Venice - 2006
By: Pauline E. Abbott, WWWT, Wife of the World’s Worst Tourist
The 57th Meeting of the Aeroballistic Range Association would be my second visit to Venice. I already loved that city, and looked forward with interest to seeing it in a different way, as one of the Companions of the distinguished scientists of the ARA. My accounts of the 53rd (Japan), 55th (Germany) and 56th (Texas) Meetings reveal my dawning realization that the ARA Meetings are used by the Companions as a `front’ for their own agenda, which is to spend time together in beautiful and interesting parts of the world, exploring diverse cultures and customs. Our attention now turns to Italy.
Jim and I began our journey on Saturday 16 September 2006, planning to spend the night in a hotel near Gatwick so we could catch our crack-of-dawn flight early next morning. Our train left Flitwick for Gatwick Airport at 4:34pm.
At Gatwick we picked up the so-called `courtesy’ shuttle to the Moat House Hotel. To our surprise, we were charged two pounds and 50 pence. What part of `courtesy’ didn’t they understand? When we mentioned this to the receptionist as we checked in, there was no apology, but a sound scolding. `You made this reservation through an online agency.’ (She made the term `online agency’ sound truly disgusting.) `If you booked on our website, your information would be correct,’ she snapped. OK, so NO part of the word courtesy do they understand … Wouldn’t you think a major hotel would respect the terms quoted by an agency that brought them customers? Wouldn’t you think that some employee who could read would notice that the sign under which they park at the airport says `Courtesy Shuttles?’
Our room was fine, and after depositing our bags and freshening up, we went down to Harriet’s Bar on the first floor at 6:45. There was no Harriet, but a foreign lady told us the restaurant was fully booked, and she would `try’ to get us a table for 7:15. Try?? We looked around, couldn’t help noticing most tables were empty … Could she be more definite? OK, she agreed, there would be a table at 7:15.
When we returned four of the approximately twenty tables were now occupied. She served as our waitress, also, and all became clear as she explained there were only two working this evening, and the other spoke no English, so she was `rushed off her feet.’ She went on to explain, firmly, in her own heavy accent, that `tonight we have no t’let.’ We were completely mystified by this, until we looked at the menu, mentioned a tomato and olive tartlet in our order, and were told again, `NO T’LET!!’ Jim ventured on the tiger prawn salad, and I had fish and chips. Mollified by our compliance, our waitress now became quite chatty, and with each course would regale us with the problems going on behind the scenes in the kitchen. We fled to make our own coffee in our own room, and drank it watching the news.
Sunday 17 September
Both our wake-up call and our alarmed TV worked, and we caught the 5:15am `courtesy’ bus. Easyjet employed their usual tactics to create discord and violence among their passengers. They opened one desk, and as soon as all passengers had formed one docile line they opened two more adjacent desks. As usual, old ladies and small children were knocked over and trampled in the rush, groups of four or more strapping youths cut into any new line where one of them had staked a claim, old farts bristled their moustaches when no respect was given to their canes or wheelchairs. What sadist designed Easyjet’s boarding system?
A further twist of the knife was administered as Jim and I reached the counter, and the ticket machine broke as it attempted to print our luggage tags! Once all the A boarding cards were issued, a kindly neighbouring ticket clerk took pity on us and issued us with the first of the Bs. As seasoned Easyjet travelers, this did not dismay us too much. We knew that As, Bs and even Cs would all get mixed up again in loading onto the airport shuttle bus, and the final allotment of prime seats would go to the sharpest elbows at the foot of the plane’s stairs.
So it proved, though not until an hour later than our scheduled departure time. As we finally took off, our pilot announced, in aggrieved tones, that he’d been there, waiting for us, since 7:00, but no-one had told the airport staff, so they hadn’t put it on the departure board. Sorry, pilot, for keeping you waiting …
Our one and a half hour flight passed swiftly, but for the last part we were flying through dense cloud, and we descended into an intense storm. Easyjet doesn’t pull much rank at any airport, so of course we landed on a runway in a galaxy far, far away from any terminal. Yes, there was a bus, but we had to walk down the plane’s stairs and across tarmac to get to it, and the sideways sleeting rain had no mercy. Passengers who had no protective outer clothing were instantly drenched, and dripped and steamed dejectedly all the way to the terminal. Jim and I had so-called waterproof jackets. Mine even had a hood. These were no match for what the Venice skies were throwing at us. We had brought umbrellas, but these were in our checked baggage – which, by the way, we saw being unloaded onto a baggage trailer, then left to stand unprotected beside the plane.
