Category — Italy

It rained my last night in Venice.  Hard.  I seriously contemplated eating in the hotel again.  But it was my last night in Venice.  Earlier in the day, I’d stopped by Trattoria alla Madonna, a restaurant in the Rialto neighborhood that my Friend Frank had recommended.  I talked with a waiter about the menu as he shouldered an armful of plates bound for a table.  Yes, they had pastas I could eat, and a whole table of vegetables that he waved at like a spokes model on the Price is Right.  They opened at 7PM, and didn’t take reservations.  That was good.  I don’t really like making reservations.

I left the hotel at about 8PM, after a quick shower and an incredibly long day.  The 20 minute walk to the restaurant took me past some now familiar sights, dramatically lit as the rain started to fall.

Venice is a strange place.  Beautiful, but strange – as if it’s another world.  This night, I saw two or three different men in different parts of town – wearing capes – like it was totally normal.

I honestly think they were probably meeting to raise a glass to “the boy who lived”.

Finding anything in Venice is a challenge, and finding something after dark in Venice is a special treat.  Fortunately, the Trattoria had a big sign, and huge, green lanterns placed at the entrance to the little street it inhabited.

While the sign is enormous, the door to the restaurant is totally understated.  The sign actually hangs over the kitchen door, confusing tourists.  The actual door to the establishment was identifiable by the occasional man in a white coat that would dart out to somewhere across the little street, and then dart back in, laughing and talking with passersby (mostly confused tourists looking at the sign).

I spent a moment in the street practicing the Italian phrase that would help get me a seat.  But, when I stepped in, I was virtually swept into the restaurant by one waiter who was on his way to deliver plates of food to diners.  I’m not sure I even got a word out before I was seated.

The dining room was a bright, tall room with chestnut-beamed ceilings, filled with families, couples, and the ultra-efficient wait staff.  There was an army of guys in white coats bustling around:  delivering food to tables, taking orders, deboning fish on a side table.

My waiter looked at me and asked a one word question:  “Italiana?”  Unfortunately, I answered with “hum?”  And that triggered “Inglese?”  Too late to recover.  He reached into the drawer of a nearby hutch and pulled out an English-language menu.  One glance around the dining room and It looked like there were at least three, color-coded menus.  Mine was pink.  It served as a big pink flag to the waiters that I was an English speaker.  And, though I thought that at least I wouldn’t have to translate the menu, I was wrong.  I still had to ask.

My waiter and I got through the usuals – dining solo, don’t speak Italian well, vegetarian, etc. – and we found something for me to eat.  I’d been looking for gnocchi, but it was listed on the English menu as “potato dumplings”.  Of course.  So I ordered a plate of gnocchi with pomodoro sauce and a plate of mixed vegetables.

I swear to you, I sat no more than 5-7 minutes before the gnocchi arrived.

They were good.  And they were big.  I’m pretty sure that what I’ve had since I’ve been in Italy are gnochetti.  Little gnocchi.  These were the real deal, bigger than my thumb and with a substantial mush to them.  The almost melted in my mouth.

While my waiter prepared the vegetable plate, I did a little people watching.  Venice seems a good place for that.  There were no men in capes, but plenty of swooning lovers and English-speaking children.  I think the people next to me might have been speaking Russian.  I wonder which menu they used.

And then the veggies arrived.

Unlike almost all the other places I’d eaten in Venice, these were cooked in butter.  Mmmm.  Butter.  And there was nothing on the plate even remotely related to ham.  Bonus for me and my curly-tailed friends.  I would like to take this opportunity to disagree with anyone who thinks that vegetables aren’t comfort food.  The carrots were perfectly done and sweet.  The spinach was simple and tasty.  The peas were meat-free, the zucchinis entertaining, and the tomatoes were as sweet as the carrots.  It was perfect food for the stormy night.

I powered through the plate, enjoying every morsel and wondering if I’d have dessert here, or at a gelato shop on the way back to the hotel.

My waiter ran through the list of dolce.  I had only one question, “che fatti en casa?”  I’m pretty sure the sentence structure is incorrect, but the question almost always gets good results.  He smiled.  “Tiramisu e buono.”  He didn’t even wait for a response.  He virtually jogged to the dessert table, scooped  out some tiramisu and presented it proudly to me.

It looked good.

It was good.

I waited for the alcoholic punch that I’ve experienced with other tiramisus.  It didn’t come.  This was pure, unadulterated yum.    Excellent.

