Venice

 

"It is the city of mirrors, the city of mirages, at once solid and liquid, at once air and stone."

--Erica Jong

It’s amazing to think that the enormous marble churches, the grand palaces and the magnificent piazzas of Venice sit on what was once just a bunch of muddy islands in a big lagoon. But back around 600 AD the original settlers (fleeing the mainland invaders) were determined to build a city here, so they came up with a “petrified forest” approach to construction: long wood poles were driven straight down into the muddy ground, far enough to hit firm earth, eventually creating rows and rows of closely packed pilings. The wood didn’t rot, but instead (without exposure to air) became stronger and stronger over time, like stone. Wood cross beams were laid on top of the pilings, and then a water-resistant layer of marble. Finally, on top of that layered foundation they could begin to begin to build their city.
Venice actually consists of 117 bodies of land, connected by more than 400 bridges over its 150 canals, and I’m guessing that we’ve walked about half of it since we arrived a few weeks ago.
The Grand Canal is like a busy, bouncy main street, cutting through the center of the city. It’s alive with water buses, water taxis, ferries, gondole, fire/police boats, ambulance boats and boats that haul every kind of cargo.
We’re staying in the area called San Polo, the smallest of the six “sestieri” (districts) of Venice. It’s one of the oldest parts of Venice (9th century) and connects to the right bank of the city by the Rialto Bridge. We’re steps away from the famous Rialto Market, Venice’s main outdoor market since 1097. It’s an almost overwhelming array of fruit, vegetables and fish and it’s open almost every day, so we go there a LOT.
We were lucky enough to find a flat in a beautiful old structure called the Palazzo Albrizzi. Historically, the palazzo served as warehouse and business premises, as well as a family home, and its design evolved to meet the needs of a city without roads.
Palazzo Albrizzi is typical in its position, with one side facing a canal and the other (landward) side facing a small square called the Campo Albrizzi. The canal side of the palazzi are generally more architecturally decorative because most of the action (visitors, business transactions) took place on the canals. The landward side of the palazzo is generally more architecturally subdued.
Most palazzos were built with 3 or 4 levels, with the family housed on the upper levels to keep them clean and safe, away from the canal.
The ground floor of our Palazzo Albrizzi has a high ceiling (20’), rough brick walls, thick tile slab floor, sturdy columns, archways, and two enormous wood doors, one accessing the Campo and the other, the canal. In the center, there is a wide stone staircase rising in a cylindrical space open to the sky. At the base of the staircase is an old well. Originally, the ground floor housed the kitchen (for access to water) as well as storerooms, offices and other rooms relating to trade and business.
The next floor up is called the “piano nobile” (noble floor) and was often lavishly decorated to entertain visitors, while the upper floors were used to house the family. The servants were housed in the attic rooms, which often had a separate, sometimes external staircase access.
Our flat is on the top floor, with big arched windows that look across a canal to a neighboring palazzo, but also straight down to a canal. Also out those windows is our clothes line, which we rarely use since a simple mistake of a misplaced clothespin spells certain death for clothing. The canal is narrow, and without much traffic, but we can look down and see the occasional boat or gondola pass by. Often we hear the gondoliers before we see them, because (no doubt for extra tips) they pass by our windows singing opera at the top of their lungs, the notes echoing off the canyon-like like walls of the two buildings. The gondoliers balance gracefully at the stern of their sleek black boats, with a long paddle slowly cutting through the water and wearing their traditional striped shirts.
Our apartment is spacious, well-equipped and charming. The furniture is “Venetian vintage”—pompous, yet accessible in a cushy, threadbare kind of way. The kitchen is long and narrow, with 2 ancient marble-topped tables and a marble countertop. The high ceilings are decoratively painted on a swirly-patterned plaster relief. The marble floors throughout the flat are so cold that we finally broke down and bought dainty little Venetian slippers.
Of course, we also had to buy tall rubber rain boots, for little did we know that from October through January, Venice experiences something called “Aqua Alta” (high water).
Under normal conditions, the water levels in the canals rise and fall slightly with the tide, acting as a sort of necessary flushing mechanism for the city, because without the constant motion of the incoming and outgoing tide, the water would stagnate. But at this time of year, the tidal waters naturally rise higher, submerging parts of the city. Alarm posts are stationed throughout Venice which project a loud siren followed by a series of beeps (up to 3) indicating how high the water is expected to get. One beep means standard rubber boots; two beeps mean hip waders, and three beeps mean stay put.
