On Venice

No one should write another chapter on Venice. Goodreads lists 308 books set in Venice, and that’s just full-length novels, not counting essays, travel logs by many famous and not so famous writers that have gone before. Those who have lived there, or have made it their home for a summer. Those who have experienced it as a resident, shopped at the fish market, the local produce stand, and chatted with neighbors while standing by a bar, cappuccino in hand.. But here I am, writing about a typical week-long tour of Venice. I did all the tourist things, ate at ridiculously-priced tourist cafes, shopped for kitschy souvenirs. I should stop. But it is my week in Venice. So there.

We went in winter. The week before Christmas to be exact. What stuck out in my memory of Venice was the mist. The water vapor that rolled in from the canal, the waterways, the ocean. You’ll be riding a vaporetto (a water bus that traversed the canal), shooting videos of palaces on either side, when suddenly, everything turns a thick, milky gray. The colors fade. The sky blends in with the air around you like a cloud. Is that a drizzle? No, there are no water drops. Just damp. You feel the chill and wet seep into your scarf, your jacket, your pants. Unlike the locals–were they locals though?--we remained at the prow of the boat, insisting on taking in the view, however obscured it was.

We watched the weather everyday. Rain was expected on two of the days we were there. Luckily, it never rained so hard that we needed an umbrella. We are from Seattle, we said. (Funny enough, everyone nodded with recognition when we mentioned that fact.) We are resilient to the weather, be it rain or cold. But one day the campanile was closed on account of visibility, so we had to change our plans.

There are no straight roads going anywhere. You cannot get to your destination “as the crow flies”. It is a series of zig zags, sometimes to go around a church, sometimes to find a bridge across a waterway, sometimes to cross a campo (small square, and there are lots of campos). Sometimes you backtrack because you missed the tiny alley so narrow you think it should not be given a name and cannot possibly be open to the public. We navigated everyday by Google Maps. When we did not, we got lost just walking between our apartment and San Marco–even though we must have traipsed through those cobblestoned paths dozens of times. Sometimes, I’d let my guard down and rely on my sense of direction, and we’d invariably wander into an unfamiliar neighborhood and end up at a deadend street, looking at the forlorn canal, unable to get to the other side.

The canal water of Venice is a murky turquoise color. I cannot tell you how it came to have that strange hue, whether naturally or artificially. It is neither a reflection of the sky, which is blue, nor the manifestation of algae, which would be green. It remains its mysterious self, a timeless all-encompassing entity around and underneath Venice, a constant lapping presence that divides and subdivides neighborhoods. It muffles sounds the way trees and sand dunes do.

What do I remember about the trip but the hundreds of photographs that tether me to frozen moments in time when we posed in front of some landmark or postcard scene you can easily find on Google or Getty Images? What still stands out after two weeks? What will stand out a year from now? Here are some bits and pieces that don’t come with the pictures.

There were many Chinese shopkeepers in Venice. My favorite clothing store was just steps away from our apartment. If I navigate correctly, I’d pass by it each time on our way to San Marco. There was always a Chinese lady behind the register, but not always the same one. I ducked into it because the store was always empty (maybe we were there during odd hours of the day, nine in the morning, or eight at night) and it had a nice display window. They had many cute clothes, but I did not try on many–being a bit uncomfortable trying out clothes in a boutique store as the sole customer. I did, though, just one day. While shedding my thick coat, scarf, extra layers of thermal shirt and pants, I could hear my husband chatting with the lady in Chinese. She was surprised we were Chinese at all. “I thought you were Japanese–you seem so polite.” I guess her encounters with mainlanders had not always been pleasant. (We had seen droves of Chinese tourists around the city. They always moved in droves, and you had to part for them to pass.) It was a nice little exchange. We learned how long she had lived in Venice–over twenty (or was it thirty?) years. I wondered how her children grew up? Where were all the schools? We never passed by any. We chatted with the Chinese storekeeper at a little leather bag shop as well. These leather bag shops were everywhere, all selling the same designs, probably sourced from the same Italian factories run by the same Chinese owners with laborers flown in from China. 

