Venezia
At age 52, I have just returned—after a lifetime of vagabond dreaming—from my first trip to Italy. We spent two weeks tripping around the Boot, from Venice to Sant’Ippolito to Florence to Siena to Rome, and the experience was—as all travel is—life-altering to the good. It will take the rest of my life for the snapshots and stories to fully develop and inform my whole worldview, but the initial impressions are still with me.
I shall start with Venice.
DAY ONE:
First impressions: Venice is ostensibly controlled chaos and beautiful ruin, which is perfectly apropos considering its history.
The most important thing you need to know about Venice? It's old. Old and grandiose.
General historic consensus has Venice founded by Romans fleeing Lombard invasions in the 7th century. They found a lagoon in a crook in the Adriatic between what would become Italy and what would become Slovenia, and they went for it. They built a city of 126 islands on piles of alder trees and limestone with a network of canals running through the whole and got to work building a trading empire.
Byzantine rule led, in 697, to the establishment of the Doge (essentially “leader”) system, and Paolo Lucio Anafesto took charge. Starting in the 9th century, Venice became a maritime juggernaut, eventually seizing properties across the Adriatic, Cyprus and Crete. The route between Venice and China became known as the Silk Road, and Venetians were happy to trade with anyone along the route.
With such close ties to the Byzantine Empire, Venice saw a decline in power when Constantinople fell to the Ottoman Empire in 1453. Then America came along, further kicking Venetian trade eminence in the balls. But, in 1846 Venice was finally linked by rail to the mainland, and tourism started becoming a viable economic lifeline. And thus, here we are, with tourists continuing to flood in, locals continuing to flood out (the population is roughly 50,000, which is roughly half of what it was in 1984) and the waters of the lagoon continue to flood the piazzas (tourists dread periods of Aqua Alta – high water. Locals just throw up portable sidewalk platforms and shuffle their inventory around a bit.).
Venice is a city of islands that are slowly sinking into the sea. There are no natural resources save for the lagoon; thus, food and supplies must be imported. It is completely car free, as there are no roads: only 2,000-odd alleys and 400-odd bridges. These factors make Venice singular and glorious.
We take a red eye from JFK and sunrise doesn’t occur until our flight is over France. Near-total cloud cover gives way to occasional glimpses of the Alps from 36,000’ over Switzerland and Italy, then on initial descent a tawny sunburst morning appears with the mountains of the Venetian Prealps looming to the north and the Adriatic glimmering in the short distance to the west. Upon landing and taxiing at Marco Polo, the Campanile di San Marco appears across the lagoon, and having seen it, my life is suddenly quite different.
Ostensibly controlled chaos begins shortly after deplaning. We go through passport control, take many moving sidewalks, and arrive at the Alilaguna station. Venice is unique in that one of the main and most popular modes of transportation from the airport to the city is the Alilaguna, or water taxi. We buy our tickets, queue up, and eventually board and grab a seat below deck with a transom window view of the approaching city. Not exactly the most romantic introduction to a city, but it beats Penn Station.
767s are landing. Private water taxis and pleasure boats are careening into the path of our Alilaguna, seemingly oblivious to any maritime “laws” that may or may not exist and definitely oblivious to the ferocious wake their crafts leave for us. Spray from the open transoms mists our luggage as the Campanile di San Marco appears and dives back under the waves. We’re on our way to Venice.
On our Alilaguna we’re seated across from two elderly English gentlemen who appeared to be a couple visiting Venice for the first time together. Both are wearing a rainbow bracelet, and one seems to be playing tour-guide (“Three more stops and then we shall....”). Next to them are a couple with a tote-bag promoting upstate New York, she silent and self-contained, he silent and brooding behind his Joshua Chamberlin moustache. She asks a question about their itinerary: he seethes and says, “You’ve asked me three times....” I pity both, living such a life of silent resentment, so unable to enjoy this most amazing of adventures.
After a long stretch across the lagoon, we reach the mouth of the Grand Canal and the first stop, Madonna Dell’Orto. Here the first mate calls the station, and I am reminded of being on any train or subway in the world, where the stop is enunciated first as a question, then as a declarative statement. “MaDONna dell ORto? MaDONna dell ORto.” Continuity. Familiarity 4,000 miles from home.
We are on the Grand Canal in the Alilaguna, making stops at Guglie, Sanstae, Rialto, Sant’Angelo, Ca’Rezzonico and our stop, Santa Maria Del Giglio. Vaporetto—the city’s water busses—and gondolas cruise past on the Kelly-green waters of the canal. Along the canal locals and tourists promenade and sip Aperol Spritz (more on those later) under kaleidoscopic umbrellas at sidewalk tables. It’s Friday, which must mean wash day, as laundry flaps from outdoor clotheslines on every other building. I get my first glimpse—literally not much beyond that below deck—of the famed Rialto Bridge as we pass underneath it, and vow to return. We have a few days to go.
We disembark at Santa Maria Del Giglio. Across the canal Basilica Della Salute looms in the too-warm October sun as we strap our Rick Steves Civita backpacks—our suitcases and mobile homes for the next two weeks—on for the walk to the Hotel Flora. The staff is bilingual and unbelievably friendly and welcoming, offering me a fresh espresso and biscuit in the sun-dappled floral courtyard while our room is readied. Not long after checking in and dropping off our bags, we head back out and I get my first glance of Piazza San Marco and the Campanile.
On Thanksgiving Day, 1982, at age 10, my family and I visited Epcot, nearly one month after the park opened. We walked around the new park in a steady rain, wet and miserable, but amazed at this new wonderland of fun and culture. I remember visiting the Italy pavilion in the World Showcase and gawking up at the bell tower, later discovering through my research that it was a recreation of the Campanile San Marco (and that this translated, roughly, to Saint Mark’s Bell tower). The Epcot version of the campanile was the only one I had ever known.
