From Venice with Love

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Saturday was a momentous occasion in Italian history. Was it an anniversary of a war of yesteryear? Establishment of a stable long-term government? The end of strikes? No. An Alitalia flight landed, gasp, 10 minutes early! And I was on it! Brilliant.

After swooping over what were probably the Austrian and Italian Alps, we banked softly south and shortly landed alongside the beautiful city of Venice. Our plane flew low over the water, and I watched the sailboats and gondolas float lazily out to sea. The airport revealed Venice’s primary oddity immediately—the taxi queue was a 5 minute walk to the banks of the water—and lined not by automobiles but boats. We arrived to mass of people primed for chaos with their bags and contradictory information about what boat went where. Luckily I am somewhat inured to these things and while at first a little irritated, I decided to just sit and anticipate whatever was going to happen next; I was getting to my apartment room one way or another and in no particular hurry. The day started at 430a.m in Prague, and I knew the afternoon would be spent in my room doing research for a marketing project next week. I am here for graduate school after all, as easy as that is to forget amidst the colorful, picturesque and antique-feeling homes and shops spliced by canals flowing, everywhichway. What was the hurry?

A boat arrived and a young Italian guy raced up and started shouting destinations and instructions to everyone and anyone who would listen. Feet shuffled and bags tipped, silenced only by more shouting and sudden wave-induced lurches. Miraculously, the arm-flailing, “no-problem!” laden-instructions that were, in fact, quite problematic, worked, and the shore cleared and the aged boat exploded to life and pulled away into the sun soaked water toward the Venetian coast.

Ours was the boat’s first destination, and we arrived on shore tired but intact, about 30 minutes after leaving the airport. Seagulls and pigeons might at first be mistaken for the most important inhabitants in Murano, the island where we are staying; but the little kids racing up and down the dock smiling, drenched in gelato melt-offs quickly dispensed with that notion. Immediately I sensed the neighborly feel of the place, and the relaxed persona of the inhabitants. Unlike the “Mister, come see my shop!” pleas of historic Prague, shopkeepers seemed content to sing to themselves and enjoy the goings-on of the day. Hand-blown glass seems to be the souvenir of choice along these waters, but I enjoyed drifting hypnotically toward the aroma of coffee, garlic, grilled seafood, pesto, and any number of other essentially indescribable delectables. For the record, it was just under 10 minutes before I was standing there, like a little kid, licking a large dollop of pistachio gelato that was melting down my cone and up my arms.

Directions in Italy are very high context in style and it took about 5 visits to strangers or shops to determine what was really meant by “Cross the second bridge, turn right, and walk 100 meters and you will see it on the left” since what that actually translates to is “Cross the second bridge after you pass the second bridge, turn roughly right by cutting diagonally across a square then walk 100 meters and you will see a tiny alley that couldn’t be an actually street, since two relatively normally proportioned people could not walk side by side there…and just of its left you will see a sign that is likely your building. It actually felt a little like a scavenger hunt, and I surprised myself—it was sort of fun to wander down these narrow streets and find my way. The city is large enough to support nonstop flights to New York, yet it reminded me of the way people would greet one another in the Ford Hopkins Drugstore in the town where I grew up. The kind of place where people still bought egg cream sodas and waited for their prescription to be filled by someone who was probably your neighbor or your neighbor’s neighbor. The little streets here resonate with “Chow!”…the sort of place where, to rip off from an old American TV show, one of my rare pieces of US pop culture that is “Cheers”, everyone knows your name.

Outside my window I can see people stringing up laundry, cats meandering along window sills and pawing at eagle-eyed crows and pigeons waiting for a breadcrumb handout. Just about everyone is busy in the garden, enjoying a smoke, laughing, or taking a walk down to the market for fresh greens or a gondola to Venice. These people know how to live.

A long afternoon and early evening of marketing research turned into a rather urgent hunger-induced scamper across the bridge to the strip of restaurants that dot the canal leading away from where we are staying. Restaurants close surprisingly early here—“get there before 8:45pm” were told, or the kitchen might close without out. I didn’t waste anytime in heeding this advice, and soon a plate of gnocchi al salmone, mozzarella and tomoto salad with unbelievably rich olive oil and perfect balsamic vinegar shone before me under the moonlight table. Washed down with a glass of Chianti, it might have been the perfect meal. But it was definitely the perfect night. After dinner we wandered down the now surprisingly deserted canal to the taxi pier and passed a couple dining on a baguette and a bottle of wine and were inspired to sit down a few hundred yards away and watch the lights of Venice dance on the sea.

