Venice to Paris

The cruise ships must have come back our last night in Venice. The streets were thick with tourists again. They were always relatively full; it was rare that we’d ever find ourselves alone in those narrow passages; but the streets were truly dense with people again, the Rialto Bridge and San Marco Piazza especially so.

We stocked up on bottled water and made an early night of it to repack our suitcases for the trip to Paris. Bev was noticeably tired, sick with the onrush of flu, even if she didn’t know it yet.
After breaking our fast with croissants and surprisingly never bitter coffee, we checked out, wrestled our bags up and down the stairs and over bridges until we reached the canal and boarded the water bus to the rail station. After a short wait and some pizza and pop that didn’t quite meet the standard we’d grown accustomed to, we boarded the local train to Milano.

Cars existed again, the first we’d seen since arriving in Venice. I can’t say that I missed them. The only exhaust I’d smelled over the last few days was the occasional motorboat puttering along the canals, or moored up against the often deserted “ground” floor on buildings, no longer in use due to decades of tidal flooding. Those motorboats were the closest we’d seen to delivery trucks.

Milano Centrale Stazione

The sky seemed huge after so many days of narrow paths and passages. Flat farmland drifted past our window in the space between town after town after town of brightly coloured buildings. They are painted yellow and blue and red and salmon. Terracotta clay tiles continue to roof them. I don’t believe that I’ve seen black asphalt shingles since arriving in Europe.

We had little time in Milan. We barely made our train to Paris, stuck following behind a slow-walking elderly woman who smoked like a Russian, dense clouds drifting behind her, then having to endure a cursory glance at our passports before being waved along and urged to hurry.

It was an older train than the one to Milan, the seating exactly like those on a plane with the same attention to space and legroom as you’d expect, with the same sort of laminated safety card, the same sort of laminated menu. The meal was as we’d come to expect while in Venice: first course (choice of three), second course (choice of three), but with crackers in lieu of bread. Bev ordered the lasagna and a plate of cold cuts that she didn’t much care for (her taste buds were going on her) while I had the lasagne and chicken with a mushroom sauce. We opted for water. We both had coffee that was as strong and thick as can be and as bitter and acrid as battery acid. No, I’ve never drank battery acid; work with me.

I thought it would be neat to see the countryside as we made our way across Europe which is why we booked the train and not a flight; what I didn’t expect was that our route would be marked by passage through intermittent tunnels that plunged us into blackness. We were passing through the Alps, after all. I should have thought of that, but I didn’t. There was almost nothing to look at, just the streaks of tunnel lights as they flew past our view, so Bev grilled me on my French to pass the time. I can’t say I passed. I expected to muddle through while in Paris, relying on the good grace and benevolence of others who appreciated that I actually made an attempt at conversing their language while in country.

When we burst out of the tunnels we took in what landscapes we could. The slopes became increasingly rocky and steep. Peaks became shrouded in mist. There were buildings amid the clouds. There was even a trailer park, which surprised me. Vineyards disappeared behind us in the gathering gloom. The light faded, first by increments, then by degrees, becoming a damp and misty twilight and then night when we finally exited the Alps.

The final three hours into Paris were in the dark, without any stars or the moon visible, just the lights of what towns passed by, far to the left and right of us. We pulled into Paris after 11 pm, having to buy Metro tickets from a machine while young toughs lingered nearby, waiting for midnight when they vaulted over the turnstiles with what I assumed was the assurance that riding the rails was free. It was still warm when we arrived, still humid from a day of downpours, perfect for activating the smell of urine in the tunnels.

We found our way to the Metro, wrestling our bags down the stairs, only to find ourselves face to face with a map of the entirety of Paris. We scrutinized the map bolted to the wall, making sure that the train we were told to take by the Gare du Lyon security was truly the one we were about to risk taking. It didn’t take long. A middle-aged woman helped us with the overly detailed rail map. It was an actual map, not the stylized view I’ve grown accustomed to.

It was 12:20 when we finally stumbled into our hotel, our luggage seemingly tons heavier than when we left Venice.

 

Venice, Part 2

We checked into Hotel Canaletto, pleased by its dusky mustard exterior and the bistro restaurant alongside it, even more pleased with the interior and its marble tile and renaissance trappings. Pink velvet wallpaper glowed as it caught the light thrown from the wall sconces and chandeliers.