Leaving the restaurant, I took my last nighttime stroll through Venice.  I noticed that there were a lot more of the water-blocking panels that are placed in shop doors at night.

And I got just a little worried when I saw shops that had removed EVERYTHING from the floors.

But I didn’t think much further about what that might mean for me.  I just continued through the city, noticing the beautiful scenes, and (with a bit of annoyance) the way I felt.  Somewhere along the way the old fears and twinges of doubt had crept back in.  That pissed me off a bit.  Here I am on this great adventure, and nothing has changed.  Nothing has changed…

And then I saw my shadow.

On the glittering streets of Venice.  And it made me laugh.  Okay, maybe things have changed just a little.

Warning:  This was a very long day.  You might want to take a nap before reading.

The day started on a good note.  At breakfast I discovered “delichoc,” little containers of a nutella-like substance.  They were hiding among the little containers of jelly.  Suddenly, the nice rolls on the breakfast table became fantastic!  I found myself wondering if I could smuggle some of them, along with the delichoc, out in my shirtsleeves.  Trying to remember how I’d done just that in the college cafeteria, I had to abandon the plan as other guests walked in for breakfast.

I walked out of the hotel into my first sunny day in Venice, and found the sun doing lovely things to the city.

This was my last full day here, and I had a lot left on my list of things to see.  I had planned my day carefully, and hoped that I could use everything I’d learned to keep myself on track.  I tried first for a traghetto ride, but found the stop closed because it was Sunday.  No problem, I knew how to walk where I wanted to go, so I struck out on foot.  They city had a nice surprise for me.  It took me right past the firehouse.

I found the municipal boats of Venice an amusing novelty.  Seeing the firemen scooting around on a little boat was totally entertaining.

When I reached the Rialto bridge, I saw a sign that read “Rialto, the heart of the city.”  “It’s a sinking heart” I thought to myself.  Little did I know…

The first site on my list was the island of Murano, famous for its glass furnaces.  I’d have to take a vaporetto ride out and back.  So, I walked up to the top of Venice, bought a ticket and hopped on a boat.  The ride itself was beautiful, taking me past the dramatic island cemetery.

Murano was a sleepy island with wide canals, interesting public art, and glass everywhere.

I followed the other tourists down the row of formal glass furnaces and shops, across several bridges and to the glass museum.  I spent an hour or so moving through floor after floor of glass exhibits.  From seriously ancient pieces to really old ones, they were all exquisite and fascinating.  But, I had at least three other major sites on my list, and needed probably 30 minutes to get back to the city.  Plus, I had only consumed one coffee, and it was pushing noon.

After a hasty macchiato and a vaporetto ride, I was back in Venice proper, and headed over the Rialto again.  My plan was to visit the Ca’ Pesaro to see its Modern and Asian art museums, before visiting the huge collections at the Correr Museum and then, hopefully, the Accademia.

The bar where I’d grabbed my coffee was so insane that I abandoned hope of trying to get something to eat.  Now I was seriously hungry and beginning to panic.  (Honestly, the only times I panicked in Venice were when I couldn’t find food immediately.  I was in full-on panic.)  I found Ca’ Pesaro – which was in another damn foodless part of town – and went in search of pizza.  There was no pizza.  I walked for at least 20 minutes before settling for a fancyish-looking bar, where I picked up something that looked like a twisted piece of pizza (sfizzaforno, I think it’s called).

For some reason, it took like a zillion years to heat it up.  I stood at the bar the entire time thinking it would come out of the little oven at any moment, and dodging the stares of the barista who was probably wondering why I was standing there with a panicky look.  When it finally emerged from the oven, it was hot – I mean hot.  Still, I shoved half of it in my mouth before I thought to take a picture.  It was tasty, I think.  One caffe later, I felt human enough to try another museum.  I relocated Ca’ Pesaro.

I don’t know if I saw everything in the museum.  I tried.  I think I saw all the great modern art, but the Asian art went on forever.  (And I love Asian art.)  According to the signage, it was originally the personal collection of a guy who became an enemy of the state or a war criminal or something.  The 30,000 items were seized, some were sold, and the rest became the museum.  It was overwhelming.  The swords, armor, guns, saddles, scrolls, lacquered bowls, pots, jade and ivory seemed never-ending.  Unlike other Asian collections I’ve seen, this one was a collection of a single person, and reflected his tastes, as opposed to featuring “culturally significant” works.  The experience was very interesting, but exhausting.  This is where I think I might have missed a couple of rooms, given my state of exhaustion and hunger, and the poorly-marked walking route.  Even so, I saw a lot.  A LOT.  And I had two huge museums left.

