mean, I like squid, but they do look disgusting.
Nora: How are they disgusting? I think they look cute.
Me: How are they cute?? They look like rubbery spiders.
Nora (sighing heavily)
Me: Hey! They're hollow!
Nora: Have you never looked at squid before?
Me: Yes. But not that closely.
Nora (very patiently): They took out the cuttle bone when they cleaned the squid at the market.
Me (sheepishly): Oh. Right.
Nora: Now I'm keeping the liquid to cook pasta in.
Me: Really? Um, it certainly smells squiddy. And it's a lovely shade of grey. . .
Nora: It is very good.
Me: I bet it's squiderrific! Or squidtastic!
Nora (rolling her eyes): I believe i'ts just very goooood. I'm going to put this on the terrace to cool.
Me: What if bugs get into it? And I don't want to spend three days here with food poisoning!
Nora: I'll put a lid on it so buggies don't crawl in, so not to worry.
Me: Good. I will eat the squid, even though it looks like what it is, but I do not want to eat buggies.

Yesterday, we went to Billa, the Austria-based grocery store that is closest to the apartment. We took the rolly-thingy, not having a boat. Each time Nora shops, she must cross two or three bridges, depending on how energetic she feels, and obviously, she must limit the number of groceries she buys. New York City residents must do the same but have the option of taking cabs home. Here, the vaporetto is available on the major canals, but you will still end up walking with your groceries depending upon where you live. Nora felt it very important that she get a picture of me with the rolly-thingy. On the way back home, she carried it up one bridge, and I carried up and down the other two. It was hard. I broke a sweat. Jeez.

Wearing "dress #3, my birkies and my Murano necklace,hauling groceries up bridge #2This morning, as Nora went to visit her mother briefly, she allowed me to wander a bit by myself. Before she left me alone, however, she made sure that I knew several things:

1. If I want a coffee, I ask for it thusly: Un caffe, per piacere.
2. If I want to stroll through a garden nearby, it is impossible for me to get lost. I just have to keep the water on my right. A brief discussion followed about "big" water versus "little water, since there is water everywhere.

S. Elena garden

Because it continues to be hot and humid, I found myself wearing "dress #1" today. I have abandoned my other clothing and now rely on "dress #1," "dress #2," and dress #3." I bought "dress #3" on Thursday for 15 E. I have decided that my main goal for the rest of my stay is to be able to avoid wearing bras, and these dresses allow me that luxury.

I was forced to acknowledge my age today in a Murano glass shop. As the shop keeper put a beautiful glass necklace on me, he stepped back and commented to Nora that it made me look young. So. I am now at an age where old men think I want to look young. Hmph. Oh well. (Nora, by the way, has no memory of this conversation. Hmmm.)

Venice has instituted a new system for warning its residents of "acqua alta." Basically, the higher the water is, the more tones, and the higher the tones will ascend.

Today we visited the Museo Correr, a museum I could visit for free courtesy of the pass Nora gave me for my birthday. It was a wonderful museum full of books, paper, shields, ship lamps, busts and, in one small room, a "fragment of a colossal statue," the fragment of which was a giant foot. I did notice that the foot has toes like mine, i.e. having the second toe longer than the first, a condition that my sister-in-law refers to as "Morton's toe." She suffers from the same condition, and I have yet to verify the name. Nevertheless, I thought it interesting that a 4th century sculptor would decide to create a huge (think: as big as a dining room table) foot with the second toe longer than the first. Today, on the vaporetto, I actually noticed a fairly abrasive American whose third toe was longer than the others. She kept it curled under. I found it fascinating, but couldn't stare for too long. At the very least, it made me appreciate my toes more.

Also at the Correr, there is a room with statues of males, all of whom are missing their penises. In their place are holes. It's slightly disconcerting, and not immediately obvious. Nevertheless.

