From the unfortunate to the sublime

O.K., so I missed the walking tour of the Basilica, the Doge’s Palace, and the prison behind it.  I was disappointed, but not crushed, especially after Pat collapsed into the room, after what had been a very long day for her, and informed me that the guide, who was “very knowledgeable,” gave them detailed information on every picture hanging on every wall.  I would soon have been  swooning with boredom.  I like a little history with my tours, but not so much that I can’t properly assimilate it.  I figure I can always read up on the history of this that or the other person/political situation/work of art if I’m sufficiently interested.  But to be force-fed bushels of information while I’m trying to take in, visually, whatever we’re passing: no, not for me.  I was to feel the same way when we visited the Accademia Gallery in Florence, and the local guide spent 45 minutes talking about the sculpture of David (after spending 15 minutes on the unfinished Slaves, which stand in the gallery that leads to David) .  Mind you, David is indeed an incredible work of art – and speaking strictly as a woman, if the guy also had a brain and a sense of humor, he’d make a really good Significant Other – but 45 minutes is definitely overkill, for people who are not art students.  While the others in the group remained politely in thrall to the guide, I wandered off and got to see three different, fascinating parts of the museum, which the others missed because when the David talk ended, we were hustled out to the gift shop, and that was that.

But to return to Venice:  what did I do instead of the walking tour?  Exactly what I had wanted to do that morning: explore.  First I grabbed another sandwich from a little place on the Street of Sandwich Makers (actually Calle de le Rasse) recommended by the irreplaceable Rick Steves.  I went to the same place I had gone to the evening before when getting a sandwich for Pat – I hope this eases the minds of those of you who thought I had completely forgotten about my friend while enjoying my dinner out -- and one for me, for later, when I would inevitable be hungry again.  I was hoping the same pretty, sweet-smiling young man would be there, but alas, this time it was an old man and his wife.  I whipped out one of the few Italian phrases I’d had the opportunity to use since coming to Italy – Un panino al fromaggio e prosciutto, per favore – and the old man took one of those waiting in the display case and plopped it into the waffle-iron-like toaster.  I also ordered “un Coca-Cola Lite” which I had learned, as in France, was the way to get a Diet Coke.  Then I moved as fast as I could, through the narrow passages that led out to that vast San Marco Square, which I had to get across, all the time painfully aware of how desperately I needed to use the bathroom (had needed to go since my second trip to San Giorgio, but I was damned if I would use that paperless toilet again), and there were still a few blocks to go beyond the square.   I was never so glad to see anyplace as the Hotel Europa & Regina, and made a second-base dive for the elegant restroom off the Reception area, rather than try to make it up to our room.

Anyway, after a rest of about an hour, and another rejuvenating bath, I set out on my walk.  Followed the flow of tourists down Calle Larga, around corners, along more narrow alley-like streets lined with shops and small hotels, which I was glad I wasn’t staying in. since they would undoubtedly be noisy, right over the street as they were.  Was enchanted when I paused at a very small bridge crossing a very narrow canal, and a glance to the left showed me a woman walking briskly along the narrow walkway to her back door.  Frequently at a bridge you find these walkways, usually running just a short way down the canal; when they end, it is just buildings, with the water lapping at them.

 Finally came out into the small square with a big name, Campo Santa Maria Zobenigo. The little church of the same name had signs out front advertising a display of Vivaldi-era music and instruments, so I went inside and spent a few minutes gazing at exquisitely beautiful violins and mandolins from the 1600s, the 1700s.  There was also a sign advertising a concert that night that would include Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.  Oh, my god, a chance to hear one of my favorite pieces in the city where it was written.  But alas, the church where the concert was to be held was not this church, and I had no idea where la chiesa di San Vidal was located.  However, I kept walking, eventually reaching a much larger square (like many “squares” it’s actually a rectangle) and at the far end of it what should I find but…the church of San Vidal.  I went inside and asked if there might possibly be any tickets left, were I to show up there at nine o’clock that night.  The woman said yes. “Not a large group, no, but one person, I think, yes.”  Hmmm…

I kept walking, across the nearby Accademia Bridge – from which I took the two pictures in an earlier posting – past the Accademia Gallery, and deep into the area called Dorsoduro.  And here I was able to see regular folks walking into their regular apartment buildings, regular old folks sitting in virtually deserted squares; I was able to get the smallest glimpse of “real” Venice.  I noticed a number of roof gardens, and greenery tumbling over walls – people will try to put a little green into their lives, wherever they may live.