Now, I know that it’s best to visit cities like Venice with the thought that you will return.  And it’s not a good idea to pack so many exhibits into a short time, but I really wanted to see the archeological museum at the Correr (which was free to me with the museum pass I bought earlier in the week), and the Leonardo exhibit that was advertised all over town.

So it was back to St. Mark’s piazza where the Correr museum is.  I saw important rooms of a library (I don’t remember which one) and the archeological museum.  This was great.  Lots of ancient sculpture, ancient coins and the machinery to make them, and several galleries of antiquities housed in vacuum-sealed rooms.  And beautiful views of Venice from the gallery windows.

I might have missed some of the rooms (I was still hungry and the routes were confusing to me in my stupor), but I didn’t really care.  I closed down the museum and staggered out to continue my search for pizza.

This time I stepped into the first bar I saw with pizza in the window.  It was thick-crusted, and very different from the other pizza I’ve had in Italy.  It was good, though.  And kept me from having a full on melt-down on my way to the Accademia.

When I bought my ticket at the Accademia museum, I was super-excited to find that it was discounted.  I didn’t ask why, but the 1.50 would buy another piece of pizza, so I was happy.  Inside, there were galleries of great collections.  Series after series of paintings commissioned regarding specific topics.  They were enormous works filled with religious scenes.  The most interesting to me was a room filled with huge paintings of scenes depicting the miracles of the relic of the true cross.  Strange scenes of exorcisms and priests swimming in the canals of Venice were even more interesting as my head started swimming from everything I’d seen that day.  Helpfully, the exhibits had excellent English-language explanations, which was nice.  I was able to give my brain a break from the non-stop translating that it undertakes each day, and just lean back on the padded benches to enjoy the paintings.

About halfway through the museum, I found the reason for the discounted entry.  A couple of the major galleries were closed.  Frankly, I was relieved.  I was tired.  But there was one last thing I wanted to see before I ventured out into the city in search of dinner.  Leonardo.

I’d seen posters for the exhibit all over the city, and wondered what, exactly, the exhibit would be.  When I first stepped into the tiny room housing the special exhibit, I was a little disappointed.  There was just one piece in the darkened room.  One little sketch.  This is what all the fuss was about?  And then I stepped in front of it.  The posters weren’t just using the “Vitruvian Man” sketch as an advertisement for Leonardo, they were advertising the exhibition of the piece itself.  (I learned later that the sketch is actually housed at the Accademia, but is rarely exhibited.)

It was remarkably powerful.  And beautiful.  The rust-colored ink on the camel colored paper was bold and clear.  Everyone in the room was silent.  Absolutely absorbed.  This was a nice surprise to end a long day of art, much of which will run together when I look back on the day.  Of the thousands of objects I saw, this one will stand out.

I knew that with certainty.  And I knew something else, as well – I was hungry again.

I never made a reservation for dinner while I was in Venice.  I’d just pick out one I liked based on a guidebook or a friend’s recommendation and head there to check out the menu.  If I liked it, I’d check for availability.  Tonight I was going to try for Casin dei Nobili, a place I’d passed virtually every day as I set out from the hotel to explore the city.  After the short walk, I examined the menu.  There was really nothing on the regular menu in the way of vegetarian fare, but at least one of the dishes listed on the specials sheet (entitled “Lo Chef Consiglia” – “the chef recommends”) had promise.

This place was clearly family run.  The grandmother behind the counter was a good indicator.  They had a table for me, but I’d have 90 minutes until they needed it for the next reservation.  Okay.  That should be doable.  Three courses, 30 minutes each.  The only thing that worried me was the phrase “slow food” placed proudly in the menu’s Italian description of the restaurant.

My table was in the corner, practically WITH a couple that appeared to be honeymooning.  The waiter pulled the tables apart about 4 inches to give us each some privacy.  I mean really I didn’t want these people listening in on my conversations with myself.  I put my little dictionary in my lap, and checked the time.  The race was on.

After the initial “hi, how’s it going, I’m sorry I don’t speak Italian well, and I’m a vegetarian” my waitress and I got underway.  Yes, there was something that I could eat.  Yes, the item on the chef’s recommendations (Girella di pasta in “cocot” fatta in casa con ricotta e spinacetti) was vegetarian – so long as I ate cheese.  I assumed the ricotta in the description was the cheese she was referring to.  I was blissfully wrong.

