Revisiting Casa Mattiazzi, where the wine is always fresh

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.