Residential Street in Venice





Accademia Bridge



That evening, I did go with the group to the restaurant where we were to be treated to dinner.  But I took the fact that it was at the other end of Campo Santa Maria Zobenigo – a mere brisk eight minute walk from the church of San Vidal – as a significant, and rather exciting, sign.  And at ten of nine, after plowing my way through the appetizer, much too much pasta (which was usually the case), and an insipid salad, I made the decision.  I slipped away, made the brisk walk to the church, got one of the last seats in the place (at the reduco price of 21 Euros – absolutely the only positive aspect to creeping old age is senior discounts), and spent one of the most sublime hours of my trip, listening to Vivaldi – Venice’s favorite native son -- in a place, and fashion, that could have seen just such a concert in Vivaldi’s time.  The group playing, Interpreti Venziani, played with power, even exuberance (indeed, the cello player, who was very good, was also hard to watch, because he seemed to be having mini-seizures of ecstasy). 

What can I say, I was completely, completely happy.

The best laid plans...

Alas, the first half of our only full day in Venice (definitely not enough time allotted for that city!) was essentially a loss for me. I was not interested in the morning’s planned excursion, which involved going to Murano to watch the glassblower demonstration, and then being force-marched through the gift shop afterwards. What I wanted to do was soak up as much of the city of Venice as I could, preferably those parts away from the center of tourist activity. But Gianni, who was perfectly willing to accept this streak of independence on my part, said I should meet them at the foot of the two columns that stand at the end of the Piazzetta, the wide walkway that leads from San Marco Square to the embankment at the water’s edge, between 10:30 and 10:45. This was so I could join them for the walking tour through the Basilica of San Marco, the Doge Palazzo, which is right next door, and the prison that stands behind the ducal palace, and is reached by the ironically beautiful Bridge of Sighs. This was an excursion I was definitely interested in.


Bridge of Sighs

However, a perusal of the maps in Rick Steve’s Italy suggested that it was highly unlikely that I would be able to walk far enough to reach the more genuinely residential areas, and get all the way back to the far end of the Piazzetta in time.

So I came up with a Plan B: visit San Giorgio Maggiore, the church that stands on the small island of the same name, directly across the lagoon from the Piazzetta. Both Rick Steves and other sources rave about the view to be had from the top of the bell tower there. And I would have to take a “public bus,” i.e., a vaporetto, to get there, which I looked upon as an adventure in itself. Whenever I visit a place, I like taking public transport, because it’s an opportunity to both rub elbows with “real” people, as opposed to your fellow tourists, and to get a taste of real, or perhaps I should say ordinary, life.

This “bus” had a cabin area with double rows of seats, just like on a regular bus, but many people choose to stand in the open area up front.

The church with its bell tower makes an impressive sight from the main part of Venice – you can see it in the background of the picture I took from our hotel window – but a closer view reveals a façade that I would call “handsome” rather than beautiful. It made me think of a flattened Greek temple. In fact, it made me think of a false front, like on a movie set. I was also not particularly impressed with the interior, though commenters on Trip Advisor rave about it. The fact that it was a grey day, and there was no interior lighting to brighten things up, may have contributed to my finding the place large, cool (n the literal sense of the word), peaceful, but rather austere. As at other churches I visited in Italy (a total of seven) I was struck by the absence of beautiful stained glass windows. But I was quite taken with the choir, tucked behind the main alter, with it’s beautifully carved dark wood seats.

However, time was of the essence, so I followed the signs to where you plunk down your 6 Euros, in order to take the tiny elevator (limit, 6 passengers) to the lookout at the top of the bell tower. First I had to make a stop in the nearby toilet, only to discover there was no paper. And I had given Patricia, who was having trouble with the sniffles, the little packet of tissues that I had long ago learned it was important to have on you for just such contingencies as I now faced. Damn.