The moat of bubbling cream and cheese was what she was referring to.  I don’t really know what this was, other than pasta, cheese, spinach and more cheese.  It was brilliant.  The thin maccheroni noodles had been laid flat, slathered with spinach and ricotta, then rolled, shaped and cut into sushi-style pieces, before being baked or broiled, or something, in the creamy cheesy mixture.  I was just a little disappointed that there was no parmegian on the table.

Next came the mixed vegetable plate that I’ve become accustomed to ordering as a secondi.  And tonight, I added potato croquettes.

The plate of vegetables was beautiful.  I’d been eyeing up my neighbor’s plate of peas, so I headed for these first, plunging my eager fork.  And stopping.  Pancetta.  Darn.  Ham is not a vegetable, people.  Even if it’s part of a vegetable dish.  Not a vegetable.  So, I pulled out the little bits, and thought of all my friends who would be yelling at me for leaving the salty, bacony pieces on the plate.

I ate every last piece of the vegetable plate, and wiped up the remaining oil and balsamic with the croquettes (fried, mashed potato sticks).

I checked the clock.  I still had 45 minutes to order and eat dessert, and to pay.  It was doable if we all worked together.    I looked around for my waitress.  She assured me she’d come back with a dessert menu and then talked with the couple next to me, telling them about the desserts in Italian.  I will know that I have mastered the language when I don’t have to have someone bring me a menu so that I can work it out with my little dictionary.

The menu took some time to arrive, but I was glad to have it.  The menu had some additional items that the waitress hadn’t mentioned.  A cherry Parfle “with crunchy bits”.  Interesting.  I was expecting a parfait, you know, some kind of a layered thing with cereal or something.  I got something even more interesting.

I’m pretty sure this was some kind of ice cream thing.  It had a lovely frozen, pink, creamy inside, the drizzle of winter cherry, and was rolled in – PEANUTS!  I hadn’t fully appreciated how much I like peanuts until that moment.  Peanuts, which are used in just about everything in the US, aren’t used that often in Italian cooking.  I’m used to eating my should-be-famous cookies twice a day, every day, but I haven’t had a peanut in 5 weeks.  The peanut crust on this dessert made it seem exotic, compared to the torta, tiramisu, and pumpkin pudding I’d been eating.  And that made me laugh.

(Please note:  directly after writing this, I went to have coffee at a restaurant above the studio.  There were peanuts on the bar.  Evidently, that’s common for bars, just like the US.  Maybe peanuts aren’t so common in cooking, but they’re common as bar food.)

I scarfed this thing down.  I think I had it eaten before my coffee arrived, which was a good thing, given the time constraints.  Two mouthfuls of espresso later, and I was ready for the check.  The check.  This can be a challenge.  Unlike US restaurants, that usually want to push you out the door and bring you a check before you’ve even ordered dessert, pretty much all the restaurants I’ve gone to in Italy will let you sit forever and never bring a check until you ask for it.

So I asked for it.  There were 10 minutes left in my allotted time, and I was getting nervous.  Five minutes later I was downright worried.  So I gathered up my dictionary, coat and bag and headed to the front to pay.  A man who looked like the husband of the grandmother at the counter calculated my bill and I left with about two minutes to spare.  The 90 minute rush added a little stress to my dinner that I didn’t especially enjoy, but the plates of excellent food made up for it.  Another 2 minutes, and I was back at the lantern, wondering how the city would change my plans for tomorrow.

Every day in Venice has been like a gang initiation.  I wake up, pretty much alone.  I’ve been stripped of everything familiar to me, and wondering what the day will bring.  Even when I think that I’ve figured something out – where a building is, how to get there – the city, which I swear can sense pride, knocks my feet out from me.  Then, on its own terms, it gives back to me.

After breakfast at the hotel, I gathered my supplies for the day (I still had half of my picnic from the day before, and was confident enough to take only about half of my tourist info with me).

The plan for the day was to see the rest of St. Mark’s and then, maybe see another museum.  I absolutely knew how to walk to St. Mark’s now, so I’d probably be done by noon, leaving lots of time to do whatever I found myself in the mood to do.