All this week Nora has been desperately trying to take a picture of a vaporetto with a huge ad for United Arab Emirates. It is clearly aimed at a fairly new Venetian clientele. Anyway, she has taken unsuccessful pictures all week. Even when we try to pay attention, it seems that a sporco tourista will be in the way, or something will obstruct the view. Finally, today, we each took pictures of said vaporetti ad.
When Nora shows me on a map where we will go, she makes a noise: "Tscho tscho tscho" as she traces the canal or fondamenta we will follow with a closed pen. When I characterized this as the sound of a train, she objected. Therefore, I merely submit it as an interesting detail. I believe that it is similar to when an adult tries to feed a baby, which is impossible to do with one's mouth closed. Nora cannot trace a route on a map without making the appropriate noise. I like it.

As I'm writing this, we've had a small hailstorm, which I found quite interesting. For the last several minutes, Nora, wakened from her nap by the hailstorm, has come to the kitchen where I'm working, and has started handing me pieces of meat: mortadella and speck. She's also fond of soppressa. I call all of these meats "the meats of death." Oy.

Revisiting Casa Mattiazzi, where the wine is always fresh

2008-07-12T10:22:00.021-04:00

Some of the red wines, with green hoses for pouring

I've gotten in the habit of writing during the late afternoon when we're back home and it's too hot to be outside. I sit at the kitchen table with my back to the huge window and feel the breeze. And sometimes drink wine.

Filling our bottle

What wine do I drink, you ask? Why, the wine we buy just down the fondamenta from the very kind wine shop guy. Nora is ashamed that she does not know his name because he has treated her very well over the years. Indeed, the two times I've visited his shop with Nora, he has graciously allowed me to photograph him, explained the wines I've never heard of and even given us quite generous tastings.

Today we filled the bottle with Manzoni, the wine I tasted and chose earlier this week. But prosecco, a bubbly white wine that is integral to my new favorite drink, the spritz, is available as well.

Our Manzoni in the Vera bottle

After the wine shop, we did a little more grocery shopping and bought some fruit, vegetables and squid. We then decided to visit the Accademia, a beautiful gallery full of Venetian art. What astounded me was that I could actually recognize places in artwork from the 1500s simply because the area looks exactly the same today.

Nora has decided to test me fairly regularly. She asks me to say where we turn, or what floor we need, or how I would ask for a spritz or beer by myself, or how to open the elevator door. So far, I've passed everything, although yesterday I tried to pull the second door of the elevator rather than slide it. I lost a point, but I think I made up for it today by telling her that we wanted to get off the vaporetto at the Riva di Biasio stop to get the other one we needed. Shoot. I was quite impressed with myself!

It was also sort of fun to be able to get on the "Venetian vaporetto," while the tourists were left looking confused and sweaty.

Later, we went grocery shopping with the rolly-thing, which I hauled up two of three bridges on the way home. It was hard work, and I submit this picture of one bridge as proof.

This early evening, we stopped at an enoteca for a glass of prosecco and wandered about the nieghborhood, the sestiere Cannaregio, which also includes the old Jewish Ghetto. It remained hot, and by the time we got home, we were both sweaty and tired. The heat here reminds me of New Orleans in July, and just like New Orleans, most places are not air-conditioned. Luckily, I'm used to no air-conditioning, although I do wonder how the artwork in the un-airconditioned museums survive.

Please comment: Nora insists that these grape vines painted on the ceiling of the bar where we often get a spritz are not grapes at all but chick peas. This is an ongoing discussion. My point is this: Do chick peas grow in clusters on vines? I think not. Nevertheless, she insists. Please help settle this once and for all.

Chick peas or grapes? You be the judge.

Mmmmmm . . . deep fried anchovies and horse meat . . .

2008-07-11T11:27:00.018-04:00

Today was a full day of excitement of various kinds. First, we overslept a bit but still managed to visit the fish market and bemoan the fact that we couldn't buy any fish since we weren't returning home for hours.
The fruit and vegetable market is right next to the fish market.
And the horse meat shop is just down the street.
Next, we stopped at a rosticceria for a mozarella in carrozza, which is mozarella and anchovies between two slices of bread that is egged and then deep fried. Mmmmmm. Cheesy deep-fried anchovies . . . It was really good, and we ate that on the way to visit Nora's mother, who now lives in a beautiful and old building facing the lagoon.