The view from the bell tower is indeed nice, though I couldn’t help wishing the sun were shining, to brighten things up a bit. And the main island of the city is really too far away for you to be able to see things in detail (and I couldn’t figure out how to make my camera zoom in – aachhh!). What I found best about the view was how you could see all the islands, spread out in the lagoon. That, and the boat traffic, which I delighted in.


Cloister and nearby island from bell tower

What I think I’d have to say is that San Giorgio Maggiore is a nice spot to visit if you are spending several days in Venice – plenty of time to see everything else – and you feel like getting away from the crowds.

For ye gods, the crowds. I had found them dismaying when I was making my way to the embankment to catch the vaporetto – such a difference from the evening before! -- and they were even worse when I went back, to wait at the foot of one of the San Marco columns for the PT group. I was surrounded by hundreds of other groups, chattering away in French, in German, in Japanese, in flat, loud American. When they are on the move they are often preceded by their guide holding aloft a glove-like hand atop a tall pole (which is not a bad idea – it is very easy to lose sight of your group).

People were waiting in excruciatingly long lines, to get into the ducal palace, the basilica. And the sun had finally decided to come out so it was, abruptly, HOT. And naturally (naturally, if you know me) I had left my sun glasses back at the church. These were wonderful glasses that I’d had for only a couple of weeks, that fit over my regular glasses, sort of like goggles. So there I am, hiding out in the skinny bit of shade provided by the column I was standing beside, squinting out into the millions of people, trying to spot somebody from the PT group. Not having much fun.

I waited for 45 minutes, and finally gave up, decided they must have been there earlier (I’d arrived at 10:45), and I’d missed them. (NB: They apparently arrived seconds after I left.) I decided to go back to the church to look for my glasses – I really hated to lose those glasses. I also hated to plunk down another 6.5 Euros for a ticket, so bypassed the ticket booth and just got in the line waiting for the boat, clutching my already-used ticket atop the guide book I carried, fervently hoping no one would ask to see it, as no one had on my first trip (and no one did). The line was clogged with young, giggling school kids with backpacks, obviously on a field trip. I swear school kids are the same everywhere…

And no, of course they didn’t have my sunglasses at the counter where you get your ticket for the bell tower, nor were they up in the now-horrendously crowed bell tower, that the folks downstairs kindly let me go back up to, for free. Indeed, it was so crowded up there it took me 15 minutes to inch my way back onto the elevator, and I had to cheat – stepped onto an already full elevator (6 people), murmuring “Pas de problem,” as the doors closed. I just wanted to go home! So I did. (And things did get better.)

Our night on the town

When you step out the official “front” door of Hotel Europa & Regina, you’re in a courtyard completely surrounded by buildings, all maybe three of four stories high. If you walk to the far corner of the courtyard, you find that there is a little passage between buildings. You follow it around a couple of corners, and out to where there is a “nest” of gondolas, young men lounging in them, waiting for customers. They are gathered at one of the little stone bridges that crosses the smaller canals.

If you turn left at the bridge you are on Calle Larga, a relatively wide, pedestrians-only street, (but note that Calle means ‘narrow street’) lined with shops, and including two banks, both of which have ATMs that got heavy use from the Perillo Tours (PT) group. At the ATMs you do have to make a point of switching languages, as I was later informed by Patricia, who had failed to do so (didn’t notice the button where you could do that), and so was trying to fumble her way through obtaining money, in Italian.

The other thing that Calle Larga has is a number of very black young men with clutches of large, fancy handbags – knockoffs of famous-brand names, I later learned – that they are hawking. You actually see these guys everywhere, and I couldn’t help wondering if they were some of the thousands of Africans who have fled to Italy over the past few years. Later learned that they are exactly that, and that the police vacillate between harassing them, for harassing the tourists, and turning a blind eye. It certainly is important to just keep walking when they approach you, not make eye contact, etc., not because they’re dangerous, but because otherwise they won’t leave you alone. I admit to feeling sorry for them, thinking what a wretched way to try to make a living this was, but I reckon it’s better than begging.