I’d had good success with the tragetti yesterday, so I thought I’d try again.  Consulting a map, I found a stop.  It was a decent hike away, but it would put me right at St. Mark’s, and the hike would take me past a the Salute church, which I’d wanted to see, out on the point of the peninsula on the east end of Dorsoduro.  I have no idea how I did it, but I ended up on the wrong side of the peninsula.  I think I picked the wrong church to navigate by – or I held my map upside down, or something.  I walked for at least 30 minutes, maybe more, before I realized that the open water I was dutifully keeping on my left was the wrong water, and I’d walked in the entirely opposite direction from Salute.

It may have been at this point that I realized I am in possibly the worst shape of my life.  I think it’s even worse than when I was a baby and unable to hold my head up.  My calves were like granite from the week of intense walking I’d forced upon them, but one of my feet was refusing to flex appropriately.  Only when I slowed down to a stroll did the pain go away.

Fricking city slowing me down.

So I turned around and walked the entire length of the peninsula, slowly, past the pink-glassed lanterns of Venice, to the tip of the peninsula and finally to the Salute church.  Where there was no traghetto stop.

I consulted my map and felt like “Tom Tom” recalculating routes on the fly.  There was another traghetto stop just on the other side of the church.  I could bop in, take a look around, and then catch the boat across the canal.  No problem.

The Salute church is beautiful.  I played musical tabernacles, trying to figure out which of the 6 or so chapels housed the Eucharist.  (I try hard not to totally offend every culture I come in contact with, but there were candles lit everywhere, and it was practically impossible for me to tell.  So, I chose the one with holy water close by, genuflected, and continued my walk around the church.)  The sacristy had some beautiful art, and I felt compelled to light a candle for the health of my family.

Then I was ready to make my way to St. Mark’s, which was, after all, my original goal.

I was able to find the traghetto stop, but it was roped off and clearly closed.  The detour treated me to some beautiful views of the Canal, and now I was in a totally new place – an opportunity to see new streets and squares.  Also, I was hungry and caffeine deprived.  I’d only had one cappuccino, and breakfast seemed ages away.  I needed coffee and pastry asap.

This should have been easy, but for some reason, I chose only the streets that had no food and very few shops.  I started to panic a little.  This is Italy.  Where, for the love of all that is holy, was the coffee?  Perhaps I should have lit a candle at the church of caffee and paste.  Finally, I passed a moderately busy bar and walked in.  They had pretty much no pastry, but did have a pile of sandwiches and an espresso maker.  I picked out a crustless wonder and pointed.  “Questa” and a macchiato.

I’ve stopped drinking cappuccino after noon, because of the looks I get.  Macchiato, which has about half the milk but all the caffeine, seems more acceptable to the locals.  When in Rome…or Venice, or whatever.  The sandwich was egg and asparagus, and it was perfect.  I should have had three or four.

After my refueling, I took a peek at where I was on the map and plotted a course for St. Mark’s.  It was now almost lunchtime

When I arrived at the piazza, the sun was starting to peek through the grey mat that had lain over the city for two days.  St. Mark’s was even more luminous than it had been the day before.

Today, I took in the murals of the basilica, saw the golden altarpiece, and climbed the steps to see the horses that adorn the face of the church.  Both the replicas and the originals were beautiful, and the views from the terrace were excellent.

While in Venice, I got a number of workouts.  My legs walked me all over the city, my mind got a nice dose of orienteering, and my stomach went through a stretching routine.  Every night I packed it full, and every afternoon it demanded refilling.  It was maybe 30 seconds after I walked out of St. Marks that I jammed the remains of yesterday’s cheese into my mouth, having unwrapped it as I walked down the steps.  Passersby stared a little as I munched and raised my eyebrows in greeting.  The cheese and remaining bread was good, but I was in serious need of something more.  I needed pizza.  And I needed a nap.  Growing up, it was common wisdom that you shouldn’t eat and sleep immediately, but it was also common wisdom that you don’t drink coffee right before bed, either.  I’m still getting used to both ideas.  This day, however, I was going to eat pizza and climb into bed.  I might even bring pizza back to the room where I could eat it IN bed.

Once again, I chose streets that didn’t have food.  This was one of Venice’s cruel tricks, breaking me down to build me up again.  And it was working.  I was frantic.  A sandwich just wasn’t going to cut it this time.  I wanted pizza.  I was almost back to the hotel.  This was not good.  I’d decided not to eat at the same place twice, but this was bordering on emergency.  I pulled out the map, located the square where I’d had pizza the first day, and headed directly there.

One bite, and I was okay.  The city had given back.

I resisted the urge to have another 6 pieces.  It was afternoon, and I wanted to have a decent dinner.  Plus there was a gelato shop on the way back that I wanted to try.

