Monday, May 27, 2013

Hotel Paradiso

Our hotel in Venice was a lovely old hotel, very much first class, with shiny marble floors of dark and light geometric patterns, beautiful chandeliers, marble trimming the arched doorways, art deco stained glass in the transoms above.  I can speak only of our room, but it was large, clean, comfortable, with elegant, old-style furniture, and a big, marble-floored bathroom.  And we had a view of the canal, from our two windows, though it was not a straight-on view, since most of the rooms in the hotel face each other across the space that separates what were once two separate 17th century “palaces” (i.e., rich people’s fancy homes), now connected by one of the restaurant’s dining rooms, with the hotel’s tiny terrace in front of it – these are what lay directly beneath our windows – and, at the back of the building, by a narrow, black-and-white-check-floored corridor, which was what everyone took to get from their rooms to the main part of the hotel.

Unfortunately, when Pat and I arrived at Hotel Westin Europa & Regina there was no room available for us.  The hotel was currently filled to overflowing with what seemed like hundreds of folks from (as we later ascertained) a cruise ship, very noisy and chaotic.  They were obviously in the process of checking out – their suitcases were all crowded together at one side of the main hallway that led from the door to the dock to Reception, at what was officially the front of the hotel, but seemed like the back – but in the meantime their rooms were still being cleaned.  The woman at the desk was also confused because, as she said, the people with Perillo Tours (PT) usually all came together.  If we would please to wait until the others came…

Which takes me to the big snafu that put the other members of the tour in a rather sour mood right at the outset.  Gianni, our PT guide (and that is his real name), had made the decision to wait for everyone who was coming in, even though they were arriving at different times.  Thus, he met the folks whose plane arrived at 9:30, and asked if they would please be so patient as to wait for us.  He knew that our plane was late, and informed the group – who of course were all as tired as Pat and I.  So they all waited, not only past 11, but past 12, until 1 p.m., when Gianni finally gave up, mainly because Kelly, the woman from Kentucky, kept insisting that she was pretty sure, given our conversation while we were waiting for our luggage, that we had already left.

This error in judgment is probably the only negative thing I can put to Gianni.  For about 12 hours a day, for eight days, he was trying to keep track of 36 rowdy Americans, some of them determinedly independent (I plead guilty – he was always having to look around for/wait for, me), and he was invariably patient and good-natured.  But the idea of keeping over 20 tired people waiting for up to three hours, for two other people, seems really preposterous.  I assume it was to prevent his having to go back to the airport, but still…

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I had to be fed, and Pat had to have a cigarette.  My hypoglycemia, which requires that I ingest a reasonable amount of protein every three hours, was as inconvenient as it always is when I travel.   While Pat joined the cruise folk out on the terrace, I ventured into the dimly-lit bar with its elegant bar of dark brown and charcoal grey Italian marble, and little tables scattered about.  For some time, I sat at a little table just inside the door, feeling vaguely uneasy and unsure of myself,  until the male half of the barkeeping team took note of me.  When I asked if I could get something to eat, he said of course, then took forever to bring me a menu.  I carefully avoided looking aghast when I saw the prices: a Ceasar Salad with chicken for 23 Euros ($33), a hamburger, which I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to be ordering in Italy anyway, was 24 Euros.  There was nothing on the menu I could bring myself to spend so much money on, and I suspected it would take forever to get my food anyway.  So I went back out into the main hallway, which I suppose I should call the lobby.  In the dining room across the way there was obviously an “event” going on.  I wafted through, on my way out to the terrace, and saw that it was a cold buffet.  Hmmm…

Given all the people milling around, I decided to take a chance on blending in, grabbed a plate, and started picking and choosing.  All the silverware to be seen was in the place-settings on the tables around the room, where people were sitting, laughing and talking, so I ended up eating everything with my fingers, but that was o.k.  When I joined Pat on the terrace, where she had managed to snag one of the few chairs at one of the glass-topped tables, I had a nice collection of odds and ends, most of which were delicious, including the perfectly ripe, and sweet, strawberries, and kiwi.  Throughout the trip we were treated to fresh, ripe fruit at the breakfasts provided by our hotels, and it was such a joy, especially for this person from Maine. Most of the fruit we get is rock hard, as it has been picked well before having ripened, in order to ship it safely.


Santa Maria della Salute from hotel terrace

The half hour or so that we spent sitting on that terrace was among those moments I stated earlier we didn’t have enough of: time to just sit and take in the realness of where we were. The ornate, domed church Santa Maria della Salute lay directly across the canal.  We watched boats gliding by in the canal, in particular an extraordinary number of gondolas, sometimes with the young gondoliers singing their hearts out as they poled away.  Once a group of three lined up side-by-side, and gave a joint performance.  What made this seem especially strange was that what one thinks of as a romantic experience was taking place in the middle of the day.  Pat and I agreed it was all rather hokey – very much in the theme park vein – and we agreed we weren’t going to fork up the 42 Euros apiece to go on the optional gondola ride the following evening.   (Note: most of the folks who did go on it seemed to enjoy it enormously.)

The hundreds of jolly cruise folk decamped at last, taking with them the resort air they had foisted on the place, and almost immediately thereafter the PT group arrived.  Gianni greeted Pat and me with unmitigated joy – he had not lost two of his travelers on the very first day – and went to get us all registered.  Unfortunately, our rooms still weren’t ready, and wouldn’t be until about 3:30.  Some energetic folks took off to explore the neighborhood; Pat and I (and a number of other people) were just too tired.  Some collapsed into the elegant chairs and sofas in the lobby, and fussed with their electronic devices; I forked up 12 Euros for a coffee from the bar, and Pat and I sustained ourselves with that, and some pieces of chocolate she had tucked away in her purse. 



View from our room
When we did, finally, get our rooms, Pat collapsed onto the bed and announced she was done for the day.  I rested for a while, took a stimulating hot bath in the wonderfully long, old-fashioned bathtub – what a luxurious joy to be able to stretch out completely – got dressed, and set out to find one of the sandwich places mentioned in Rick Steve’s Italy.  I was going to get something for me, for now, and something for Pat, for when she came to.  But down in the lobby I met a group of people who were planning on making their way to a ristorante that had been recommended by Gianni.  I asked if I could join them and they said sure, the more the merrier. 

But that’s our next adventure.

2 comments:

RSDrew said...

Fantastic blogging, so entertaining and engrossing,

Melody said...

Thank you, kind sir.