San Moise, with tourists

If you turn right at the little stone bridge, what you’re looking at is the very small, incredibly ornate church of San Moise (and who, I wondered, was Saint Moise?), sitting in its own little Campo, or Square. This was the first of many, many churches I was to encounter in Italy, and easily sported the greatest amount of elaborate carving. It almost seemed like a toy church, sitting in its little toy square.  A couple of blocks down the calle that starts beside the church, and continues past shop after shop selling (in particular) leather handbags, sometimes outrageous shoes, and sleek, elegant, no doubt wildly expensive clothes, you finally pass through an archway, and are looking out at famous San Marco Square.

Yes, it is huge. The size, along with all those columns marching down either side, supporting the arches that support the buildings, made me think of a military parade ground. We were seeing it at the perfect time: twilight when the thousands of tourists had departed, either back to their cruise ships, or their cheaper housing on the mainland, or just back to their hotel to rest and get ready for dinner. There were still people in the square, feeding the pigeons (lots of pigeons), taking pictures, and just strolling, that famous Italian pastime. Most of the cafes that line the square have live music of an evening: one of them was already in full voice, playing chamber music to a bunch of thus-far empty chairs and tables.


San Marco Square

My first impression of the Basilica of San Marco, at the opposite end of the square, was that it was rather squat, compared to all the soaring Gothic cathedrals I’ve seen in England and France. And all those domes, with their onion tops – the giant center one, the two handmaidens – as well as all the fat, almost dome-like arches that serve as entrances, and the fat, curved dormers that march along the front balcony – it all gives an exotic, Eastern look to the place. Naturally, as Fate would have it, there was scaffolding covering half of the façade, a photo ruiner if there ever was one. But I took a picture anyway.


Basilica of San Marco, Camponile on the right

 Our little group made its way under the “big clock” per Gianni’s instructions, and found ourselves in a narrow lane crowded with tiny shops selling carnival masks, sandwiches, gelato, and every kind of souvenir you could imagine. I seemed to be the only one who recalled Gianni saying we should “turn left” at some point. A glance down the first left didn’t produce anything promising, but at the end of the lane, where you had to turn either left or right, a glance to the left, just across a tiny bridge that spanned a tiny canal, was a tiny ristorante, Anima Bella. We’d found it!!

And it turned out to be perfect. Two good-natured, very Italian women working culinary miracles behind a half wall. They saved us a lot of time and confusion by announcing briskly that there was “only pasta,” and then giving us a choice of kind. This made dinner a far less painstaking affair than other dinners we were to have. For example, the following evening, when we were treated to dinner by PT, it took almost three hours to plough our way through all the separate courses -- appetizer, pasta, salad, main course, desert. This is far too long a time for me to maintain my interest, and involves far too much food. (And the food was mediocre, to boot!)

But here at Anima Bella the pasta with seafood that I ordered was excellent (the seafood turned out be to large shrimp, complete with legs and exoskeleton -- dining in Greece had taught me to expect this – you do not get denuded shrimp); the three ladies who ordered tortellini declared it superb; Bud, the all-but-silent husband of the much more voluble Bonnie, couldn’t decide, and was finally talked into “pasta with sausage and sweet peppers,” which turned out to be, basically, our spaghetti with meat sauce. He utterly cleaned his plate, and declared it “not bad.” And Walt, the oldest member of the PT group, a sweet, funny man, was the only one who went off the grid, and ordered antipasto, which produced a marvelous array of cold cuts, olives and cheese.

This was certainly one of the more enjoyable experiences of the trip, a cheerful, getting-to-know-one-another stroll to the restaurant, with a first, very impressive view of San Marco Square along the way, then a tasty dinner, pleasantly lubricated with just the right amount of wine, plenty of conversation, and laughter. Can’t beat that.



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 17^th 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.

Venezia

Venice was enchanting.  I’d live there in a heartbeat. No traffic!  I personally consider the automobile the scourge of modern-day urban living, and here is a city without the automobile! 

I have a thing about islands anyway, as evidenced by my having spent six weeks living on Santorini, three months on the Ile d’Yeu, off the west coast of France, and on the Isle of Mull, off the west coast of Scotland.  For that matter, would love to be able to live on one of the many islands off the coast of Maine.  What’s different about Venice, as compared with all those other, and most other, islands, is that it is all one city.  Although really that city is made up of not just one island, but a total of 100 tiny islands.  Every time you cross one of the many, many little, and several large, bridges, you are crossing from one island to another.  There are also several larger islands in the lagoon, that are also visited by tourists: Murano, famous for its glassblowers, Burano, ditto for its lace,  Torcello, which served as the original settlement of Italians seeking refuge from the barbarian invasions of the 5^th and 6^th centuries, and now is virtually deserted, and San Giorgio Maggiore, directly across the lagoon from San Marco Square, and famous for the view to be had from the bell tower of its cool, peaceful church.

