to France

It's time to pull back. To lower expectations. To put limits, to pump the brakes. Possibly you're thinking I'm referring to economic activity, given that we are in for craziness on that front not seen for nearly a century. But no. I'm still trying to limit my news reading and worrying. No more than twice a day while I'm away. I need a rest from it all.

What I am thinking about is my posting on Ocean. On the average, in addition to my text here, which has climbed along with my Alpine hikes and surfed to new elevations over the waterways of Venice, I have posted a very high number of photos each day. So much so that the average Ocean reader must feel herself or himself to be a bit overwhelmed and perhaps bored by it all. That's okay -- you can skim, skip, dance over and move on to something else of course. But the trouble is, that this much writing and photo journalism takes an enormous chunk of time. Whereas at home, I spend roughly 2 - 3 hours each day on writing and working on Ocean photos, on this trip, I've soared to about three hours in the late afternoon and another two in the evening after dinner. Bedtime has been very very late.

I am about to embark on Leg Three of my Spring Break. Leg Three will be almost exclusively in Paris. (I'm here for nine days.) Much of it will be with my daughter and her family. I'm not seeing the time or the need for extra long posts. I'm setting myself a goal of ten-ish (okay, maybe twenty-ish) rather than forty-ish photos each day. 

Honestly, the older I get, the more I love to write and put up pictures from the day. But when my schedule is joined with someone else's, I do have to pull back. It's so rare that I get to travel with my daughter and her fam. My posting has to slow down or else I'll crack at the seams.  There just isn't that much time.

So let's see if I can stick with a smaller load. (I've tried before and failed!) No more post-midnight work. Let's take it easy here, on Ocean.

 

*     *     *

Of course, this morning, I'm still alone, and still in Venice.

My routine is fixed: I begin the day with a look out my window. Madama Garden (where I'm staying) is on a small lip of land. We are surrounded by water and bridges on three sides. What I like to look at is the Fondamente that seems to be the pathway to work, markets and school. 

 

 

 (she can't stop reading)

 

 

It's time for breakfast. Scaling back on this as well. Let's cool our jets here! (A sweet croissant, fruit, yogurt. And only two cappuccinos!)

 

 

 

I have a half an hour to kill before I need to get going. I take a walk along now more familiar alley ways and fondamentes.

 

(familiar to you as well!)

 

 

 (a sunny day means you do your laundry)

 

 

 

 

 

 (This guy has a reputation among pigeons. A good one, I think!)

 

 

(The canal-side street that was so full of people last night? I thought it was called Fondamenta dei Ormesimi. And it is that. But names change as you walk along. Approaching Madama Garden, I see that it is now called Fondamenta de la Misericordia)

 

 

 (From here, I can see Madama Garden. Yellow building with the garden. The window that almost gets splashed by the canal waters is one of the ones from my room -- the Iris.)

 

 

 (One last look, one last bridge...)

 

 

 

 

 

At 10, a taxi comes to whisk me away. And it is a whisk! The boat ride to the airport is a ride on waves that come from the wake of other boats. But it starts out gently, as I look back at the canal that was my source of fascination for three days.

(You may wonder why I'm flying to Paris rather than, say, taking a train. It was a tough decision, but the fact is -- the Paris train departs from Milano Garibaldi. Most Venice trains go to the Milano Centrale station. To make a connection to the train for Paris (which just reopened this month after tunnel damage closed things down for a while) I would have to have left Venice very early, skipping breakfast and skipping my last walk. My time here is so precious! I didn't want to do that. So I did bite the bullet and used miles to fly Air France straight to Paris.)

 (one last glance back from the boat...)

 

 

 

 

 

(Venice, from above...)

 

 

(My Venetian souvenir)

 

 

*     *     * 

Here's something that will shock: I arrive in Paris and I cab to my hotel. Why? Because I'm not staying at a place that's especially close to an RER airport train stop. Say what? I'm not staying at my beloved Le Baume??

That is correct. They tried, really they did, to offer rooms that would fit the needs of the young family (and me as well, though I'm not the problem here). But in the end, I said no to their offerings. The only connecting rooms that they have are very small. This is not an issue for adults and especially adults that don't need a chair to read a book before bedtime with a little one, or who dont need two extra people (parents) coming in to help settle the occupants.  It is an issue for a young family where one child still naps and both kids need help getting ready for the day and for the night. So I had to look elsewhere.

This was tough! I wanted to stay in "my"neighborhood. To be close to the gardens. And I needed at least one slightly bigger room. I finally settled on the Pavillon Faubourg Saint Germain. A mouthful!

I myself don't need a large room. Though their "small" isn't that small at all!

