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.