After this we went to an exhibit on paper that is at the Palazzo Fortuny.
Isabelle de Borchgrave

First the Palazzo Fortuny is a beautiful space for an exhibit--huge, dark, ancient. The exhibit is apparently perfect for the space since Isabelle de Borchgrave is a Belgian artist who creates clothing out of paper, and the Mariano Fortuny was an artist/designer who, among other things, worked with paper and clothing design. He also, apparently, worked in theater lighting design.

De Borchgrave's creations were exhibited beautifully in the palace: dressmaker's dummies displayed the paper clothing throughout the space and ranged from colorful kimonos to elegant evening dresses with paper shawls so thin we couldn't believe they weren't silk.

De Borchgrave's pieces were displayed among some of Fortuny's creations and collections. As Nora and I noted, although the pieces themselves were incredible, their presentation made the exhibit even more amazing.

After the exhibit, sweaty and a little tired from what we call the "museum shuffle," we returned to the gelateria at the Campo San Stefano where Nora had a coffee granita, and I had a prosecco. Unfortunately, she forgot to say that she didn't want sugar, so her ice coffee arrived too sweet for her (and my) taste. I was quite pleased with my prosecco, and we enjoyed watching the sparrows dive-bombing the table and then hopping around stealing potato chips.

At the gelateria at Campo San Stefano
Nora (gently waving a chip at the sparrows hopefully hovering nearby): Okay. Let's feed you.
Me: I bet the waiters love when the customers feed the sparrows.
Nora: It's all right.
Me (as a sparrow wrestles a chip his size from the bowl): Look at this one. He's got some leg issue. He seems unsteady.
Nora: Yes. Look. His left leg is atrophied.
Me: Yup. And it's not very healthy if they just live on chips.
Nora (as she encourages the bird to eat another chip): Probably not. He'll die soon.
Me (laughing, but vaguely ashamed)
Nora: At least he's getting some nourishment first.
(She takes a chip from the bowl and pops it in her mouth.)
Me: Ewww. You're eating from the bowl now?
Nora: It's from the other side.

Once we had rested, we headed back, Nora patiently waiting as I looked for gifts for some special people. Since I've been here, I've been considering the gifts I will return with, and today, I finally bought some. I enjoyed the shopping, and I'm pleased with my purchases. I hope the recipients are pleased as well!

Venice sounds and sights: Gulls, skull, bells, blinds and boat horns

2008-07-10T15:30:00.008-04:00

View from the Grand Canal at dusk

Metal sculpture in front of the Palazzo Grassi: view from the Grand Canal

Although there is plenty around me to make me realize how different Venice is from my home, I find that the sounds I hear do that pretty convincingly as well. First in the morning, as the sun is coming up, I hear what I think is the sound of children laughing faintly, which, in my groggy, hypnopompic state I slowly realize is the sound of sea gulls in the lagoon. Nora tells me that there are two types, that the local gulls are stubby and bullet-shaped, but I have yet to determine if they sound like laughing children.

Usually in the early morning or at night, I hear our neighbors singing, sometimes from their apartments and sometimes from the calle below. Groups of young men seem to enjoy this particularly, but often it is one man alone. From the balcony in the back, it's easy to hear televisions and chatter from the apartments clustered about the courtyard.

Church bells ring in the afternoon and in the evening, and from the livingroom I can see the bells actually swinging in one tower. Around 9:00 p.m., I hear the scrape and slam of blinds being lowered and shutters closing in the many apartments surrounding us. Nora and I wonder why the neighbors prefer to spend the warm night all closed up rather than leaving the windows open as we do.

Several times, as I was walking, I heard the clop of horses's hooves behind me, but when I turn around, I see only a stylishly uncomfortable woman wearing heels on the stone pavement.