Just past the second bridge on our way to San Marco was a little grocery store called Despar. It’s just a little  bigger than a convenience store like 7-Eleven, with some fruit, vegetables, baked goods, etc. That’s where we picked up eggs by the half dozen (never refrigerated). The person at the checkout was also Chinese, but he spoke with a strange accent (Italian?). Each time I stood in line to pay for my purchase, I’d get flustered thinking of counting out the exact combination of coins and small bills I’d have to fish out from my coin purse and the many pockets on my person or handbag. Oh, why are we so awkward when we become tourists? Most of the time, I just laid out the change on the counter and let him pick out the right amount. It was faster that way. No pleasantries there. Just the simple “buongiorno” and “grazie”.

We were very diligent about trash. It is something you learn when staying at an AirBnB. To my surprise, our host Giulio did not actually speak English. All of our correspondences on What’s App were actually with his son, Roberto, whose command of English seemed adequate (maybe he was using a translator app). On the day we were checking in, Giulio, a frail, bent, older man showed us the apartment while we mimed at each other. One thing that really stuck out was on the subject of trash. With all the hand gestures and sound effects he was making, I got the sense this was something important to do on a daily basis. Later we found instructions in multiple languages in the apartment about recycling and trash disposal. We learned that trash collection was done everyday, and recycling, while also done everyday, focused on alternate categories, paper on odd days, glass and plastics on even days. This had us wondering what the daily collection was like? What would be the signal? Was there a protocol? What time exactly? Did we need to wait before going out for the day? Next day and everyday after that, I listened. It was not obvious and yet you know it very quickly. The sound of someone coming around the neighborhood pulling a large cart behind him and talking to the neighbors. Just like in my home on Thursdays we get used to the thundering sounds of trash bags dropped into the garbage truck, the thumps of plastic lids banging against the bins, and the rev of engine as the truck moves from house to house, in Venice, you hear a distant echo of someone hollering, the wheels of the cart rolling over the stones, and the polite exchanges between the collector and the neighbors. We learned very quickly to wait and hand him our small bag of daily trash. It was a very civilized, yet primitive affair. And it felt liberating not keeping around a great amount of trash for the week.

We followed the usual tourist itineraries but at half speed, partly because the days were shorter (and we are not early risers), also we had the entire week and did not want to rush. 

Day 1 (Sunday): 

We walked the Rialto bridge and did the Grand Canal cruise. To make the one-way ticket worthwhile (it costs 9 euros per person), we decided to walk all the way to the northern end of the canal near the train station, so we could get a nice, long ride back while taking a look at the Constitution Bridge. We set out for the twenty–or-so-minute walk through the streets of San Polo but soon learned that navigation by Google Maps in Venice was a tricky and inexact business. Hungry and a little tired, we ducked into a restaurant that was very much off the beaten path. In fact, there was no one at the Campo San Polo square on a Sunday morning, and the restaurant (Birraria La Corte) looked almost entirely hidden from view. But it turned out to be one of the most memorable meals we had in Venice. Once we stepped inside the restaurant, we were greeted by a surprisingly large space, with many alcoves and rooms. The atmosphere was warm, in temperature and decor, and in the way the waiters greeted us. We ordered three items on the menu, as I had read that one should always try to order at least a couple of courses per person, tagliatelle, octopus pizza, and short ribs. It turned out to be a mistake, as the portions were so large we had a hard time finishing. At the same time, we did not regret any of the dish, as they were so hearty and delectable that we could not fathom walking away leaving anything uneaten!!!

The Constitution Bridge, famously designed by Calatrava, turned out to be a bit of a disappointment. It had nothing of the airy and elegant flying buttresses and cables that he is famous for. It was just a simple arch (an indistinct gray in the misty distance) that spanned the mouth of the canal. We boarded the vaporetto and took our seats on the upper deck at the front of the boat, despite the cold and drizzle (and wet seats). By the time we got off at San Marco station, the fog had rolled in, engulfing us and all the surrounding islands in its mysterious aura. The beautiful Basilica Santa Maria della Salute was nothing but a hazy, floating mirage across the water. We strolled through the Royal Garden, past the large Christmas tree that dominated the promenade, past the piles of concrete pavers behind wired fences in front of the Doge Palace marking another restoration project, past the pushcarts loaded with hats, scarves, and other indistinct souvenirs in front of the basilica, past the pigeons and empty, upturned tables and chairs sitting forlorn in the bleak winter, and ended at Caffe Florian. A warm, busy, and happy refuge. It became our habit for the week–stopping for afternoon snacks and a drink somewhere in San Marco after a day of sightseeing. The place was busy. We were lucky to have gotten a table squashed amidst other tiny tables surrounded by tired tourists. The tables and chairs were very classy and elegant, so were the walls, which were decorated with beautiful candelabras and mirrors and wallpapers. The silver tray brought to us was glorious. Almost too large for the table, laden with coffee, tea in lovely china with the Florian logo, cakes decorated with sheets of chocolate and gold leaf that bore the Caffe Florian design, embossed napkins and pretty cards you’ll want to take home as souvenirs. It was an extravagant affair, and we were glad to have done it. But it was far from relaxing.

