Venice, in the end

And so we leave Venice under cloudy, misty skies. Still,  I can't let those dark, damp tones take over Ocean. In the bleakest frame, there has to be a warm tone somewhere. A painted shutter, polka dots (it is the year of the polka dot), glass work in window displays, Easter candy, anything!













...your eyes are drawn to color. Mine are.

My last Venetian walk. Taken right after breakfast...


 


... and after the painfully long payment process at the hotel (remember? I have a blocked credit card). I walk through the quieter, tamer Dorsoduro/Santa Croce neighborhood of Venice.















And then the book closes on this Venetian interlude and maybe that's a good way of looking at things: whether it's offered to you or not, there is always closure. Onwards and upwards, I used to say to the girls when we were getting ready to leave.





Diane and I take the train to Milan -- we have to overnight there and so long as we're doing that, I thought it would be good to do something important. Like, for example, to see Leonardo Da Vinci's Last Supper. On Easter week-end. (I purchased tickets for this four months ago: for some things in life you just have to commit.)

You have to know that it is really raining in Milan. Not just showering, like in Gargnano, or in Venice, but raining. So that moving from metro to hotel, then from hotel to Santa Maria delle Grazie (where the Last Supper is displayed) is painful. We pause at a cafe to ease the mood. Even though we've spent two and a half comfortable hours on a train,  we both admit to being tired.





But, the coffee is good, the lemon cake is very good and watching others come in, order a shot of espresso, show dismay at an unfortunate soccer play (the TV with a game is on) -- is really good for the spirit.


 


We leave somewhat refreshed.

Viewing the Last Supper is certainly not a taxing activity. You wait (with 19 others) until it is your designated turn, you go inside, you look at it (in awe -- it really is magnificent) for fifteen minutes, you exit.

No photos of course, but here's a replica that will give you an idea in case you're not up on your Leonardo material.






Walking back to the hotel, we pass Pasticceria Marchesi. I had only by chance stumbled upon it last year on Easter weekend and now here I am again, looking at the dove cakes and the chocolate eggs a day before Easter.





We buy a wee handful of chocolates for our sweet guys back home.


Evening. I thought I touched the bottom rungs of the ladder of life just days ago and now here I am again thinking that perhaps staying in bed for the next 72 hours (or more) is not such a bad idea. But, things turn around. In life, they often do. A few good phone calls. A meeting with Diane in the lobby for one final truly Italian Aperol Spritz.





And a wonderful last meal together (at ZeroDue).











The rain has stopped. My playing of Chopin (something I have done incessantly since March 25) surely will soon stop. They say tomorrow, sunshine will stream through Europe and everyone will surely come out in joyous celebration. Easter. Don't forget about Easter.

And spring. And life and all that it entails.

Venice, continued

Brooding Venice cracked a smile today. It wasn't a full blown cheek to cheek smile, but it was a nudge in that direction.

Right around our breakfast...





...the rain stops and, just as promised, we even have a few hours where a faint ray of sunshine tries to poke through.






So I walk. Diane and I decided to go solo again. My pace cannot let up just yet and you should not really compromise when you are so far apart on your goals for the day. [This is my fourth trip to Europe with Diane: she and I are the perfect match exactly because we know that we don't always have to match.]


And so here's my ramble. First, the left bank -- which actually is the right bank (looking at it from the station, for example), but with the overtones of the Parisian left:















































Then, over the Accademia Bridge to the 'main bank' and San Marco.






It's when I stand and watch the crowds on this most perfect communal space that I remember my first trip to Venice. I was with my dad, my mom and my sister and we were returning, via Venice of all things, permanently (I thought) to Poland. My dad had just finished his incredible run at the UN (incredible because, among other things, he was such a young ambassador -- barely 34 when he began his term). We were heading home. Done with the west. But before we said goodbye to it all, we stopped in Venice.

I hated it. Smelly, I thought.

But I loved San Marco Square. I think if you really let the miracle of this city to enter your soul, you cannot help but love at least portions of the place.


My dad was a curious sort of  traveler. When I left home (following his lead, I did things young -- I moved out at 18), he became almost competitive: I went to Iceland to see the northern lights. Well now, he went to Israel. I went to Finland to work on a farm. He topped me (in his way of thinking) with Korea. But when I quietly (and wistfully) said I was going around the world, through Afghanistan, Pakistan and India -- he said "no!" And since in those years he controlled my passport, I had to humbly step back.



Though in subsequent years, I have traveled to Venice in all sorts of combinations -- with parents again, with husband, daughters, with Ed, and now with Diane, for most of my trips here I've been alone. Venice, to me, invites solitude. She is often surly and so she accepts your moods if they lean that way too. And she offers dark corners where you can be alone and think dark thoughts if that is your inclination. And then, when you're done, you can alight on the Grand Canal and all is well again! Or, with luck, a streak of light will cast beautiful reflections on the more quiet waters and there you have it -- you've run through three moods in succession and no one will comment or care.



Today I'm less gloomy than yesterday but not as ungloomy as I was five days ago, back on that summit of Comer in Gargnano. Still, Venice is patient. It's as if she understands my sadness and also my anger at all that I could not make happen for all those daughter years, especially adult daughter years -- the city listens and doesn't bat an eye. As if to say -- yes, I've seen all permutations of this saga played and replayed, I've seen it all, you're telling me nothing new.