What a contrast with our previous entry into Venice, at about this time last year. Then we had been smiled upon by sunny skies, and were charmed at the novelty of catching a water-bus to take us from the airport to downtown Venice and the Grand Canal. We had sat on the open deck of the boat, and photographed the passing islands, the seagulls, the brightly coloured craft plying back and forth.
There was no charm in catching a water-bus today. When we eventually collected our bags from the baggage carousel it was obvious they were already soaked, and worse was to come. At least, now, we could extract our umbrellas, and we raised them hopefully as we left the terminal building and set off to walk to the water-bus stop. The walkway was semi-protected with a transparent curved arch over our heads. Today this graceful curve was accentuated by flow patterns of water, and the impressive way these torrents of water cascaded down the side of the arch, fell heavily into the floods on either side of the narrow path, then splashed merrily upward again. Rain assailed us from every direction, falling down on our umbrellas, shooting sideways onto our clothes, and bouncing upwards to completely soak our feet. At the end of the walkway we had to cross a road – a flooded road. The level of the flood was way above the wheels of our cases, so we hoisted them as best we could, lowering our wheels again on the other side to recreate four sad little wakes behind our increasingly soggy figures.
Passengers waiting for the water-bus huddled together in a kind of grey plastic tent. The boat was grey, and ploughed through a grey and choppy sea. The windows were grey, the view obscured by condensation inside and more rain outside. We observed one other passing craft – a cemetery boat, grey, and carrying three black coffins. (Everything travels by water in Venice!) We stopped at Murano, Lido, Fondamente, and eventually came to our stop, Zaccharia.
Here we had to change boats, and catch steamer No 1, making sure to catch the boat traveling north. The streets were awash. There was a respite from standing water as we alighted at Accademia, and had to hoist our bags up and over the Accademia Bridge. Jim now spotted the institute building, where the conference was to take place. We knew we had to take a narrow street opposite, to get to our hotel, the Foresteria Levi, so we plunged in faith over a tiny bridge, down an unlikely looking alley, and came upon a huge locked door. It had a bell-push, which we tried, and there was the welcoming sound of automatic locks being released. The door could now swing open into a little courtyard, one more flight of steps … and we had arrived!!
Not only that, but we were expected. We had been assigned to Room 32, on the third floor. It was sparsely furnished, but perfectly adequate. We had chosen a room in a building owned by the institute, - those rooms normally assigned to visiting artists, or musicians, or lecturers, - as opposed to a room in one of the major hotels. We knew we would appreciate its proximity to the conference center, and also its excellent central position close to the Accademia Bridge and the Grand Canal. We had a pretty view, looking down into a quadrangle where there flourished a large tree – quite unusual for downtown Venice.
Our next challenge was to unpack. Our soft-sided cases were each completely soaked through, and we viewed with dismay the effect this had had on their contents. We each had one dress jacket. Carefully folded, packed – then soaked in that position over some hours – they looked as if they never would recover. And Jim’s talk was to be tomorrow! I warned him, he might have to sit upright in his jacket all day, hoping the creases would fall out before he stood before his audience! Every other garment we possessed was either completely soaked, or decidedly damp, depending on its position in the case. And we had to get out of the clothes we were wearing – our `waterproofs’ had long since failed in their task. My drenched hood clung to my wet, straggly hair. My shoes and socks were waterlogged. Jim’s shoes looked like they had morphed into some Claes Oldenberg sculpture of shoes. We were in dire straits.
Fortunately we were not completely without resources. A sense of humour was the first one needed, as we draped all our clothes around the room, on hangers, on lamps, on chair backs, on window shutters. We swathed ourselves in the towels and made cups of hot chocolate, using Jim’s ubiquitous traveling food bank, which had fortunately survived the trip inside plastic bags. He also had trail mix and Cheetos, so eventually we took to our beds with this picnic, and watched Italian TV for a while, until the least damaged of our clothes had chance to dry. We reflected that it was just as well this conference did not begin, like others, with a formal reception. We would have been somewhat underdressed, in our towels!
The rain continued unremittingly until mid-afternoon, when it began alternately to torrent and cease. We began to enjoy our view, with shining roof tiles, and pigeons stepping carefully around the puddles. Just before six o’clock we dressed in what was driest, and went out for a walk. The rain had stopped now, and people were taking to the streets again. They made a colourful display, many wearing billowing plastic macs in pastel blues, yellows and pinks, hurriedly brought out for sale by enterprising street vendors. Bright umbrellas were also out in force. And in a further artistic effect, the scenes were duplicated in the shiny street surfaces, still wet from the downpour, still, in places, rivaling the canals in their shimmering reflections.