Day 2 (Monday)

When it comes to being a proper tourist, whether you have one day, three days, or seven, you need to make sure to get the essential, must-see sights out of the way before indulging in personal whims. Being a conscientious tourist–and I don’t mean ecotourism or anything righteous like that–I just mean wanting to do the “right thing” by Rick Steves and Fodor, we started Monday with a visit to St Mark’s Basilica. With it being winter on an early-ish Monday morning, there was hardly a line. We bought our tickets and followed the signs (and the flow of traffic) into the large and cool interior of the cathedral. Awed by the ceiling paintings and frescoes (much of which was too high up to appreciate with the naked eye), the beautiful and intricate floor tiles, each mosaic tells a different story from the others, we took lots of pictures while speaking in hushed tones and self-consciously tiptoeing back and forth through the choir, transept, and apse. We toured the museum in the upper story, admired the bronze horses that looked so realistic down to the sinews and veins on their straining faces, ducked out to the balcony where you can look down on the entire St Marks square. We lingered there and around the other side where you have a nice view of the Doge Palace and the water beyond.

Taking a break from grandeur, we ducked into some of the streets behind the square in search of an antique clothing store we had wanted to check out. We ate lunch in one of the many restaurants around San Marco. It was empty–too early for lunch I think. The waiter (Middle Eastern or Indian?) was very polite. The tables were set out with beautiful, one-of-a-kind Murano water glasses–as we came to expect from all restaurants in Venice. We had seafood pasta and risotto. Both were delightful, but after a while you come to expect that Italian food is just good food, no matter if it’s haute cuisine you pay two hundred euros for or a run-of-the-mill establishment owned by immigrants from another part of Europe or Asia.

Having rested, we forged on to Doge’s Palace, a massive building meant to awe, overwhelm, and intimidate anyone crossing its threshold. We went from room to room, each larger and grander than the other, each covered from wall to ceiling with paintings by Italian masters. The paintings were encased and separated by elaborate, gilded frames that were either built into the ceiling or deftly painted on as an illusion, one cannot tell which is which. I must admit, having been through many such European palaces including the Louvre, Versailles, El Prado, Belvedere, one can get somewhat jaded by the gold, the glitter, and the endless Renaissance art, each larger than life, each a masterpiece in its own right. You begin to take it for granted. This was the heart of Renaissance after all, where art flourished in abundance. In America, we would celebrate one of these wall-sized paintings and make it a monumental event and sell tickets and draw thousands of visitors. Here, it’s everywhere, and you can see it for free (almost).

After the grand rooms, we transitioned towards the dodgier side of the building, the courts where political prisoners were sentenced (still elaborate with painting and wood paneling, but more austere), the passage to the prisons just on the other side across the narrow ditch (they call it the Bridge of Sighs), the bare jail cells and dungeons with thick wood and iron doors.

With that, our homage to San Marco done, we retreated into Caffe Quadri, also a centuries-old cafe across from Caffe Florian on the other side of the square. It didn’t have the long line of people outside or the crowds inside like Florian. Neither did the wait staff seem as interested in having any customers at all. The overall feel was one of nonchalance (or was it disdain?). Still, the decor was lovely, and with it being much, much quieter, we were happy to settle into our seats and enjoy our afternoon refreshment.

Exhausted, we picked up some sandwiches on our way back and settled into our humble ground-floor apartment just off of Campo San Maria Formosa. Still jet lagged, we went to sleep and would invariably wake up at two in the morning.