My brain was addled form the scare of not immediately finding pizza, so I forgot to take a moment to shift my language to Italian.  I spent a lot of time alone in Venice, which meant talking to myself in my head, which is still in English.  If I can take a minute before I step into a situation, I can shift my language to Italian as much as possible.  This time, I forgot.  This might have been partially due to the attractive woman who was standing behind the counter.  It’s kind of a miracle I didn’t smile nervously and run out of the shop.

Instead, I picked out a size – in Italian – but she responded in English.  That’s always disappointing.  With a simple “questo” I’m found out.  Oh well.  Momentarily, I gave up.  Instead of nicciola, I ordered hazelnut.  “Just hazelnut?”  She was surprised.  “Oh, no…what would you recommend.”  I almost always choose hazelnut and then ask for a recommendation for a pairing.  That way I know I’ve got something I’ll like, and I also have the opportunity to try something I wouldn’t otherwise.

She smiled, and disappeared to a back bank of freezers.  I paid, wondering what I’d get.  When she reappeared, she was still smiling and handed me the cup.  “Grazie.”  My language shifter was stuck between English and Italian and I couldn’t think how to ask her what it was.  As I walked out, she said after me, “oh, con marron glace!”  I tried to look excited, smiled and stepped outside.  What the hell was marron glace?

I filled my little plastic spoon.  Marron glace is damn good, that’s what it is.  I tasted the gelato, trying to isolate one of the chunks that dotted the creamy goodness.  It dissolved.  “Perhaps chestnut?”  I thought to myself.  The consistency wasn’t quite right, but the flavor was close.  Soon, I stopped trying to figure it out, and just let the excellent gelato melt in my mouth.  Tasty.  The shop was the exact right distance from the hotel for eating a medium gelato.

I ate the last spoonful as I walked in the door to the hotel, up the stairs, and climbed in bed for a nap.  Maybe it was a bad idea to nap directly after pizza, but napping directly after gelato felt utterly acceptable.

Yesterday started early.  I’d been up late the night before seeing the sights.  I was told that breakfast (included with my room) was at 8:30.  Now, I’m not one to miss a meal, so I figured out which of my electronics had a functioning alarm clock, and set it for 8:00.  When I woke up, it was clear that my morning cappuccino had become a full on addiction.  I could hardly open my eyes.  So I hit the shower (I love showers), threw on some clothes and blundered downstairs.  I was the first one there.

Breakfast was cute and completely adequate.  One of the guys who runs the hotel (not Georgio) made me a cappuccino while I checked out breakfast.  I grabbed a roll and some yogurt and surveyed the cereal selection:  corn flakes, a bland looking oat and raisin mix, and a promising oat and chocolate mix.  One guess which one I tried.  The oats and puffed rice were ho hum, but the chocolate krispies and both light and dark chocolate pieces helped me wake up enough to consider the day before me.  Well, the cappuccino helped, too.

I enjoyed my quiet breakfast and headed back to the room, awake and ready to plan my day.  I looked at my maps, considered my guidebooks and decided on a route.  Head to Saint Mark’s and then to the Rialto for lunch in the market.  If all went well, I’d be able to catch a vaporetto at dusk for a self-guided tour of the Grand Canal, thanks to Rick Steves.  But first, I needed to put some money on my internet card so that I could continue checking email and posting about my trip.

“Ho una domanda.”  “Di mi.”  Georgio was at the front desk when I came down and ready to answer my question.  He wasn’t sure, but though one of the internet points around the corner could help me out.  “Grazie!  Ciao!”  I was off.

The internet point around the corner was less than helpful.  A snooty youngish man in a frilly cravat was the apparent shopkeeper.  Internet points are places where you can plunk down a couple Euro and use the computers.  This was a tiny, strange corner shop, with huge boxes of legos stacked high above the clutter of postcards, keychains and two or three computers jammed against one wall.  This shopkeeper is the first person who looked at me with thinly veiled disgust when I apologized, in Italian, for not speaking the language well and asked him, mostly in Italian, about my internet key.  All he said was “not here.”  I had to prompt him for more information.  “Go to Rialto, to the Vodafone center there.”  Okay, well, at least I knew where that was.  I smiled and thanked him and went on my way, not eager to try another internet point.

The Rialto.  That had been my lunch plan.  Well, at least if I went there in the morning, the shops would be open, and I would be able to assemble a picnic for later.  I quickly revised my plan, checked the hours of operation for Saint Mark’s and struck out for the Rialto bridge.