 

It is, in fact a lovely, friendly hotel. But I wont compare. Le Baume is grand for me. Pavillon Faubourg Saint Germain is also grand.

 

 

 

(view from my window -- onto a quiet street. This I love about Paris -- that you can have a view onto a quiet street)

 

The young family wont arrive until Sunday. But I have an agenda for tomorrow. Not for today though. It's as warm as you could possibly want for April. I'm heading for the gardens!

(a different route than I'm used to...)

 

Spring has sprung in Paris, and nowhere is this more evident than in the Luxembourg Gardens. Primroses, tulips, anemonies, forget-me-nots -- all in full bloom.

 

 

 

In the evening, the park is teeming with people. Everyone wants to take in this beautiful weather. 

And the chestnut trees! They're all green already.

 

 

 

I cannot tell you how strange it feels to be back "home" in my familiar Paris, yet not in my home at all and for once, not alone. Or at least eventually not alone. And all this following an already extended spring break. My mind can't grasp all this! 

Well, I was happy at the farmhouse, I was happy in Grindelwald, I was happy in Venice. And I am really happy to be now in beautifully sunny (oh, the weather on this trip!) Paris. So long as I limit my news intake. Twice a day. That's it. (One can but try.)

Where do I eat dinner? At a place I've come to like, but one that isn't really suitable for when I am here with Snowdrop. I eat at Ottobre, even though it's Avril out there. I knew it would be good, and it is. Full of spring flavors and colors.

 

 

I walk back to the hotel along crowded sidewalks. Every outdoor table at every cafe bar and restaurant is full. People, enjoying each others company in the middle of a spring warmup. You get the feeling that they know what's important in life. This.

 

 

 

Time to get some rest. I'm learning to stick to my limits now in Paris. Just 24 pics today!  And I'm done before midnight -- a victory of sorts.

with love...

Venice

I'm in the neighborhood of Cannareggio - named after the canna (reeds) growing here, in the marshy waters centuries ago. An important date for Cannareggio? 1492. These blocks were solidly in place by then, but this is the year of the Spanish Inquisition, when many of the Jews expelled from Spain came to settle in Venice. They were segregated from the rest of the population -- forced to retreat for the night back to the Canareggio neighborhood, in what became known as the ghetto (the word comes from metal foundaries, or getos, that were found here).

The Venetian Jewish Ghetto was different from other such ghettos in that there was co-mingling of the Jews and Christians (rather than total isolation). Nonetheless, the boundaries remained in place until Napoleon stormed through and tore down the walls that divided Venice and kept Canareggio separated from the rest of the city. Of course, what geography tells you is one thing and the reality can be quite different. Venice remained segregated by religion for a long time. Some say that it still is, though my hosts here don't agree with that. One thing is for sure -- as Signora Mara's husband tells me, every set of houses in Venice is fascinating for the history it brings to the table. I surely agree with that! As I said on my first Venetian post -- you look at a building and you know that you're seeing a wealth of crazy convoluted fantastical history, still in the making!

Talk about crazy, it is another beautiful sunny day in Venice! Unexpected, to say the least.

I look out the window for a few minutes and watch the morning movements of people engaged in their routines.

 

 

(every morning I've seen him haul these baguette bags up the stairs of the bridge, then down again)

 

 

And eventually I go over for breakfast -- which is again sumptuous!

And then I set out -- to weave my way through Canareggio,  hitting it from all sides now. Noting who are its residents. Admiring the quiet, the colors, the laundry hung to dry, the boats hauling loads -- are there UPS boats too?

Signora Mara urged me to check out a couple of churches. I am certain they are artistically and historically significant, but I rarely appreciate ecclesiastical splendor. I peeked into one. I took no photos. I left. I give you Tintoretto's house instead. I understand he lived here:

 

 

I make my way through this quiet neighborhood...

... toward the Jewish Ghetto. Which, at 10 a.m. isn't quiet at all. There are at least three big Italian school groups here right now. They move along with earbuds plugged into the words of their tour leaders. I'm not sure this is the best way to get them interested in the history of the place, but still, I admire the effort.

As they move out, I move in....

As always, I want to explore it on my own rather than following an audio recording. This proves to be not that easy. Two of the older synagogues are still open for business, and these you can, in fact, visit. But you have to buy a ticket. And you have to go through their rigorous security inspection. Once inside, I find a total quiet. There is no one here!

I suppose once the school groups have moved on, the place empties out. Not completely, but significantly.