It took us a while to find it. We had to ask for directions. We had to keep an eye on street names and address numbers. Navigating Venice can be a nightmare. Most streets are claustrophobically narrow, some only the width of a single person. They end abruptly, they sidestep and become yet another street altogether. Luckily, the street names are painted upon buildings or embossed in tile in the ground.

We found it best to stick to the tourist routes, though. There was little of interest to us away from them. And it was far too easy to lose our way. The locals cease speaking English within a block of those well-trod routes and there were far fewer cafes and restaurants and shops. Of course, the prices were far cheaper a few streets over, but unless you speak fluent Italian, you’ll probably walk away with nothing in hand. We did not speak Italian, fluent or otherwise.

Most tourists stuck to the tourist routes, and likely have for ages. The flagstones were worn by millions of passings, the stones slick with wear in places. Sights and sounds abound there. There are goods and souvenirs aplenty, as full and varied and lavish and cheap as those of the Khan el-Kalili, and as exotic to the North American eye. The buildings are beautiful to behold, despite their age. Many of them could use a fresh coat of paint, a fresh surface of cement or plaster, but the shops were always decked out, if not the floors above them. Richly stained woods framed glass displays of books or leather or Murano glass. Linen, jewelry, paper machete carnival masks. Trattorias and tabaccherias and farmacias. Versace. Gucci. Snack bars and gelato. And like the Khan el-Khalili, people smoked everywhere. But nobody smelled of tobacco. They smelled of perfume and cologne. And they looked like athletes and models, very few sported a few extra pounds. Anyone who did was likely a tourist. The locals sported brightly coloured designer clothes and designer sunglasses and perfectly bronzed skin. Whites, yellows, oranges, expensive leather shoes. Men embraced other men. They kissed each other. The women were displayed rather nicely in low-cut, tight-fitting tees. They too openly displayed affection in public as North American women wouldn’t.

We took our time, growing accustomed to the city in our own time. We became accustomed to our route of recognized bridges and canals, of restaurants and pubs, of shops and street signs, focusing on the San Marco Piazza and the Rialto at first, before venturing out further and closing the gap between.

We had our first dinner at the base of the Rialto Bridge. We scanned the menu, and found it divided into categories: Antipasto, Primo/Primi, Secondo/Secondi, Contorno/Contorni, and Dolce. Respectively, these are: Appetizers/Snacks, First Course, Second Course, Vegetables/Sides, and Dessert. All were terribly expensive. We asked our waiter about portion sizes. His response left us as baffled as before. Bev ordered a plate of meats, surprised that it was a thin assortment of cold cuts. I ordered ravioli, expecting a Dante Club portion, which is to say ample; what I received were five pasta pies no larger than silver dollars. I was still famished, so I ordered soup afterwards.

Our wonderful yet unsatisfying meal complete, we returned to the hotel and lay in bed, waiting for the Valpolicella to wear off. We listened to the church bells toll midnight, wondering if and deciding that they did indeed chime off the hours. And we listened to the English couple next to us argue. He fumed. He yelled a lot. She did not. We waited for the row to subside; and when it didn’t, I rapped on the wall, startling them, quieting them. Harsh whispers replaced raised voices. This kept on until they left and were replaced by a younger Italian couple who made as much noise, as intense if less harsh. There was giggling. There was laughing. There was headboard.

We didn’t take tours. We should have, but we didn’t. We bought too much stuff early on and blew our budget, still a tight thing after buying and furnishing the house. Bev bought the acid etchings from the artist we first came across. She bought table linens. She bought shoes. I bought a Carnival mask, Papier-Mache and silk, and had it shipped home. We did climb the San Marco clock tower, waiting far too long under a baking sun, watching as the piazza flood and the duckboards were laid out by those who’d obviously done such time and again as the tides rose higher and higher and the city sunk lower and lower. Floors undulated, even those of the Basilica, whose vast domes of gold leaf and tiled frescos seemed unaffected by their foundation’s flaws.

But for the most part, we browsed. We lined up of free tours, and lines for fee tours were always long. But we had time, so we waited, and my back paid the price. So, between free tours, we sat in cafés, savouring espresso and gelato and jotting in journals, collecting thoughts, writing down sights and sounds and tastes and experiences.