But let’s take it from my first view of the city, when Pat and I took an incredibly expensive (110 Euros, or about $143!) water taxi from the airport, which is on the mainland, to our hotel.  We were supposed to be provided with free transport by Perillo Tours (PT), if we were around at the 9 a.m., 11 a.m. or 1 p.m. transport times.  According to the instruction sheet we had received from PT, if we missed these pick-up times, it was up to us to get ourselves to the hotel.  Well, our connecting flight from Rome to Venice was late, setting down at 11, so obviously we had missed that pick-up time.  By the time we got our luggage it was close to 12.  We were both very tired from our sleepless overnight flight from Boston, and I saw no point in our hanging around the airport for an hour, just for a free ride.  While waiting for our baggage to show up I had spoken briefly with the female half of the only other Perillo couple we had thus far encountered, wanting to know if they would be interested in sharing a water taxi.  “Kelly” (red-haired, sassy, works as a physician’s assistant; she and her husband look about 25, but have been married 10 years with two kids so are presumably closer to 30) said they’d probably wait for the tour pick-up.  By the time the bags appeared she had disappeared, so Patricia and I  made our way out to the counter where you could purchase tickets for the water taxis.

Later I had to acknowledge that it was a shame we had lost track of the young couple from Kentucky, since that steep fare covered up to four people.  Splitting that $143 would have been nice.   But I also have to admit that, at the time, I really didn’t care.  I loved the very idea of taking a boat from the airport to the door of my hotel, loved the swift, sometimes thump/thump/THUMP careening through the water, the cool air on my face (it was a pale gray day; rain was forecast), a polite, brawny young man at the wheel, boats speeding past, going the other way, or trailing out ahead of us, behind us – a regular highway of boat traffic.  And gradually, as we moved down the wide lagoon, Venice proper took shape before us.  No tall buildings – only the tall, narrow, bell towers at San Marco Square, and San Giorgio Maggiore – but rather cheek-by-jowl buildings of four or five stories, mostly beige, pale yellow, light brown, but also pink, a brighter yellow, even aqua.  As our driver slowed the boat and we turned into a canal, we were passing just a few feet on either side from these buildings – people’s homes! – with the water lapping at the walls, slopping over the tiny step to be seen at some back doors. We glided under low stone bridges that curved above our heads, and finally turned out into what I knew must be the Grand Canal.  The buildings on either side were much grander than those we had seen in the “side” canal, often with a large centered balcony on an upper floor, where the family back in the good ol’ days (1600s, 1700s) could have gathered to watch whatever to-do was taking place on the canal.

Which was currently full of boat traffic – besides the little speed boats like ours (would hold six comfortably in the little covered “cabin” where Pat and I sat), there were the long white vaporetti , or public buses, an astounding number of gondolas, being steered by the young men in their black and white striped shirts, and a number of what I came to think of as truck boats, i.e, boats transporting goods that would ordinarily be transported by truck.  For example, on the morning we left, we watched from the small terrace of our hotel as a winch was used to lift bins of the hotel’s dirty linen from the dock into a boat, obviously to be taken off to be cleaned.  

Grand Canal from the Accademia Bridge







 

 

Looking in the other direction

 

 



There were tourists everywhere – in the boats, filling the small terraces of the cafes that fronted the canal, crowded onto the famous Rialto Bridge, that we passed under, then the rather odd Accademia Bridge, which looks like a graduate student’s geometric project, surging along the occasional narrow walkways that ran beside the canal for a short distance.  I couldn’t help exclaiming at one point, “It looks like a theme park!”  Because it was so unreal, that this could be a real place – and it was packed with tourists!

Finally, exactly at the point where the Grand Canal opens out into the lagoon, we pulled up to the dock of the Westin Hotel Europa e Regina.  We had reached our first home-away-from-home.