In a way I am reminded of the Jewish Ghetto in Krakow: there are the kosher shops and eateries. For the visitors who want to feel like they are in a Jewish Ghetto because honestly, not in Krakow and not here will you find many Jewish people still in residence. And there are the souvenir shops. And plaques, commemorating those who died during the Holocaust. For me, the place where I get the deepest understanding of this neighborhood is in the tourist office selling tickets to the synagogues. There are large posters describing the movement of Jews to Venice from different parts of the world. I took pictures of those to read later. 

(Back to walking the neighborhood)

 

I return to the Madama Garden to deposit a tshirt I picked up in one of the botegas. I thought it was cute. Very fishy, and a nice souvenir from Italy.

While at the Madama, I run into Signora and her husband. I have this question for them: where can I get a lunch with artichokes and/or asparagus on the menu? Because I haven't seen these anywhere. They suggest Trattoria alla Madonna. It's on the other side of the Canal. Not far from the Rialto. I frown at that. She catches me looking unconvinced -- it's not touristy! They do everything from the Rialto market. Workers go there for lunch, believe me, it's good. And they'll have artichokes.

Okay, I trust her on food. She's been right on all choices so far. 

She continues -- and by the way, have you ever been to Luigi Bevilacqua? You know, the weavers of traditional Venetian cloth?

I've never even heard of them. She continues -- they dont really encourage visitors. Too much trouble. But for one or two people, they'll do a small tour for a small fee if I call them. Do you want to go?

I'm agreeable. Very local, very artsy, very hidden. Could be interesting.

But first, lunch. I've come to rely on Google maps in Venice. Even two years ago here, they were unreliable, what with the canals and bridges and pedestrian routes. And still now, they tell you how long the travel time is by car from point to point. Say what?? But overall, their routing is good, in that it tells you that if you follow the narrowest path that looks like it leads to nothing more than maybe a garbage dump, it wont be wrong -- it connects to the place you want to go. So I follow the Google path, sidetracking to a store that I'd read about in my various farmhouse readings on the Cannaregio.  It's a perfume store called, of all things, the Merchant of Venice. It's housed in a very old chemist shop.

I love perfumes though never wear them. But I can't help asking for a whiff of something... spring-like and fresh! The perfume specialist looks at me, thinks for a bit and takes out a bottle of something. I like it, but I don't love it. She tries again -- something with roses and citrus. I know, sounds weird. But it is heavenly! I meekly ask if they have a really wee bottle of it, you know, because of airplane limits. (Ha! I have no airplane limits. I have a MEDIUM suitcase that is EXPANDABLE and is still grossly underweight considering the allowable maximum. But I do have a budget limit, especially now that our buffoon leader has managed to crash my retirement savings.) She takes out a tiny bottle. I am extatic.

 

From there, Google points me toward the Grand Canal. Well okay, but I happen to know that there is no bridge between the Rialto and the train station. Is it making me take a Vaporetto bus? I dont want to take a Vaporetto bus!

I walk toward the Canal, just so I can curse out Google directions!

Oh, I see. It puts me at the stop of the 2 Euro gondola crossing. Well that's fun! It's off season, there's no line. The gondola takes about 6 people per crossing. We're all tourists, sure. A local would walk the five minutes to the Rialto bridge and cross there, for free. But this is fun!

And now I'm at the Rialto market again. You don't need to see more photos of it. Well, maybe this one, for old times sake. And the birds, having a feast on any scraps that fall by the wayside. 

From there it is a hop skip to All a Madonna.

Signora Mara was right: it's old world, it's basic in appearance, it has many old waiters (and some young ones), it has fresh seafood and it has artichokes.

  

 

 

 

 

They seat me next to a construction worker, Alessandro and his buddy. Alessandro eats and drinks mountains of food. He must be a regular because after his meal, he walks freely into the kitchen to get something.

 

 

 

I do order the artichokes, but they are Roman style (so you eat the whole thing, and they're a little mushy, because otherwise, well, you'd choke).

I have a second course -- risotto with seafood because Signora Mara said they make the best risotto in town. I'm not sure I'd give out such labels. I recall other good risottos. But this one was fine as well.

 

 

You may wonder what happened to the "no lunch" plan. Well yes, I know, I'm eating way too much food. That's what happens when the served breakfasts are huge and you're here a short time and you want to have a shot at all the good things the city has to offer. 

One more comment on food here: ordering wine with meals is standard procedure. The French may be cutting back on drinking, but I'm not seeing it here. Moreover, they do something terrible in most (but not all) of the restaurants I've been to: the house wine does not come by the glass. It comes by the carafe.  Or half a carafe. Or a quarter a carafe. (See photo above.) Wine lover that I am, it is too much. Especially for lunch. With it, I always order a bottle of fizzy water ("gazzata"). That is a lot of liquid in me, but their seafood is inevitably salty. By the time I am up and out, I'm thirsty once again.