I was here for two days before I noticed that the horns I kept hearing were from the vaporetti only. Because they cannot necessarily see well at intersections, they honk before turning. There are no cars here. I have not seen a car since I left the mainland on Sunday. These stone streets are for walking, not driving, and the canals and boats are the streets and cars of Venice.

Occasionally, I hear the low rumble of a cruise ship's horn harbored very close by.

Here is a short movie of the sights and sounds of Venice, on the Canale di Cannaregio to the Tre Archi stop closest to Nora's place.

Here is a short movie from a vaporetto on the Grand Canal.

Due birre, and wine to go

2008-07-09T23:20:00.005-04:00

View toward the lagoon and Nora's apartment at the end of the street

Nora and I began this day in a particularly great way, at the wine shop just down the street. We carried the two-liter Vera Naturale spring water bottle with us, which I was forced to empty last night of the last of the Malbec it contained. At the shop, Nora introduced me to the shop owner, who kindly allowed us to photograph him as he filled our bottles from barrels with spigots, and Nora and I agreed that the pictures were pretty darn good. The shop owner is a sweet, friendly man who was pleased that I wanted to photograph him at work. He even offered us a tasting, and despite the fact that it was 10:40 a.m., we agreed and ended up buying some of that wine, along with more of the Malbec. We left the store to return home and leave the wine before we began our walk to the Peggy Guggenheim museum. In my mind, I happily planned tonight's posting about my experience at the wine shop, eager to post my pictures.

After the Guggenheim, more walking, more pictures, stopping to buy Erin a gift, having "due birre" and a sandwich, then some frothy coffee frappe and deciding to take the vaporetto home because it was just too hot, I began to download pictures only to find that the few pictures of the wine store had disappeared. Why? Who knows? How? Who knows? It is a mystery.

So. After somehow losing the pictures I especially wanted, I also could not move my iPhoto pictures to my Picasa web album, and lost the captions I had added. Nevertheless, I perservered.

The day got better again when we enjoyed a spritz with Nora's niece, Anna, and her son Martino, age three, who thoughtfully gave me a potato chip even though it meant walking all around the table.

We made risotto and salad for dinner which we enjoyed with some of the wine we got today, and now I am ready (perhaps) to do battle with my photographs. Last night's fight was with blogger, which would not allow me to upload more than one picture.

I am happy, at least, knowing that we will revisit the wine shop on Saturday so I can take more pictures and buy more wine. I do, however, have a picture of our newly-filled plastic bottles, which I present in lieu of the more interesting action shots.

How fresh is your wine?

2008-07-08T23:59:00.003-04:00

My days have settled into a very nice routine. We eat a little breakfast. We walk around and do stuff. We eat a little lunch about 2:00. We walk around some more and do stuff. Then we eat a little dinner anywhere between 7:00 and 10:00. At some point, we stop for a glass of wine, a gelato or a spritz. We might walk around and do more stuff, or not. We watch a little television. We go to bed. It's a nice life.

Nevertheless, I did accomplish several things today:

1. Bought a pair of Birkenstocks because
a) it's tradition that anyone who visits Nora buys Birkenstocks. She must have 89 pair herself and highly recommends them.
b) they are much cheaper here.
c) they are good sandals.
d) one pair of sandals I brought are full of canal grit from wearing them in Sunday's two-hour downpour.

2. Found some decent postcards for 25 E rather than 50.
3. Encouraged sparrows to land on our table at the da Paolin gelateria in Campo San Stefano.
4. Had a spritz with Nora and her brother.
5. Organized some 100 pictures.
6. Rode a vaporetto that's specifically for the tourists.
7. Rode a vaporetto that's only for locals.
8. Sort of recognized where I was when I rounded a corner.
9. Almost successfully pronounced "ponte delle Guglie" the first time I was quizzed for today.
10. Learned that "guglie" refers to obelisks on each corner of the bridge but may also refer to any pointy thing, like mountaintops.
10. Grumbled about the damn tourists.
11. Finished the plastic bottle of wine Nora gets from the wine guy down the street.

