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

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!

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

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

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

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.