I was one canal up from the route I’d taken several times to the Rialto via the Accademia.  Ready for a new adventure, I fell in line behind a stream of locals, and headed in the general direction of the bridge.  One thing I’ve found is that if I find a string of apparently unrelated locals walking swiftly in the same direction, the street is unlikely to lead to a dead end.  One local might just be hurrying home, and lead you to a dead end street.  A group of tourists might be going anywhere and are totally unhelpful for navigating.  So I walked on with the locals – to a dead end.  The street ended at the edge of the Grand Canal, with nowhere to go but out into the water.  And then I realized where I was.

This was a traghetto stop!  Traghetti are gondolas that ferry people back and forth across the Grand Canal.  While a fancy gondola ride can cost upwards of 100 Euro, a traghetto ride costs only 50 cents.  Riders typically stand as the two gondoliers shuttle them from one side to the other.  I had wanted to experience this (an expensive gondola ride wasn’t on my list of things to do), but really had no idea how.  But now, I just followed the person in front of me as we climbed aboard, paid the 50 cents and piled aboard.  The experience was very similar to being on a subway car.  Everyone stood very close to each other, swaying a bit with the movement of the boat.  One smiling passenger took video of the entire thing, and I snapped a covert pic.

It was super-fun riding with the locals commuting to work, and the traghetto put me in the right area to head to the Rialto.  I walked for the next few minutes, my eyes peeled for the Vodafone center.  I remembered seeing it the night before, but couldn’t remember where.  The district around the bridge was crowded with people, and the bridge itself was alive with the colorful stalls that had been closed when I first saw it in the dark.  I found no Vodafone on the East side of the bridge, so I headed across, to the West side, and the markets.

The markets on the West side of the Rialto are amazing.  There are fish vendors selling fresh fish of various types.  And there is a lovely produce market where you can buy fruits and vegetables of all colors.

Still looking for the Vodafone center, I wandered in and out of the stalls that surround the market.  I found Wind and TIM and Alice, all the competitors to Vodafone, but I couldn’t locate the store.  I wound in circles, thinking I had missed it.  As I passed by fruit vendors and bread shops, I decided what I wanted to have for lunch.  I hopped into a shop to pick up a loaf of multigrain bread, then to a shop for a hunk of assiago cheese.  Finally I picked out a single apple from a lonely vendor, and my perfect picnic was complete.  But I still didn’t have internet service.  I asked the lady at the cheese shop.  She sent me down a street I’d walked three times already.  Afraid that she was sending me to the Alice/TIM shop, I wandered, and found what I was afraid of.  “Prego,” I decided to ask the man in the competitor store where to go.  “The other side of the bridge.  Turn right.”

The other side of the bridge.  I was starting to feel like I was on an episode of candid camera.  I had now spent over an hour searching for this place.  But at least I had my little picnic tucked inside my overflowing bag.

There are several places to turn right when coming over the Rialto bridge.  I had no idea which right I was supposed to take, so I chose to systematically eliminate the possibilities.  The first right took me along the canal, past gondolas and coffee shops – but no Vodafone.

I walked through the Rialto again, past all the shops I’d passed earlier, halfway back to the traghetto stop.  This was ridiculous.  I turned around, walked back, saw nothing, and tried again.  Finally I asked a young man standing outside a restaurant.  Disappointed that I wasn’t actually interested in his establishment, he coldly pointed me back toward the bridge, while looking the other way.  “Up here?”  “Si.”  I was seriously striking out with the young Italian men today.

This time, I saw the red letters of the Vodafone logo just off one of the squares.  It looked closed – like under construction closed.  But one of the doors was ajar, so I pulled it open and stuck my head in to find several people looking at me.  They weren’t open.  The signs on the door probably told me that, but they were in Italian, and I was feeling desperate, knowing that stores would be closing in about 30 minutes for lunch.  One of the men came outside with me to show me a map plastered on the door that told me where the other store was.  I looked at it, memorized a couple of street names and went around the corner to find the place.  After another ten minutes of wandering back and forth, back and forth, I went back to the closed shop to have another look at the map.  I really thought I had it, when I realized the map was upside down.  I had enough.  I took out my camera and took a picture.  Now I had a map to carry with me.  Two minutes later, I was in the open Vodafone store, and 5 minutes later, I had my internet service again.  I also had a pretty good understanding of the Rialto bridge area – a bonus for my trouble.