Tomorrow, we will do more of the same, which is just fine by me. And we will visit the wine guy to refill our plastic bottle from the spigot. I may not accomplish more than that, but somehow, I feel that's okay.

Pontee deelay goo yay and other points of interest i can't pronounce

2008-07-07T09:43:00.017-04:00

Strangely enough, this posting begins with two photos of gondolas. Notice, however, that while I'm not allowed to ride them, no one said I couldn't photograph them.

After spending an hour awake at three in the morning, I got back to sleep about four and then slept until eight. The first order of business for the day (after yogurt and what Nora calls fake espresso), we went to get an adaptor for my computer. This was easy except that the store was full of tourists who admitted to blowing up a shaver and hairdryer this morning. Nora made the mistake of saying something to me in English, and the tourists pounced on her for help. She kindly explained the problem and was thanked profusely. Meanwhile, the clerk had been explaining just fine, in English, as we entered. . . so my computer is now happily charged to 98% and still going.

After the electronics store, we continued walking where I took pictures of San Marco, various bridges, churches, doorbells, graffitti, wrought iron railings, gondolas and interesting doors mere inches above the water. Frankly, I can't keep it all straight yet. At one point, Nora asked me, "Are you completely lost yet?" There was no need for me to respond, since she (and everyone else I'm close to) knows I have no sense of direction. Venice is full of twisty streets, alleys, bridges and, obviously, canals. And it is much bigger than I ever thought. I'll see how well I can get around after two weeks, but I don't have much hope!

Things I have learned so far:

Financial
1. At the bank, you have to open one door and wait for it to close completely before the other, inside, doors will open. This is either to keep robbers out, or in. We're not sure.

2. It doesn't really matter what order you stand in line; the next person helped might be you, or it might be someone who just happened to walk in, not having waited for thirty minutes in the un-airconditioned bank. But they will speak kindly to you as they jump line, and you will respond in kind.

3. $500 American equals about a buck fifty Euro.

Later, in a bar
Nora: You can go pay for our spritzes.*
Me: What? (handing her 10 Euro) Here.
Nora (pushing it back): No, you can do it.
Me (heavy sigh): Fine.
Nora (speaking to the bartender in Italian): So my friend here is afraid to talk to you because she doesn't know Italian.
Me: Hey! (trying to hand the bartender the 10 E. as Nora snickers)
Nora: You should use the coins.
Me: I know it costs 3,50, but I don't know which coin is which.
Nora (hyper-patiently picking the coins out of my hand and explaining as she does): This is a Euro, this is a Euro, this is a 50 cent . . .
Me: That's not fair since I can't even read what's on the coins without my glasses!
Bartender (saying something back to Nora, as they both commiserate over my patheticness)
Bartender (to me): Buona sera.
Me (trying to channel my inner Italian) : Buona sera.
Bartender (to me): Bravissima!

*A drink supposedly begun in Venice consisting of prosecco, bitters, seltzer and a large olive.

Geographic
1. Campi, calli and ponti are plentiful here (squares, streets and bridges). Every single one has a name, which Nora quizzes me on regularly.

Nora: Huth, which bridge is the one we turn at to go to the apartment?
Me: What? Are you kidding? I have no clue.
Nora (heavy sigh): It's this one right here.
Me (sneakily spotting the sign but realizing I can't pronounce the name anyway): Um, pon . .
Nora (in elegant Italian and a heavy sigh): It's the ponte delle Guglie. Now say it.
Me: What? Why?
Nora: Because it's good for you. You can say it.
Me: Pon tee day la . . . .
Nora: Goo yay.
Me (obediently): Goo yay.
Nora: See? That wasn't hard.
Me: Um, yes it was, a little.

Storms, spritz and little stripey clams

2008-07-07T03:00:00.000-04:00

I'm finally here, after a couple fairly uneventful flights. I'm writing this quickly now because I'm working on a low battery, here at three a.m. so I will flesh out the details, at least those that are the least bit interesting, tomorrow. I'm borrowing a weak internet connection from outside. Nora's apartment has a strange combination of German and Italian outlets, as well as a plethora of adaptors. For each item, she must build several layers of adaptor upon adaptor, which we've done for my Mac. Unfortunately, we haven't achieved that final layer of finding the proper wall outlet . . . we will look in the morning for a plug that actually plugs into the wall somewhere.