We did hire a gondola. It seemed the thing to do while in Venice. All was as one expected: the gondola was black; the gondolier was named Stephano. He flirted with Bev and took offence at everything I said, even when I complemented him on his poling ability (no double-entendre, intended), saying that I’d have probably sheered the bow ornament off when we passed under a low bridge. He snapped at me, offended that I should question his skill after his having steered a gondola since he was twelve. “Really,” I said, “I was complementing you.” He would have none of that, remaining terse with me, lavishing compliments on Bev. I couldn’t see through to tipping him.

Then it rained. How much did it rain? I don’t know. It appeared to be of biblical proportions. Lightning flashed and thunder pressed down, long and hard, into the narrow confines. Umbrellas crowded the streets, a colourful dance of bobbing and weaving, but there was no escaping the sheets of water spilling into the streets, despite our rain gear and umbrellas. The roofs peaked under terracotta clay tiles, directing the flow into the center. The waterspouts sprayed a full flow out into and over the width of the passages.

At first, the shops squeegeed the water from their marble floors, and then they gave up altogether after a few hours, closing their doors and dropping their gates, deciding that since no one was buying anything and only hiding out from the rain, that the day was a wash.

We found refuge in the post office with quite a few others. We bought post cards and stamps while they milled about, shuffling aimlessly about, sitting on and leaning against the cistern at its building’s center. When we thought there was a break in the storm, we all spilled back out into the street, only to be caught again. We ducked into a restaurant we’d ate at before. The portly waiter displayed his displeasure when we only ordered coffee to ward off the chill that descended with the onset of the rain.
We ate at the hotel. Bev stayed in as I ventured out again after the storm had passed, but everything was still closed.

It was cool.

It was fresh.

I found a bar, a beer, a coffee (not the brightest thing to have in the evening if you want to get any sleep), and then I returned to find Bev swaddled in bed, trying to regain some of her heat after having had it stripped from her by the deluge.

She said she was cold. But she was hot.

She didn’t know at the time, but she was coming down with the flu.

Venice

We were the first to arrive at the water shuttle to Venice. We had our choice of seats. Bev closed her eyes for a few minutes. I don’t think it helped much. Sleep deprivation requires more than a nap. More people arrived and we cast off, following a course mapped out between buoys, marking the dredged portion of the lagoon. The sun took its time parting the clouds and bathing us with the brightness Bev desperately needed. Water cabs raced past us, almost as quick as the traffic rushing past us on the causeway that matched our course.

I wished that we could enter the city as quickly, but had we, we’d have missed the experience of having watched the city rise up out of the sea, gliding under the Rialto Bridge, and docking alongside the Piazza San Marco. The causeway would not have gotten us to the piazza. In fact, the speedy causeway would have only delivered us to the edge of the city and the warehouses and carparks there. Only the water shuttle could actually bring us into the city. And it did. The clouds parted and the sun began to burn off the droplets of spray that spotted and blurred our first view of the Grand Canal and the fleets of gondolas that lined it and finally the Piazza itself. Besides, cabs and water cabs cost eighty euros to the water bus’ ten.

Two tall columns guarded the gap between the Doge Palace and the Library, the bell tower rising up over both and the Basilica behind. The columns were topped with singular statuary, one the winged lion of Venice, the other by St. Theodore standing atop the slain crocodilian dragon of the marsh.
There were hundreds, if not thousands, of people in the piazza and along the canal when we arrived. We had no idea at the time that the cruise ships were in town that day and that we’d never see such crowds again.

There are stalls hawking wares along the path selling fine art, cheap plastic necklaces, postcards and rosaries, everything a tourist could hope for.

It was slow going, disembarking the shuttle and mounting the steps to the piazza proper past those stalls and all those people. Our bags were large and heavy and the people rude and oblivious to all around them. The steps were teeming with people we had to thread between, people who gazed up and not around, people who rushed passed and cut us off, people who were disinclined to make way for anyone. People taking selfies.

We were stalled by an artist selling his etchings under the columns. His pictures were tall and thin and in muted shades of slate and plaster, evoking the narrowness of canals and the shadows that almost always cast from one building to the next. We loved his work, but we didn’t love the prospect of juggling tubes of artwork along with our bags. He told us that he’d be around all day. We returned later to greatly depleted crowds and bought three pictures from him. Bev was shocked to see most of her traveller’s cheques spent before we’d even completed our first day.