As shops started to shut down, I rearranged my plan for the day, and headed over to Saint Mark’s to see what I could accomplish before dark.  I knew that I could buy a “museum pass” at the Doge’s palace that would let me into a bunch of museums, so I headed there first.  Once inside, I decided to run through the palace.  I could always come back later with my pass.  I hit the opera museum with its huge columns, the palazzo courtyard, and the bathroom.  Then I entered the palace itself.  It was big and interesting, housing the senate chambers, different courts, residences, and the armory.

I made it through about half before I started getting hungry.  By the time I reached the armory I was pretty much starving.  It was only my deep love of swords and armor that kept me focused at all.  I wanted to look at every, single blade, regarding them lovingly, with an appreciation I can’t explain.  But there are a lot of swords in the armory.  It took a lot of time.  And I hadn’t seen the prisons yet.  I considered reaching into my bag to pry a hunk of bread off of my little loaf, but thought the ubiquitous museum guards might frown on that.  So I continued on to the prisons, thinking of the apple and cheese I had under my arm.

To reach the prisons, you cross the “bridge of sighs” which links them to the palace – to the courts.  It’s under scaffolding right now, but it’s supposed to be really pretty.  I’ll have to come back and see it.  From the inside it’s really cramped, and smelled like every prison I’ve ever toured (yes, I’ve toured a few).

The prison itself was fascinating.  I opted for the “complete prison tour” which lead through several floors of stone cells, wood doors, and huge bars.  There was even a display of the art that prisoners had scratched into the walls and windowsills over the centuries that the prison was in use.

Back across the sighing bridge, I practically ran through the rest of the palace and out into St. Mark’s where I scoped out a spot for my picnic.  Picnicing is illegal in most of Venice, especially St. Mark’s, where police roam around watching for people like me who are brazen enough to munch in the open.

I put on the raincoat I had been carrying in my bag to make more room, and transferred the slab of cheese to my coat pocket.  That done, I had easy access to both my bread and cheese, which I cut with my handy-dandy pocketknife.

While I ate, I disguised myself as an interested tourist, reading about the renovations to the drainage system in the square.  The police were far more interested in the people who were sitting among the zillions of pigeons.  Even when seagulls circled and came in to harass me for snacks, I went unnoticed.

Well fueled, I gathered myself and headed across the square and into St. Mark’s basillico.  I’m not an expert, but St. Mark’s is different from any church I’ve ever seen.  For a start, you’ve got the outside, which is incredibly striking at any time of the day or night.  Today, it was grey outside, but St. Mark’s still shone.

It really shines, inside and out.  The gold of the mosaics is dizzying.

It was nearing closing time for the church, so I did a circuit of the basilica and headed into the treasury to see the spoils of war brought back from Byzantium – and a bunch of creepy relics.  I grew up Catholic and was pretty darn involved in the church.  But I’ve never really gotten into the idea of keeping the bones and clothes of saints.  It’s just a little creepy to me.  So, I took a peek at the arms, legs, and skulls of the saints and headed back out into the square and the steadily darkening night.  I’d come back for the other St. Mark’s attractions tomorrow.

I was tired.  It had already been a long day, and I was ready for a nap before dinner.  I got my bearings and started the trek back to the hotel.  It was a beautiful evening, dry and relatively warm.  A few blocks off of St. Mark’s as I stopped to take a picture of passing gondolas, I remembered my plan from earlier in the day.

A vaporetto tour down the Grand Canal!  Crap.  And I was so looking forward to a nap.  I reached into my bag for a hunk of bread and altered my course.  If I was going to do the boat tour, tonight was the night.    I consulted the map and saw that there was a traghetto stop not far from where I was.  Pefect.  The night was getting darker, and I wanted to be on the vaporetto while there was still some light.  A short ride later, I was on the other side of the canal, and on my way to the vaporetto.

I hopped on with all the other tourists who had just arrived on the train and were looking for their hotels.  Grabbing a good standing spot with leaning room, I positioned myself for what would be a really good way to see the great palaces of the city.  We chugged along from stop to stop, the driver bumping unceremoniously into the docks, and the conductor throwing out thick ropes to hold us against the straining engines.

The Canal was beautiful, but allowed for only shaky pictures as we moved along the water.

We cruised past the Rialto bridge, the Academia, countless ca’ (only the royal palace could be called “palazzo” evidently) and finally St. Mark’s.  By the time I stepped off the 45 minute boat ride, it was dark.  I had seen a lot of Venice.  I was happy, tired, and ready for dinner.