The condensed version for tonight is that we walked all over for several hours, got stormed on, took shelter under awnings along the way, had a spritz (description to follow later, but it was really good), had a nice and not very expensive seafood dinner and continued walking once it cleared up again.

I'm sitting beneath an open window, and I can smell the salt water blowing through. If it weren't three in the morning, and if I weren't wide awake, I'd probably enjoy it very much!

Tomorrow, I'll work on finding an adaptor, taking and downloading pictures and fleshing out the very sexy and intriguing details of my first day (with apologies to Chank for their dearth. I may have to make stuff up, I guess.) My family is much less particular about such things, thanks goodness!

Still no intrigue, but some cows, canoes and the Kickapoo

2008-07-01T15:25:00.008-04:00

It's not a trip to Italy, but it was pretty good nonetheless. Since Saturday, I've been in Wisconsin--Madison and then LaFarge. This trip marks the first flight I've taken totally by myself. I've flown with family and with friends, but never completely alone. To make this occasion even more significant, I was bumped up to first class for the first leg of the trip, from Albany to Detroit.

This short but wonderful trip also allowed me to get to know mIEKAL aND and camillE bacoS, who generously fed, sheltered and entertained us for several days. I had time to read Amy Tan's novel Saving Fish From Drowning, walk in the pretty darn remote and beautiful Wisconsin countryside, hear only the occasional sound of cows lowing at night, see horse-drawn wagons carrying the many Amish neighbors back and forth (as Geof reminded me: "You're related to all of them"), eat trout that had been swimming earlier that day, drink some excellent homemade red wine, visit the organic food company mIEKAL works for, talk to parrots, and paddle a canoe four miles down the Kickapoo River. All in all, not bad for a short visit.

Things went slightly downhill when we tried to drive back to the Madison airport and got lost enough so I missed my morning flight. Geof and I were already scheduled on different flights, but now we were both at the airport far sooner than we needed, especially for my new flight leaving at 6:02 p.m. His flight left at 2:00, so from about 10:30 until 1:30, we sat in a brew pub talking, eating, sharing a sampler of six okay beers, writing a bit and generally having a good time. When Geof left, I kept my seat for a bit longer, drinking a local Peck's Pilsener by myself and making hotel reservations for our trip to San Francisco in August.

As I waited for my flight, I shifted to coffee, had a snack and finally realized I had exhausted all the entertainment possibilities of the Dane County Regional Airport.

After two uneventful flights, I reached Albany to find the Wiles family waiting for Ted's luggage, Ted having just arrived from San Francisco to begin a job in Philadelphia. I had a good time talking with them, and Sharon luckily spotted Geof and my niece and nephew looking for me.

At home, my sister-in-law Kathy, and my other nephew, Jacob, were waiting. Everyone was tired, Kathy and the kids especially because they had driven through the previous night from Nashville, spent the day visiting Niagara Falls and then driven across the state to see us.

I think everyone was in bed by 1:30. As we should have been.

By request:Twice the blood! Twice the gore!

2008-06-26T09:58:00.007-04:00

My good friend, Chank, insists that a blog about international travel should "have a bit more sex and violence. You know 007 stuff." And so, I have added this to my list of work to do:

Mail a graduation gift.
Find another book to read on the plane.
~~Go to Parkway Music to look at electric guitars.~~
Replace the battery in the smoke detector outside my bedroom so maybe I can sleep tonight.
Work on adding more sex, violence and intrigue to my life.

I did manage to pare down my list a tiny bit more by the end of the day. As I had anticipated, the trip to Parkway Music was the highlight. They have an amazing selection of new and used guitars in a wide range of prices. Eventually, I'm sure I'll be able to find something there. Eventually. I did, however, buy a guitar stand. And some $4 martinis with Spezz at the Bankok Thai Bistro. And groceries after that.