Day 3 (Tuesday)

With the obligatory sights (the five-star, “if you have only one day…”  to-dos from guidebooks) out of the way, I thought we’d tackle the four-star destinations, keep it flexible, do more wandering around neighborhoods and more shopping. There were a few set reservations, however, on my agenda. Lunch at AMO, a terrace viewing atop Fondaco dei Tedeschi by the Rialto Bridge, and dinner at Ai Mercanti.

Since the viewing wasn’t until 11am, we wandered slowly through the shopping areas towards T Fondaco. Passing Campo san Bortolomio and probably the highest concentration of designer stores in Venice, we found many cute window displays and made a mental note to return to this place or that. When we finally got to the palace-turned shopping galleria T Fondaco, we were told the terrace was closed on account of the rain. It was disappointing, as we had high hopes of getting some panoramic views of the canal from there. With extra time to kill before lunch, we went down to AMO to grab some cappuccino. AMO is just an atrium cafe at the base of T Fondaco, strewn with whimsical cushioned sofas and artsy pillows. After the coffee, with the day being so short, we decided to cancel our lunch plans and continue on our journey. 

While strolling the Rialto Bridge, We ducked into a men’s clothing store. Forty-five minutes later, we walked away with a nice blue jacket. It was very well made and not terribly expensive. On the other side of the canal, we strolled by the famous outdoor fish market, which was empty, it being past midday. All the tables were covered with tarp. The day’s fishy-smelling trash gathered in big bags by the water, waiting for pickup by the garbage barge. It looked just like another day in a normal Italian city. No tourists. Nothing to look at.

We were heading towards Basilica S.Maria Gloriosa dei Frari. At this point, we were very conscious of conserving energy and minimizing the distance our feet would have to cover. One thing you learn very quickly is how much pounding your feet have to do on those cobblestones. Unlike dirt, gravel, or even cement, cobblestones were hard and uneven, giving no cushioning of any sort. Furthermore, it was rainy and cold. Just a drizzle, but enough to dampen one’s spirits. We thought about going back to Birraria for lunch but did not have the presence of mind to take a detour (or did we just get lost?). After what felt like a long time, we made it to the Frari–but not before we stopped by Muro Frari just across the bridge for some sustenance. The restaurant greeted us with a warm fire, which immediately cheered us. We had steak and branzino en papillote.

On this rainy Tuesday, the Frari church was nearly empty. One was free to linger, to contemplate, to gaze up at the paintings by Titian, or pay tribute to the artist’s stately tomb, along with memorials to Canova and other important personages of Venice over the centuries. Afterwards, we wandered into Scuola San Rocco, which held another impressive collection of paintings and sculptures and ceilings–can I refer to entire ceilings covered with paintings separated by gilt frames as another form of art in itself? We took the vaporetto back to Rialto (a short, one-stop ride that cost us 9 euros each) as we were too tired to walk. We went in search of the shoe store (Bata) we had passed earlier in the day. There I found my favorite pair of black boots.

That evening we had one of the most delightful dinners during our trip. Ai Mercanti was unpretentious and yet every bit meticulous in its service and food presentation. We each picked a three-course meal, themed around seafood, of course. Octopus with a winter-themed mix of flavors and garnishes. Cod in a mild Thai-curry soup. My favorite was an exquisite Mediterranean dessert built with pureed sweet potatoes served with fruit compote, honey, and cream.

Our palate and stomach satisfied, we strolled the short distance back to our apartment but managed to get lost again, taking an unplanned detour into yet another unfamiliar neighborhood, finally pulling up Google Maps, having given up all pretenses that we were, on the third day after our arrival, anything but a couple of bumbling tourists. Still, that sensation of romance of wandering in quiet, deserted Venetian streets after dark cannot be easily described. All the shops were closed. We would stand in front of a mask workshop gawking at the assemblage of unique, elaborately decorated masks in the display window, each one a fragile objet d’art you’d hang on a wall and show off to your friends. Outside of designer boutiques, we’d admire and discuss the stylish handbags and clothes which were well beyond our budget. While most streets were dimly lit by a few street lights, some thoroughfares were canopied by criss-crossing Christmas lights, some even with dangling orbs or stars to light the way. At night the churches took on a maternal, homey aura. Their imposing proportions veiled by the dark, they gave off a warm light guiding all passersby. That’s the time I love Venice the most.

To be continued...