 

Alright. I have a 2pm appointment with the weavers. So, fifteen minutes to kill. Where should I go? I want a sunny piazza where I can just sit and watch people go by. I find it within two minutes. The "left bank" has plenty of these empty and quiet spots if you just walk away a little from the beaten path.

Now for the weavers. I cut across the Dorsoduro...

 

 

 

And I approach the address. Here's the building. Closed doors. No sign of life. I ring the doorbell.

A guy's voice over the intercom asks something. Probably "who the hell are you" -- I didn't quite pick up all the words. I explain in my clumsy Italian that I am here to visit the weavers. More Italian words from him, then silence.

Five minutes later I try again, this time telling him I have an appointment. Aha. He buzzes me in.

A woman comes down to greet me. She speaks English. We stay with that.

She takes me to the weavers room. 

In many ways it reminds me of the weavers' museum I saw with my friend Bee in Poland. Only this is no museum. Four women are working the looms.

My "guide" explains to me how the pattern is created, how they masterfully weave  the base, then the second layer and finally the velvety top design

These women must have strength. They work pedals and pull levers. It's really impressive. I ask one how long she has been doing this -- she tells me 21 years.

The patterns are old Venetian ones. I ask who buys these fabrics. Dumb question -- rich people of course.

There is a branch of this Venetian fabric weaving that produces cloth by machines rather than by hand. She shows me the difference. It's subtle, but you can tell immediately which one was done in which way. And here's a huge difference: in the price! We end up in the little shop where you can buy purses, pillows, fabrics. The absolute cheapest thing there is a tiny key chain with a woven heart. The one that is made by the machines is 30 Euro. One made by hand? Many times that.

Of course I feel compelled to buy something (the absolutely cheapest thing in the little shop -- the key chain). There's a charge for the private tour as well. I tell you, stepping into the world of the wealthy can drain your purse quickly, even if you're there only to gawk. Still, it was worth it I think. Venice is an artists' town. You can't escape it. It was a privilege to get close to this ancient form of fabric design and production. I have no regrets. (And tomorrow I'll skip lunch!)

I walk slowly back to my hotel, pausing for a coffee at a canal-side cafe bar. The sun is strong, the air is warm. Two men sit down next to me, asking if I mind if they smoke. I think -- well that's polite! I hate cigarette smoke with a passion, but I'm not going to be the American who tells they can't have their guilty pleasure because I'm here. (They know right away I am American even though I haven't said a word yet. Must be the shoes. Or the absence of make up. I do put on lipstick for dinner, but it's the afternoon now.)

Dinner. What about dinner on this, my last night here? Well, again, I go with a recommendation -- the Venetika. In Canareggio. 

The walk there is now along familiar paths, lovely ones that border the canals.

(friends)

 (exuberance)

 

 

 (Venetika)

 

 

And it is excellent! Tied for favorite with the first night's dinner.

But it really is too much food. As you may know, in Italy the menu will have four sections: appetizers, first courses, second courses and dessert. It's quite okay to just order two, so long as one of your two isn't a dessert! But you have to be pretty hungry and definitely not in my age demographic to order one "first course" followed by a "second." And yet I do just that. Why? Because I haven't had pasta with squid ink and octopus yet!

 

 

 

And their Venetian fritto misto? With veggies and seafoods in the most delicate batter? How could I pass that up?

 

(seafood, underneath the veggies)

It's wonderful, but honestly, if someone had offered to carry me out I may have said yes please. At least I had the wisdom to say no thank you to dessert. 

 

As I walk back to my hotel along the canal and the Fondamenta dei Ormesini (a fondamenta is the bank alongside the canal) I see throngs of people. Italian mostly, though likely not only.  People at outside tables, people standing by bar entrances chatting, drinking, eating. People talking in animated tones. People enjoying the warm evening, enjoying each others conversation. 

 

 

 

I think about how it must have been five years ago, when Covid shut down this country, as it did ours. They had to have suffered more because Italians (and French) cannot live without their social life, their meals, their animated conversations. We complain bitterly and point a finger at those who told us to stay inside. We blamed the messenger when the going got tough. We're still blaming people left and right. I am impressed that the French, the Italians -- didn't turn against science after Covid. They were miserable during lockdowns, but they banged their frying pans in support of essential workers (we say we banged them too, but I didn't hear it; here -- they really banged).

I do envy this mindset -- the view toward the community rather than just to your own backyard. I like the open ear to the conversation of the other. I used to see it in the country I now call my home. I hope this loss of caring for the fate of the world, for the community is a temporary aberration. I hope.

The moon is shining brightly tonight. On you as well, despite everything...

 

 

with so much love...