We approach Piazza San Marco from the west, allowing a full-on view of the campanile as we enter the square. The first moment of discovery on a trip of discovery. Seeing the actual Campanile San Marco, having only known literally the Disney version, is a revolution. Confirmation that such wonders exist (to be fair, the actual campanile is also a copy: the original—finalized in the 16th century after initially being built in the 12th century—collapsed in 1902 and was rebuilt by 1912. But hey, close enough.).
The orchestra from Cafe Florian—established in 1720 and frequented by Casanova, Dickens, Proust, Modigliani, et al—plays “Volare” as pigeons dive-bomb and scavenge. Touts sell straw gondolier hats and “I <3 VENICE” t-shirts that look like they would tear to shreds the first time in the washer. Crowds of Obvious Americans (Yankee caps, logo t-shirts, hotel maps, discussing plans in English with booming voices) queue to enter the magnificent Doge’s Palace, which we shall do ourselves in a few days. And it hits me that I am spending a day loitering in Venice. In Italy. After dreaming of doing so for over 40 years.
From the Piazza we continue wandering looking for a spot for lunch. What I’m looking for is NOT going to be on the piazza, or any other major square. I know that all major tourist spots are infested with clipjoints that churn out mediocre, ridiculously overpriced Italian-AMERICAN food to lure in the tourist trade. The tells: sidewalk menus in Italian and English with pictures; the dreaded words “Menu Turistico” (Tourist Menu); pushy waiters beckoning passers-by on the sidewalk. I’m looking for a real deal osteria or trattoria catering to locals: no pictures or English on the menu, and a decent line of people speaking Italian waiting to get in. I can say “Ciao”, “Per favore” and “Grazie” and I can point. As long as I do that and make a humble respectful effort, I’m going to be good to go.
Finally, we hit on Ristobar San Polo on Campo San Polo (ed note: the terms Piazza and Campo both refer to plazas, however piazza generally refers to larger plazas—or in Venice, THE plaza, a.k.a. San Marco—while a campo is a much smaller plaza. But still a plaza.). We’re given a lovely campo-side table from which I ponder, as always, what is the most beloved cuisine in any new place I’m in? What foods do they do here better than anywhere else?
In Venice it’s seafood straight from the lagoon.
For Antipasti (starter course) we start with Insalata Caprese, ridiculously fresh tomatoes, mozzarella and basil with local olive oil and balsamic. I skip the Primi (first course, usually soup or starch like pasta or risotto) and start studying the Secondi (second course, usually meat/fish). I’m intrigued by the Risotto al Nero di Seppi (black risotto cooked in squid ink), which is as Venetian as it gets, but I forgot my mini toothbrushes and I don’t want to walk around with black teeth and lips. I go for the Sarde in Saor con Polenta (sardines marinated in oil with onions, pine nuts and raisins) and polenta cakes (Venetians are sometimes pejoratively referred by southern Italians as “Polentoni” - Polenta Eaters).
Wait, Sardines?!? Really?!? Yep.
Of course, when we think of American sardines—those shriveled gobs of overly-fishy mush swimming in canned oil—we recoil. But a true Venetian sardine fresh out of the lagoon is another thing altogether. A Venetian sardine is a normal-sized fish; not quite lake bass or trout sized, but way bigger than the canned ilk. For Sarde in Saor, the sardines are floured and fried lightly and served whole with an amazing bed of onions marinated in vinegar and served with pine nuts and raisins. The sardines are sweet and mellow, full of the briny taste of Adriatic, and the onions are mind-blowing good. Just be warned! I didn’t even think of this myself; because the catch is fresh from the lagoon to the skillet, the sardines are not de-boned. First world crisis, though.
Here we also have our first of many, many, many Aperol Spritz.
The Aperol Spritz is the classic Italian aperitivo; a drink designed to wake the tongue up for dinner. A classic Aperol Spritz is three parts Prosecco, two parts Aperol and one part club soda with an orange wedge garnish, and it is liquid Venetian sunshine in a glass. If I remember nothing else of this trip, I will remember that first—and yes, all subsequent—Aperol Spritz with joyful longing.
Appetites sated; we start out on foot again. And the rest of the afternoon follows a familiar pattern: walk, get lost physically, get lost spiritually in the wonder of it all.
Venice is a city that rewards humble efforts.
Look around.
Piazza San Marco—bustling with tourist traffic, tourist gift stands and tourist restaurants—is glorious but walk a block away: the tourist crowd thins out a bit, there are fewer cheap souvenirs and fewer restaurants with pictures and English on the menu. Walk another block away: you are quite suddenly in a completely different world, one known only be Venetians.
Listen.
Without the noise pollution that comes with auto traffic, sound carries across the stone pavement like nowhere else. We’ve moved a few blocks away from the Piazza and are strolling along residential streets and gentle bridges spanning the network of canals that feed the Grand Canal. I hear a metallic squeal, look up and notice a woman on the second floor opening her shutters and hanging laundry on a line with a pulley. A block or two later I hear a rustling sound. We round the next corner and meet a gentleman sweeping the sidewalk in front of his shop before the evening rush, quietly singing opera to himself. We mount another bridge and the creak of an oar echos off plaster-and-stucco buildings as a lone gondolier glides along. Distant church bells peal softly. The sounds of Venice envelop the attentive listener.
I’m normally okay with jetlag since I’m meticulous about setting my watch to our destination time while waiting to push back from the gate. But in this case, we’ve been awake and wearing the same clothes for nearly 36 hours straight, so we hit a convenience store for room supplies and call it. But it’s an amazing first day. And my mind and spirit are open to new adventure and Venice has inspired me to approach life with open eyes and ears and an open heart. Bring on tomorrow in Italy...