We were excited by all this in the same way that we are excited about snowdays in Portland: nature is coming for an exciting visit, and it’s time for an outdoor adventure. Tourists complain the worst (the ones without rubber boots) and go to great lengths to stay dry--sometimes tying plastic bags over their shoes and lower legs, but sometimes throwing caution to the wind and taking off their shoes altogether, rolling up their pants and walking barefoot through the mucky water. Venetians, of course, are accustomed to the acqua alta, and see it as a minor inconvenience. The high water only lasts a few hours, and unless it’s a very high tide, only the lowest areas of the city are under water. One especially low area is Piazza San Marco, where elevated “passarelle” (raised wooden walkways) are set up to help tourists get from one side to the other.
One morning while making coffee, I heard the warning sirens outside. I stopped and listened….was that 2 beeps or 3? Jeff had already rushed out of the house (without his boots) in the same excited way he does before a team bike ride back home. An hour or so later he called to tell us that he was surrounded by water in a nearby campo and asked if we’d please deliver his boots. So Jenna and I went out for a little wade at the peak of acqua alta. At the base of the staircase, we found the entire ground floor of our Palazzo Albrizzi under several inches of water. When we went outside, we saw that the entire campo was under water. After getting Jeff appropriate footwear, we waded through submerged alleys to the Grand Canal, which was lapping at the front doors of adjacent palazzi. During the highest tides, the boats cannot even navigate the canals because they cannot pass under the bridges. We waded past the outdoor tables along the walkway, usually filled with tourists sipping expensive appertivi, but now sitting empty, submerged in a foot of water. Waiters stood ready in their fancy uniforms and tall green rubber boots.
Our days pass in a glorious blur of daily exploration. We meander around this watery environment, exploring the complicated web of “calli” (narrow lanes), arched bridges and lazy canals. We window-shop (the kind without buying) and stroll. We hold hands. We see a narrow crack between two buildings and sometimes see beyond to a beautiful church. We see double-images everywhere, as buildings are reflected in the water of a canal. We stand on one bridge and look down the canal to another bridge and another one beyond that. Every day, I see something new (although this is partially due to the fact that I’m usually lost).
Jeff has given up the bike for a few weeks and has taken up something he calls “power sketching”. He walks rapidly all over the city, every day, passionately channeling his energy into creating original masterpieces. His work is an inspired collection of Venice sights--sometimes the famous ones, and sometimes just the simple arch of a bridge or a gondola’s bow. Some of his sketches are complex and detailed, and others are simple, elegant lines that capture the essence of a scene. Often he throws in some watercolor. With his black cap, charcoal-grey outfits, and experimental facial hair, he looks like quite the artiste here in Venice.
Jenna often walks with us, and loves taking the inexpensive “traghetto” ferries. These are unadorned gondolas that take a boatload of passengers on short no-nonsense trips across the Grand Canal, complete with gondolier in striped shirt. Jenna has also made a new friend, 6-year old Alba next door and once again she has been taken into the loving fold of a warm Italian family. Alba takes English lessons, but prefers to speak to Jenna in her naturally rapid Italian, and Jenna seems to understand just about all of it.
I spend my time mostly getting lost in Venice. With my (poor) sense of direction, walking around the city feels like being blindfolded and drunk and spun around a few times, except there is no blindfold, and I haven’t been drinking (usually) and all I’m doing is walking in what I think is a straight line. Most importantly, though, I have managed to memorize a few key routes--the Rialto market, the Coop grocery store, and to Piazza San Marco.
We like walking to Piazza San Marco (aka Saint Marks Square) so Jeff can sketch and Jenna can fed the pigeons. From our flat, it’s a quick walk down several narrow alleys (alleys not wide enough for an open umbrella) and over one canal before we cross the large Rialto Bridge. Then we thread our way through the pedestrian traffic, past the busy, souvenir stalls and the milling, picture-taking tourists and down several more narrow lanes with shops selling jewelry, art, stationery, gloves and the revered and colorful Murano (Venetian) glass.
Once we reach Piazza San Marco the scene opens up big and bold. The patterned floor of the piazza is thick with pigeons. The arched loggias line the perimeter with staggeringly perfect arches, all serving as a backdrop to the lovely Basilica di San Marco and its magnificent display of lavishly painted arches and handsome mosaics. To the right of the Basilica di San Marco is the grand Palazzo Ducale (Doge’s Palace). Also in the square is the Campanile, a 325-foot guard tower that offers a sweeping view of the city and the lagoon.
Closer to the mouth of the Grand Canal, two large columns symbolize the two patrons of Venice: on the right is a winged creature representing the lion of Saint Mark. On the left is a statue representing Saint Theodore with a dragon. Saint Theodore was the patron saint of Venice before St. Mark.
The columns served as both a ceremonial entrance to the city, and a site for public executions.
The intensity of Venice amazes me--it is ethereal, romantic, passionate and complicated. Venice has been a wonderful city to nestle into, but also an especially heart-breaking place to leave. But leave we must. Next week, we fly home to Portland (and we hope it’s not raining).
In these last days, we’re trying to visually memorize the details so we never forget the cobblestones, balconies, arches, bridges, churches, columns, canals, statues and the soft, musical language that surrounds us.