We passed a few Italians lounging in their windows, drinking impossibly strong cups of espresso and telling boisterous stories to one another. With the picturesque canals, the colorful antique looking houses, classical music from the shops, and the salty, humid scent of the sea cutting the neighborhood air in half, I couldn’t help but feel I was wandering through a movie.

Morning was broken on Saturday by the sound of church bells ringing on all sides of the neighborhood. After a leisurely breakfast of bread and jam, some muesli, and a small glass of orange juice, it was back to the bus, er, boat station, which was about 20 minutes walk along the canal. Thirty-give minutes later, the waves crashing against our boat, now glimmering under the hot Venetian sun, we pulled alongside San Marco square, where thousands of tourists and locals alike shared the plaza with obscenely fat pigeons waddling from ice cream cone crumb to ice cream cone crumb. This being Sunday, it seemed that many of the local residents were out and about, fishing along the wharf, sharing wine and laughs on the seaside promenade, or hanging laundry to dry across the tiny alleyways that separate their apartment buildings.

We had our usual slice of pizza for lunch, saving for a feast on Monday, our last day, and waited in line to go inside St Marco Church so we could watch the city abuzz from above. From the top, we were face to face with the clock towers that fill the city with sound each hour, and had a magnificent view of the water. We watched the boats the boats set to see and arrive at the pier—gondolas, speed boats, and giant cruise liners competing for a relatively small space.

From there we explored Doge’s Palace, tapestries filled each room with history, and we walked through the secret passageways that connected the rooms. In the basement we explored the prison cells and walked the death march to the place where the gallows once held, as though less fortunate than us did so many years ago.

With what was left of the day we decided to wander through the alleyways of Venice, and wandering is really the only way to describe it. Though carefully marked, the alleys, which intersect with canals at every turn and serve as the “roads” of the town, are tiny, meandering, and begin and end abruptly at every turn. Throngs of people are everwhere, searching for that perfect trattoria or Murano glass in the ubiquitous glass shops that hug the canals. But for every packed alleyway there was a deserted alley with only a cat or a lone pigeon, and those were the fun ones for me. We got lost virtually every time we plotted a destination, and even the Google directions were printed to get to a recommended restaurant were wrong. Occasionally we saw lost Italians—if they couldn’t figure it out, how could we?! We walked literally for hours just exploring the alleys, nooks, and crannies of the city. It was awesome.

In the evening we took a public bus up and down the Grand Canal and we were impressed by the simple yet sometimes stately apartments that seem to hunch over the canals. We then searched for Harry’s Bar, a place my aunt and uncle recommended, but we arrived too late, and they were closed.

Monday, our last day, we decided to explore a new island, and took the public ferry over to Burano. At first glance, it seemed much like Murano—lots of little canals, pedestrian zones, and like everywhere, refreshingly, no cars! But this little island was super colorful and all the houses reflected beautifully in the cleaner-looking canals that weaved their way through the town. The town was alive, and although the shops were about the same, the people were noticeably friendlier and the food less expensive. Next time, stay in Burano. Having had only street slices of pizza and bread, cheese and Chianti for meals the first two days, we did as the Italians did on Monday afternoon and splurged on a three hour leisurely lunch, which began at 1pm. Spaghetti with mussels, olive oil, and basil; linguine with squid sauce; grilled sea bass in olive oil. A carafe of delicious white wine, and bread with balsamic vinegar and olive oil galore. I was stuffed. But it didn’t stop us from grabbing a cone stuffed with gelato on the way back to the ferry! Pistachio, hazelnut, and chocolate chip.

Finally, we took the ferry back to Murano, stuffed and nearly drunk, grabbed out things, and made the final voyage back to the airport. I’m now sitting in Venice airport, amazed that I just spent the weekend in Venice, that I am in graduate school, and that I did marketing research in Venice, Italy. Going into my final regular week of classes, I feel so fortunate for the opportunities I’ve had this semester—and I still have two more trips! While many of my classmates are taking a week long management seminar, I’ll be exploring the Caucasian mountains in Armenia and Georgia. More from Yerevan!

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Photos

A Burano Archway
I couldn't resist

Arriving La Italia
This Alitalia flight was...EARLY!

Inside Doge's palace
Time to brush up on some romance languages...

Yes
More Doge's palace. The place was awesome.

San Marco Square
Another View

Stopping on a bridge
Trying to figure out where we are...again!

Sometimes...
It was quiet enough to hear the water ripple against the oar as they made their way down the canal