After walking to high heaven and back, I decided to take the boat to the island of Murano. Before the weather and life and death messed with the details of our trip, I had booked a lunch at the Osteria Acqua Stanca there. I had read about it in the New York Times just a few months ago and it seemed so perfect. Less so in the bleak weather and with my bleak mood and so I cancelled. But now I am curious again and so I catch the ferry over to this island of glass blowers and simple but colorful houses lining the waterways.





The Osteria is a joy. It's the food, it's the owners, it's everything. I order one of my favorites -- a salad of raw baby artichokes and this one comes with poached shrimp, so there's that added taste value. I follow it with spaghetti with squid ink. Rare is the time that I will pass through these waters and not order something with squid ink.









I congratulate them on the stellar article and for a minute I detect shades of a pout on the face of one of the proprietors. Such publicity is a great thing, but it is also a responsibility and a burden. So far, they had fed the locals. Now, they have the Hotel Cipriani calling and asking for a table for ten. Then canceling when the rich decide they want to eat elsewhere. The cook is reeling from these suddenly quite different demands.

Me, I think they'll not only manage, but come out to be one of the food destinations for those who care about fresh and honest. Take my artichoke salad: I ask her -- what's the secret? She frowns. You got it at the wrong time! One month later and you would have our artichokes instead of the ones from Tuscany! Ours have the same bite, but they also have this delicate sweetness... I vow to come back someday in May.






You would think that I will have had my fill of food. But Diane and I agree that we should not leave Venice without having a final goodbye meal together here. Forget about recommendations, reviews, deliberations about what's best, or what's not so good. Point us to a place close to our hotel that has fresh foods and serves a bustling crowd!

We eat at Osteria Moncenigo just a few lanes away and it is perfect for us. I eat their sardines and then the blank ink cuttle fish one last time and I think this is so fine, so very fine. And for a minute I don't think about anything else.






It's raining when we walk home. A steady, quiet rain. Not unpretty, in a Venice sort of way, but still, very wet.















Tomorrow we return to Milan.

Venice

Restless nights breed restless days. Or at least days prone to hiccups. Of course, good travel doesn't require being prepared for all exigencies. You keep things fluid and open just a little. You don't pack ten photocopies of your passport or two credit cards just in case. There are too many "just in cases."

Breakfast in Gargnano. Lovely today because at least initially, the lake is very very still and that kind of a mood spills over into the dining room that hangs right over the water.





After breakfast I want to do things right: last year, when I was checking out, Valerio had trouble printing a receipt of payment. I had to hurry. Things got hectic. So this year I am going to take care of everything well in advance. Forty-five minutes in advance. Just in case.

Valerio runs my credit card. No, sorry -- it's rejected. He tries again. Nope. He runs Diane's card for her bill. That one works.

I take my card and run up the three flights of stairs to my room. I'm on the phone with the company again. Why are you blocking payment?? I ask as if this is their fault, as if their precautions are over the top absurd.
There have been charges…
Yes, yes, I cleared that already! I'm in Italy! Please unblock the card!

Not only won't they unblock it, but they tell me that they have to change cards on me. Someone hacked the number. I'm getting bills for underwear from Victoria's Secret and money wired to a prison in Alabama.

Really, people? You steal card numbers for underwear from Victoria's Secret? Whatever happened to aiming high -- going after TV sets and stereo equipment?

The card company will allow me to clear this one purchase (the hotel bill) before it shuts down the account. Provided that I stay on the line with them while they process the transaction. The transaction is downstairs, I am upstairs. I run down, I run up. This was supposed to be the more mellow departure!

The trip is winding down. Two nights here, one night there, one final night elsewhere and I'll be home. Suddenly, the ATM will be my friend.

Such a fond good bye to Valerio and his staff. Next year. Not on spring break anymore, but somehow I will try to pass through here, if only to challenge myself on the summit again.

You were my friend this year, Cima Comer. Be there for me again next year.





The grand peak hides, pretending not to hear.


We are at the bus stop. I note to Diane that we have some flexibility: the bus can be twenty minutes late and we'll still make our train. But twenty minutes pass and there is no bus. Don't tell me -- is it me again? Is it?? Surely I rechecked the timetable with my new knowledge of secret symbols! Surely I know the codes: fer means working days, fest means holidays.

No. I did not recheck the schedule. My mind was not on schedules at all these last days, because if it was, I would have seen that there is no bus now. Not to Descenzano from where we were to take a train to Venice.

So we take another bus. To Brescia. Where we can catch a later train to Venice. And if you think you can exchange your missed train tickets in Italy -- think again.

But of course, there is, ultimately, at the end of it all, Venice. Oh, that troubled and beautiful place! You are moody today! So am I, my dear, so am I...









It's raining. You can try to hide from it, but ultimately, if you're out, you're going to get wet.





I had great ideas about dinner, about long rambles, but great ideas are never firm ideas and so as we approach the ever homey, ever reliably there Al Campanile Pizzeria, we stop to eat.



The proprietor thought we needed to smile more




mine was with mixed sea food


Outside again. It's cold, dark, wet. Diane is ready to retire to the B&B for the night. Me, I can't just yet. I've spent many a cold, dark, wet, March night in this city -- I expect no better, I find her beautiful anyway. And so I keep at it.













view from Accademia Bridge, made special by the night rains


And at last, there is San Marco, nearly empty, except for those who must pass through and those, like me, who just cannot stay away.







 


And here I turn back. It's a long walk back. I cut through to the Rialto Bridge...






...and from there, easily find my way to the Ca San Giorgio B&B. With a stop for cookies.





Comfort food. To munch on during those endless phone calls that must be made, emails that must be written. Not too sweet, not too overpowering. Venetian cookies for a cold Venetian night.