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Thank you to all of the readers who have followed my blog over the past 6 months. Writing and recording our travel adventures and then sharing them with you has been a wonderful experience. It’s given me the discipline to sit down regularly and actually think and write about what we see and do, and what happens to us. I have had so much fun writing this blog, and reading your comments and words of encouragement, and I am truly truly sad that it has come to an end.
But ending are always beginnings, and I may just have another idea up my sleeve...maybe even a new blog…or a book?

NEXT UP: I’ll keep you posted

Lago di Como

 

“This lake exceeds anything I ever beheld in beauty”

-Percy Shelley


We couldn’t get out of France soon enough…the French workers were in the midst of a strike, and driving into the city of Lyon we saw the aftermath of a angry riot: fist-sized rocks, broken glass, barricades and local police in riot gear.
We managed to get online long enough to secure a tiny house in Lake Como for a few nights. But rather than drive straight to Italy, Jeff proposed “an exciting detour” through the French Alps, to see “L’Alpe d’Huez”, apparently a famous mountain stage in the Tour de France. It’s important to keep everyone happy when travelling, and Jeff was beside himself with excitement (about a ROAD).
Even though it took us nearly 2 hours longer, it was a good detour. First we meandered along a river valley, and then climbed up slowly through a magnificent mountain range with jagged snowy peaks and charming little villages. The mountain pastures and alpine chalets looked like something straight out of Heidi. I think we heard yodeling.
Hours later, when we finally crossed the border back into Italy, I gave an inner sigh of relief. Finally, we could communicate in a language we understood, sort of.
We arrived at Lake Como in the late afternoon, as the sun was just fading behind the mountains. It was a sight to behold.
From the town of Como, the lake stretches out far to the north, like a long wide river surrounded by towering mountains on either side. Como itself is a lovely mid-sized town, with a duomo and shops and lots of hideaway piazzas. Como is chic and cosmopolitan compared to most of the neighboring villages on the lake, many accessible only by boat.
The villages are clustered here and there on the mountainsides, some perched high and some down low, lake-side. Beautiful, enormous old villas with wide columns and sweeping verandas dot the landscape, lending an air of sophistication and wealth. Gardens spill over the hillsides, with cypress and palm trees thriving in the mild, Mediterranean-like climate. George Clooney actually has a house here, but he must’ve been out of town because somehow we never crossed paths.
No matter where you go--along the lakeshore, driving the twisty roads or hiking up into the mountains--the lake is the focal point, the thing your gaze always comes back to. It has a mesmerizing, centering presence like staring into a campfire. The color of the water changes with the sky, sometimes deep blue, sometimes steel-gray. The water seems to have a calming effect on the surrounding landscape.
To reach the house, we drove along the twisty narrow road that runs from Como to Bellagio. Jeff was excited to be back amongst Italian drivers, “threading the needle” at ridiculous speeds as he passed the oncoming cars on the left, and avoided parked cars on the right. We sped through 3 tunnels, and then took a quick hairpin right turn. After 3 more hairpin turns, we found the house, perched on a steep hillside, 2 levels that required walking up about 50 narrow steps to the front door. We had a tiny view of the lake from an upstairs window and also from the small balcony downstairs, but it was too cold to spend much time on the balcony.