The smoke detector debacle continued last night when, after being silent all day, the beeping began anew at 12:25 a.m. Although I had bought a replacement battery, I could not open the smoke detector in order to insert the replacement. I couldn't even see where the battery would go. Oy. I finally put kleenex in my ears and managed to sleep around 2:00.

Today, I will look for a couple of books to read on the plane. And work on the intrigue thing. I'm sure Chank will not be satisfied with references to martinis, even if they were shaken, not stirred.

I should switch to decaf.

2008-06-25T10:46:00.002-04:00

~~Find html code for strikethroughs.~~
~~Put off work by reading the New York Times online.~~
~~Find college visit pictures to attach to grant report.~~
~~Drink coffee.~~
~~Finish grant report.~~
~~Drink more coffee.~~
~~Verify final grades for seniors.~~
Get groceries.
Mail a graduation gift.
~~Drink even more coffee.~~
Find another book to read on the plane.
~~Amuse myself by googling the names of friends.~~
Go to Parkway Music to look at electric guitars.
~~Get directions to Parkway Music from Gary.~~
Replace the battery in the smoke detector outside my bedroom so maybe I can sleep tonight.
Wonder why I can't sleep even when I've made the smoke detector stop beeping.

All in all, a sad little list of mostly boring things to do. Clearly, the trip to Parkway Music will be the highlight by far.

Friends, focus, food . . .

2008-06-24T21:08:00.003-04:00

Tomorrow, Nora is heading back to Venice, two little pictures of me in hand for my transportation card. We had dinner last night with Toby and said good bye for now. Today, she spent trying to tie up loose ends, say good bye to others, return her rental car and get her new glasses. Unfortunately, the glasses aren't quite right, so she will leave without them. If all works out, I will pick them up and deliver them myself soon enough.

This afternoon, I attended the now-annual GE house retirement party and had the chance to talk to several old friends who have retired within the last few years. In particular, I spent some time talking to Chris, who had visited Nora in Venice this winter for a few days and had had a wonderful time.

The end of the school year is always hectic, and I'm a little tired tonight. I have to focus on finishing the year and then taking my little trip to Wisconsin first. It's hard, though, to temporarily ignore the big trip to Venice. Today, I realized that I have very little to eat in the house so tomorrow, I must put both trips out of my mind and focus on little things like food!

I should make a list.

2008-06-23T10:25:00.005-04:00

Before Nora returns to Venice on Wednesday, I must give her a couple of small pictures of myself so she can get me a transportation pass. I assume that AAA will handle this nicely, but I haven't checked yet. This will be my lunchtime project, I guess.

Although I don't have much to do to prepare for the trip, I feel as though I'm going to forget something big . . . like my passport. I suppose that's unlikely. Nevertheless, I have a lot on my mind: final grades, professional development proposal, grant funding final report, curriculum mapping (but luckily the software isn't cooperating so I don't have to deal with that today!), various end of the year celebrations, the dogs and cat, Geof in Wisconsin, getting ready for and taking my short trip to meet him there and preparing the house for a short visit from my sister-in-law and my niece and two nephews. Not a big deal, but a little hectic right now.

Amusing myself with storms and blogs

2008-06-22T23:30:00.001-04:00

After verifying the all-important blog title with my son and daughter, and finding that no one else had chosen it already, I spent probably too much time creating this new, short-lived blog. On the other hand, I was at the lake visiting my parents, it wasn't swimming or sunning weather, and I had already finished my book.

Unfortunately, the book I finished was the book I had planned to read on the plane to Venice, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, by Dave Eggers. I shall have to find something else now. I've read all his other books, but I'll verify this with Erin.

After I finished with the blog creation, I amused myself "chatting" with Erin online and by watching a quick thunderstorm build and sweep across the lake from right to left (or from west to east, I guess). Then dinner at the Pine Lake Lodge. I was home by 9:15.