Italy Trip, Part 3: Venice

Us, in front of St. Marks

Ah, Venice, land of canals and waterways.
We knew it would be cool, but we still weren't prepared for it. There was water, dotted with small islands, as far as we could see from both sides of the train as we sped in on a narrow strip of track. Walking from the train station to the hotel, we hefted our suitcases over six short bridges and three long ones, until we regretted every Florentine purchase. Road signs were rather easy to read as you were generally standing right beneath them. Still, shoulder-width, labyrinthine walkways between rows of tall buildings makes for a claustrophobic evening stroll. At least until you get used to it.

The Doge's Palace, as much as I could get in without tourist heads.


St. Marks' square


On the boat to Murano


Later that day, miserably hot and hungry.

Our first morning started with a boat trip to Murano, the island of glassblowers. Supposedly. We found glassware aplenty, but no glassblowers gamboled about. Disappointing, though in hindsight, nothing could've made the humid, 90+ weather entirely unbearable faster than the glazing heat of a fire pit. After three hours of circling the island's streets, eyeing gorgeous and very dear chandeliers, I had my trip meltdown. I was starved. I was thirsty. I was oh-so-stickily hot. Everywhere we stopped was thronged with people. I needed a tiny moment of peace. And perhaps some gelato. At the weirdest time, we found a hidden spot, an embarrassment, I'm sure. The Italian equivalent of a food court. To me, salvation. I'm sorry to say that this food court is where George and I ate our best pizza in Italy, plus gelato. If I wasn't feeling guilty already about my tantrum, the seasick seventh grader who vomited over the edge of the ferry dock in front of his laughing classmates put me to shame. We returned to our hotel room and repositioned the single fan, no AC here folks, in front of ourselves, stripped, on the bed. This is when I discovered I had, in fact, suffered from heat stroke. All the boat trips — and there were four involved — had us standing, exposed to the sun. The other choice was to sit in an airless, inside compartment on plastic seats, praying for the slightest breeze. We had stood outside, of course, taking photos of the Venetian lagoons and ourselves. My itchy, sun-allergic skin plagued me the rest of the trip.

From the Rialto looking north, our hotel is the small, orangish building dead center.


Morning view from the Rialto looking south

The last day of our stay, I visited the Rialto Market, where the vendors unload their wares from boats on the canal. I saw some strange-looking fish, de-inked octupi and inside-out eels. Jealously I stood, photographing, my eyes widening at the fabulous produce I wished I could cart with me across the bridges to Milan. For our train ride, I requested a mix of beautiful, plump black and green olives on display. The man was insulted that I would dare to mingle the Spanish variety with the Italian, and he put them, green and black together, in separate bags by country. I was later glad that he did so, because we found we liked the Spanish slightly better, and George despised the Italian black olives.

One corner of the Rialto market — the building to the rear is the fish market.
Spanning several large blocks, this was the largest market I've ever seen.


One of the dozen ways you could buy pre-cut artichokes.


Aren't they pretty? I just love tomatoes.


Watching the sun set from the pier.

We hid from tourists here. It was the first time we felt like hiding, because the streets are so tiny that meeting three people in an alley means you all have to step aside at some point. The last day, we meandered to St. Mark's square again to walk through the church, at least until we realized that the line to get in wrapped around the palace and over a bridge to the pier, all in full 90º sunshine. We bypassed that visit in favor of a more relaxing tour of our own. Peggy Guggenheim's museum offered a little solace and a beautiful walk through less clogged streets, below.

Scenic byway


And another.



On the Rialto Bridge, again.


An Italian bakery window


The best focaccia I have ever had in my life.

Determined to leave Italy with a stash of parmesan cheese at the very least, I stood in a long line outside a teensy cheese store, where I used my nicest pointing finger to show what I wanted and how much — very big. My generous wedge of parmesan, alongside a sliver of pecorino, passed customs and has been a great friend to me. On the way back to nab our luggage, I passed the bakery, above, where I'd been drooling over the focaccia as we passed it daily. Thick with olives and fluffy as a cloud, it was the best thing ever.

We got breakfast every day in our room on a lovely white tray with
apricot croissants and rolls, accompanied by the best coffee I've ever had.
If the hotel owner had spoken English, I'd have bribed him for the details.

Venice had fewer signature foods, though loads of weird fish gave you the stink eye from a display table outside the restaurants. George had spaghetti with clams, which he pronounced to be delicious. Most of our meals were good, but not entirely memorable, except for our food court pizza. But we kept getting random things here and there that were delicious, like our morning coffee and a slice of bread. We felt sure we were missing the true Venetian culinary experience, but everything about the city was so touristy that we didn't know where to go.

Last up: Milan and a surprise side trip to Switzerland

Note: I do not keep saying "the best ever" lightly. It's completely serious. It saddens me that I can't recreate these treasures, especially the coffee, but I'm delighted to have even had them once. Sigh.