I was happy to finally buy groceries and have a kitchen to cook in, after the steady diet of restaurant food over the past few weeks. Jenna was happy to finally spread out all her Barbies, change their outfits, and play. And Jeff was happy to finally get back on his bike.
A famous bike race, the “Giro di Lombardia” (Tour of Lombardy) had coincidentally just passed through Lake Como the week before, so Jeff hopped on his bike the next day to ride part of the route, which included a thigh-burning climb up to the famous bicycle shrine, the “Madonna del Ghisallo”.
Jenna and I drove to meet him in Bellagio for a picnic lunch, but I was so nervous about driving along the narrow road, that I would slow to a stop and cringe whenever I passed another car coming toward us, sure we would scrape. And whenever I saw a car approaching behind me in the rearview mirror, I pulled over to let them pass. Jenna made fun of my driving, and rightly so.
On our last day, we convinced Jenna to go on a hike with us--an easy, traverse trail reported to have an excellent view of the lake. We drove over to the west side of the lake, then up a steep, twisty road, stopping once for goats blocking our way. The trail began near a “refugio” that was closed for the season. Refugios are mountain huts, usually strung along hiking routes, where hikers can seek “refuge”—food, sometimes overnight lodging. We walked the trail for nearly an hour, but the lake view was obstructed with the thick dark clouds of an approaching storm.
By the time we got back to the house, the sunny weather we’d enjoyed for days quickly turned rainy and cold. Clouds shrouded the mountains and the wind turned up whitecaps on the steel gray lake.
We didn’t mind. We were back in Italy, and it was cozy.

NEXT UP: Venezia

Paris Disney

 “In order to live free and happily, you must sacrifice boredom. It is not always an easy sacrifice.”

- Richard Bach

 

If you’ve never been to Paris Disney…

Imagine Disneyland in Anaheim California, then take away the warm weather and all the smooth, well-maintained rides, take away a few key safety features, and then take away all the sit-down restaurants in Downtown Disney that serve decent food.
Now, clear away a big swath of land about an hour from Paris--amongst tiny medieval stone villages--and build a huge amusement park. Surround the park with the customary $500/night “Disney hotels”, and then cluster several boxy hotels and chain restaurants in planned “developments” that resemble business parks, and call them “towns”.
Next, fill the amusement park with rickety indoor roller coasters so people can plunge into darkness at lightening speeds and not have to go outside. Make sure most rides either go upside down, or shake violently. Serve strictly McDonalds-inspired food.
Finally, double the price of the tickets and hire hundreds of teenagers to run it.

As parents, we make sacrifices for our children. We smile and go along with things that are sometimes achingly boring or stupid or uncomfortable--just to see the joy and excitement on our child’s face. We laugh and play, and don’t complain about the neck pain and back pain, the headaches and the nausea.
Jenna liked Paris Disney, and that’s really all that mattered that day.