“Not to worry,” I said. “We have plastic. We have ATMs. We have online banking. It all works here.” That said, we still didn’t have a world of money after buying the house, either. I didn’t need to mention that. I could see it in her eyes. No matter, I thought, it’s our honeymoon. If we couldn’t pamper ourselves then, when could we?

Beyond were the piazza, the cafes spilling out from under columned arches, and the tower, terracotta amid so much grey, the basilica and the milling crowds queuing up for this or that, each line two and three people wide and hours long. And pigeons. They perched on chairs, on tables, atop each of the two stories standing over the crooked square. The waiters hovered near as well, eager to sit you for the most expensive coffee and gelato you’ll ever pay for. Is it worth it? Yes. Ambiance and memories are everything.

Having braved the crowds, we passed the basilica and found ourselves a “quiet” spot to consult our map of the city as to where our hotel was. The map showed a maze of short streets that pretended to be a grid. Careful consideration brought us no closer to spotting our hotel.

I asked someone who did not look like a tourist. He asked me for the address number. I said it was on Castello Street. He waved the name of the street off, asking again for the number, explaining that Venice was structured in a series of boxes. There was the 1000s, the row of boxes immediately behind the Piazza and the Grand Canal. The 2000s were behind them, the 3000s behind them. Our hotel was in the 5000s, 5487 to be exact. He said that the 1010s were to the right, pointing and circling his finger over that area, and that the 1090s were to the left, his finger circling over an area there. The same was true for the 2000s and 3000s and so on. When he saw what the address on the hotel voucher was, he counted the blocks back and from the right, saying that our hotel was in this area, around the middle of the main island. He said follow this street and keep an eye on the numbers on the building and we would find it easily. We did, and we did.

The streets ran straight and true, unless they didn’t. They curved. They bent. One street led into another that was offset by only a few feet, as though they were begun from one side and the other and didn’t quite meet up. Few were more than four abreast in width. All were bounded by three and four stories of buildings that were a thousand years old. They showed their age above the ground floor, pitted and blackened, the windows yawning open, their shutters a rainbow of peeling colours, with narrow planters clutching the wrought iron that stretched between them.

Below them, the street was resplendent with shops and cafes and restaurants and curios shops. There was an antique bookshop here, a linen shop there, a canal and arched bridge and a spot of sunlight from time to time. Murano glass sparkled and gleamed and glowed behind dusky windows. Masks grinned and scowled, some with elongated beaks, others gnashing teeth. A church resolved out of the shadows as we rounded this bend, a large circle of stained glass facing the courtyard before it. A lone Armani suit stood in the single display window of the shop that belched air-conditioning in hopes of luring us in. I did peek in. Three more mannequins struck impossible poses within, the glossy wooden shelves displaying no more than two sweaters or three shirts each. I decided that I probably could not afford anything in that store.

We passed by our street, noting that we’d entered the 6000s, retraced our steps and found a bridge and side street that spilled out into a narrow courtyard, made smaller by the red table-umbrellas and awning drawn over half its width, the potted flowers and ferns displayed down its length. A leafy bough draped over it from the adjacent courtyard. A dusky mustard coloured building rose behind it, the stairs, the frames and shutters white. A narrow row of bistro tables and benches leaned into the wall, potted fronds to either end.

We consulted the sign hung from elaborate wrought iron over the door: The Hotel Canaletto, the same as on our voucher.

We had found our home for the next week.

The Honeymoon

We didn’t go on a honeymoon straight off. We’d sunk all our finances into the house so we opted to wait until our saving rebounded a little.

I wanted it to be special. I also wanted the honeymoon I wanted, not just a bake-on-the-beach holiday. They bored me. What I wanted was to break out my backpack again. But I was pretty sure that Bev was never going to be of the backpack and Doc Martens sort. So, I compromised.

I thought, what do you think of when you think romantic destinations? I thought Venice. I thought Paris. I asked Bev what she thought about those destinations. She said they sounded romantic. She did not voice a preference for either. So, I booked both.

I didn’t go through a travel agent at first. I searched travel magazines. I searched maps. I asked Hemingway. Hemingway told me to book a hotel near the Piazza San Marco in Venice, someplace close to Harry’s bar. He also told me that Paris was a Movable Feast, and that most of the ex-pats had hung their hats in the Latin Quarter. If those spots were good enough for Hemingway, Fitzgerald and Joyce, they were good enough for me.