NEXT UP: Lago di Como

Parigi (Paris)

“When things go wrong don’t go with them”

- Elvis Presley



There are two types of travelers: "reservationists" and "wingers".
"Reservationists" are the planners, the list-makers, the ones who like to be in control. They make safe choices because they fear the unknown. They’re assured of a place to stay, so it takes the worry out of travel. The only downside is that, once the reservation is made, it’s made. They’re stuck with their choice, and sometimes it’s not a good choice. It could be a bad room (or apartment, or house) or a bad town. "Reservationists" sometimes miss opportunities: maybe there’s a better room or house or town nearby, or a quaint cottage next door, that’s nicer and less expensive.
"Wingers", on the other hand, are more easy-going and adventurous--they trust that things will work out. They have the flexibility and freedom to come and go as they like. They fly by the seat of their pants and often end up finding interesting, inexpensive options, places that don’t advertise on the internet. The downside is that sometimes they DON’T find these places—sometimes they end up spending the whole day in fruitless searches when they could be out having fun, or they end up paying for a last-minute, expensive, undesirable room, or they’re forced to go to another town.
When things go WELL for either the "reservationist" or the "winger", it’s all good—but when things don’t go well, they say, “If only I’d known…”
But we never know, do we?
Now I don’t want to place blame, so I won’t say who’s the "reservationist" and who’s the "winger" in my marriage, but nevertheless we ended up in Paris late on a Friday evening with no reservation and a very loose grasp of the French language.
A few hours earlier, we had called a Paris rental agency from the car, luckily reaching an English speaker. We explained that we wanted to rent an apartment for a week, starting right away. The agent said it would be impossible, since all the short-term apartments in Paris were booked up, and the few that were not booked would take a week or more to arrange. We found this hard to believe (but in retrospect, we shouldn’t have).
So once we reached Paris we drove straight to a different rental agency, but the agent there patiently explained the same thing. Seeing our dejected faces, he said to come back the next morning and he’d see what he could do. We found a hotel a few blocks away, where we spent too much for a mediocre room, and then later found a restaurant around the corner, where we ate a likewise mediocre dinner.
Paris wasn’t working out so well, but we tried to stay positive. It was PARIS, after all. At least we were in a good neighborhood, the Latin Quarter, which locals refer to proudly as “the 5th”, meaning the 5th arrondizement (district) in Paris. Paris is broken up into 20 different arrondizements, bisected by the River Siene. The Latin Quarter is on the left bank of the river, lively and full of restaurants and shops, with narrow cobbled “rues” (streets) and several universities, the Sorbonne among them. At one time, the students and professors in this area all spoke Latin, which is how the Latin Quarter got its name.
The next morning, we went straight to the rental agency where we met with a well-dressed young woman who told us she’d received the man’s note from the night before, explaining our situation. She gave us a very disapproving look, and then said the possibilities were very unlikely. She looked at us like we were typical, over-privileged Americans who, as usual, expected the perfect little apartment, just because we wanted it. She gave us no hope whatsoever and seemed impatient to get rid of us, so we backed out the door, saying we’d check in later, but we knew she wouldn’t do anything, so we never went back.
Determined to find a place to stay in Paris, Jeff took off on foot, to walk around the neighborhood and look for apartment rental signs, or just a good, inexpensive hotel. Jenna and I went to an “internet point” where we spent the next several hours in a stuffy, crowded room lined with computers, where customers paid outrageous prices to peck away on their sticky keyboards and communicate on the internet.
Communicating on-line continues to be one of the biggest challenges on this entire Italian adventure.
Jenna was occupied with her email account and computer games, but I spent my time Googling numerous variations of "Apartment + Paris" and following the links. Each time I’d find a rental apartment that seemed to fit the bill (size, price, neighborhood), I’d send an "inquiry" and one of three things would occur:
1) an immediate response, saying the apartment was not available
2) a response saying the apartment was available, but it was too late—it would take at least a week to arrange it, or
3) no response
After several hours I had no leads but I did have a raging headache. I was starving and cranky, and I couldn’t believe how we were spending our first full day in Paris. What about the Eiffel Tower? Jenna and I hadn’t even seen the Eiffel Tower. (Jeff, who’d at least been to Paris once, knew where to look and had seen a quick glimpse of it when we arrived). We met up with Jeff and went out for lunch to a walk-up joint that served us tasteless, rubbery ham and cheese crepes.
We began to develop a growing suspicion that Paris was a big fat "X".
I learned the concept of the "X" and "O" days from my friend Valerie:
"X" days are bad: the "X" is a barrier that appears at every opportunity, thwarting actions, shattering plans, dispelling ideas. It’s a day full of traffic jams and long lines, arguments and accidents, misunderstandings, bad food, and no vacancies.
"O" days, on the other hand, are good: the "O" is an unobstructed tunnel, a pathway of ease and tranquility. It’s a day of perfect timing, unexpected opportunities and pleasurable experiences.
We refused to believe this "X" couldn’t turn around to an "O" (but again, in retrospect, we shouldn’t have). We still held out hope that Paris was the place we should be. So we threw the rest of our lunch in the trash, and walked to a nearby address that advertised online as having short-term apartments. But we discovered that either the building had been torn down, or the address didn’t exist. Perfect.
We walked for another hour in the Saint Germaine area, where the streets were lined with a tantalizing combination of bookstores, coffee shops and gourmet take-out places that served things like foie gras, herb-roasted chicken, poached salmon, fresh oysters on ice, and quiche.
At the exact moment when we were nearing the end of our rope, we finally got lucky. We found a hotel with a nice, spacious high-ceilinged room and a French balcony, looking down on one of the narrow, bustling pedestrian streets below.
Our luck had finally changed! We could settle here, at least for a few days. We could take in the sights, unwind a little. I envisioned delectable take-out dinners in our future.
But then we found out the room was only available for one night.
At this rate, we’d be moving every morning, looking for lodging all day, and we’d never have time to do anything else!
Why was Paris so busy in October?
“Well” the desk clerk said matter-of-factly, “there really isn’t an ‘off season’ in Paris.” He went on to explain that October was an especially busy month, because the city was not only flooded with tourists but also with business conferences and professional people.
We paid for the room for one night, but couldn’t completely relax since we had to pack up and move again the next morning. We weighed our options: the hotel/restaurant expenses were adding up quickly. We could either keep trying to turn the "X" into an "O" or we could cut our losses and move on--after all, that’s the freedom of the "winger".
Maybe Amsterdam spoiled us the previous week, because everything seemed "O" so easy, or maybe it was divine intervention steering us toward greener pastures, but we decided to leave the next morning.
The decision was disappointing, because I have to admit it, I had this girly romantic notion that we’d find a sweet little apartment in a quaint part of town, that we’d buy food in outdoor markets, that we’d visit the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre Museum and see the Mona Lisa. We’d stroll the Champs-Elysees and walk around the Arc de Triomphe, and I’d find out-of-the-way resale shops full of inexpensive chic French clothing. But most of all I imagined that we’d sit in charming little sidewalk cafes, drinking espresso, watching men with black barets and tight little mustaches, and women wearing high heels and Vogue outfits.
It’s so hard to live without preconception.
But with the decision made and darkness approaching, we knew what we had to do.
We bundled up and walked a few blocks to the Metro stop where we took a train to the Eiffel tower.
That gleaming Paris icon was lit up beautifully in the darkness of that clear, cold October evening. We stood and looked.

By the time we got back, all the take-out shops were closed, so we sat down at a nearby restaurant and ate more plates of mediocre food. We knew we’d made the right decision to leave the next day.

The next morning, we packed the car and Jeff took us on a 20-minute speed tour of Paris: whipping past the Notre Dame Cathedral, glancing at the exterior of the Louvre Museum, speeding down the Champs-Elysees, with a quick spin around the Arc de Triomphe.

Our weekend in Paris complete, we went on to fulfill Jenna’s #1 wish...

NEXT UP: Paris Disney