Then I went to a travel agent. This is what I want, I said: I do not want to stay at a major chain hotel, I do not want to stay in a place that could just as well be in Toronto or Spokane. I wanted ambiance. A balcony would be a plus, but not essential. Proximity to the Metro was essential in Paris, though.

We found a wonderful privately-owned little hotel in Venice. Marbled interior, a little terrace alongside, a cistern in the courtyard before the entrance. We found a less than ideal hotel in Paris. It looked better on its website, but truth be told it was fine. More than that, it was good. It served our needs well. The room was comfortable, the Metro was down the block and there was a restaurant/pub/café a block away. We were even able to change rooms when upon checking in we thought the first room too small for the length of time we were staying there. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Once the hotels and flights were booked, all we had to do was wait. We made sure our passports were in order. Bev packed for a week, choosing, sorting, changing her mind, repacking, contemplating. I packed the night before.

We went to the airport. Obviously excited. This was our first big trip together. Prior to this we’d been to Manitoulin. Manitoulin is great. If you’ve never been you should go; but having been there for a few consecutive years, I’d had my fill of driving around, going to the same towns, browsing the same shops, going to the same beaches, eating at the same places. Had my back not been injured we might have gone on some of the nature hikes thereabouts, but chronic pain had put such excursions on the backburner. So, I was due for a change. I wanted a return to backpacks and Doc Martens, even if the backpack was a suitcase on casters and the Docs were dress shoes and sandals.

We packed notebooks too. I’d always meant to take one on my other trips but it somehow always slipped my mind. Why a notebook? Because even though a picture is worth a thousand words, pictures are no substitute for words. That building, that person, becomes a hazy memory in the course of time. Thoughts, recollections and anecdotes give depth to those pictures. They can also jog the memory. And capture your thoughts. Impressions. Mood. Ambiance.

The flight from Timmins to Toronto was as it usually is, full, loud, prone to turbulence. The flight to Rome was better. Larger. Smoother. But it was also a red eye. I’m not complaining; red eyes are great; they get you in country at the dawn of a new day, ensuring your first day of holiday isn’t a loss spent in the air. The only problem with a red eye is jetlag. You need to realize that you will be crossing time zones and that the time for sleep is limited, at best. I’m lying. You will not get enough sleep on a red eye to Europe no matter how much sleep you get.

Bev did not get enough sleep. Once we were in the air, I waited just long enough to finish my meal, which is always served early on such flights, before pulling out my mask and earplugs from my carry-on.

“Time to go to sleep,” I told Bev.

“But I’m not tired,” she said.

I sympathised, but I tried to explain that she had best try to sleep whether she was tired or not (I realized that it was only about 9 pm by EDST, way too early for bed at the best of times, even more so considering the excitement brought on by expectation), telling her my tale of my first red eye and the resulting sleep deprivation that followed, but she said that she’d watch a little bit of the movie until she got a tired and then she would try.

I didn’t think that watching “Kingdom of Heaven” was worth the sleep deprivation sure to follow. I wouldn’t know if it was. I didn’t watch it then. I still haven’t. What I did do was put my mask on and squeeze the earplugs into my ears.

“You really need to try to sleep now,” I said before sliding the mask over my eyes, my voice muffled and watery through the plugs.

“I will in a bit,” she said.

I closed my eyes, set my mask and tried to relax. I was asleep in no time.

When I woke at about 4:30 am Rome time, Bev was a mess. Her hair was awry, her eyes close to closing, red as though irritated by a beach of salt water and sand. She was obviously, painfully, tired, much as I had been after my first red eye to Amsterdam.

“I didn’t sleep at all,” she said.

What could I say? I’m sorry? I was. I said so.

“You need to get some morning sunlight to reset your clock,” I said. I did not say that she would feel like shit for the rest of the day.

There was a little confusion as to what was happening with our bags. Our luggage was not in Rome. We watched as everyone from our flight collected their bags and filtered out the door, leaving us and an empty carousel behind. “Where is our luggage?” I thought. “Was it lost? Were we going to spend a few days waiting for it to catch up with us?” I asked a terminal employee. He looked at out baggage stubs and said, “You collect them in Venice.” That was new to me. When returning to Canada, I always had to collect my luggage and clear customs before continuing on to a domestic flight.

We returned to departures and boarded our flight to Venice.

Final flight. Bags collected. Customs. Cab. River shuttle between buoys marking the dredged route. Venice.

Our honeymoon had begun.