We made our way to San Marco Square and, following Jim’s instincts, chose a delightful restaurant, Ki Or, to have dinner. The proprietor took an interest in us, and our choices, and peremptorily told us what would be good for us! He was right. Jim had fish soup and gnocchi, and I had tagliatelli. We added an excellent bottle of red wine.
After dinner and its consequent raising of our energy levels, we continued our walk, around San Marco, through some of Venice’s delightful narrow mazes, and eventually up onto the Accademia Bridge to enjoy the view along the Grand Canal. Here the rain began again, so we dove back down our narrow passage home. We continued our study of Italian watching a fortunately mostly slapstick comedy (we don’t have much vocabulary yet), and Jim made a last review of his paper for tomorrow.
Monday 18 September
We had brought a watch alarm with us, which was not needed, as we discovered our pigeons began their version of a dawn chorus at precisely six o’clock. Breakfast was served at eight. We were absolutely delighted to find Peter and Gloria Fuller already sitting in the breakfast room. We had not seen them since the Freiburg conference in 2004. There, too, was Lou Baldini, accompanied by his daughter, Peggy. We all exchanged news – what had happened to us all since our last meetings, also what had happened to us all yesterday. Gloria had shared our baggage disaster, with the additional problem that colours had run in some of the items, so she had had to wash and dry most of her clothes. She had resourcefully borrowed a hair dryer from the hotel management, and hastened the drying process a little. Soon afterwards, in came David Bogdanoff and his wife, Sue Ellen. They joined us at our table. We had all been motivated by the idea of staying close to the institute, and were happy to have only that short walk over the Ponte Giustiani, and across the square, to arrive on time this morning at nine o’clock.
The conference was held in the Palazzo Franchetti, the home of the Istituto Veneto di Scienze. Lettere e Arte. It is a fine three-storeyed palace, with Renaissance arched windows in a golden yellow facade looking down on the Grand Canal. It affords wonderful views of the Accademia Bridge. It looked its very best this morning in bright sunshine.
Palazzo Franchetti
We joined a line for registration, there meeting Lily and Ed Van Riet, Marc and Marlyse Giraud, Pamela and Dennis Baum. These are all familiar faces, and it was lovely to greet everyone and hear news. After registration, and being issued with our bags of conference goodies, we milled around in the large salon where the conference was to meet. A huge screen on the front wall disconcertingly showed us our own images, in real time. We waved, and photographed our virtual selves. Presently a rumour started that coffee – and champagne! – were being served in another room. This information checked out, and more excited conversation ensued. Larry and Jo Campbell arrived. I met Janet Speyer, another English lady. The ladies migrated to their own table in a chattering group. I learned sadly that Peggy and Don Berry are not expected this year – who will criticize my write-up now? Georgia and Bob Coulter – after meeting Georgia for the first time last year, I had looked forward to sharing Venice with her, but they are not expected. No sign of Don and Denise Grosch. Professor Takayama and his wife Chieko will arrive later. Vern and Rita Draxler arrived even now, straight from the plane, and with all symptoms of jet lag, but Rita wan’t going to miss this morning’s excursion, so she joined us now, anyway.
The scientists had already begun their morning session, and we munched on cookies and continued gossip until our guide arrived at eleven o’clock. Suzanna was to take us to and around the Accademia Gallery. First she told us a little about it. It had been much restored and extended during the past year, as previously it had contained only Venetian art. Now they wanted to extend their exhibits. It was a short walk, - during which Violet Henderson joined us, with the exciting news she is pregnant! Just across the Accademia Bridge, we clustered outside while Suzanna went in to buy our tickets.
A minor problem occurred as we were told we had to hand in bags at the entrance. Every single one of us had just been presented with an exactly identical bag by the conference organizers! The solution was to fasten our name tags, which of course were all different, to our bags before piling them into the gallery lockers.
I had visited this gallery once before, with a limited time schedule, so was looking forward to a more extensive tour, with the additional benefit of a knowledgeable guide. Suzanna warned us that now, too, there was no hope of seeing everything the gallery had to offer, but she would show us a representative selection from different eras.
So, we began our tour in the medieval room. Its crowning glory, to me, was its wooden ceiling (1461-84, restored 1992) decorated with golden cherubs, each with a different face and expression. We stood in front of an altarpiece by Veneziano , dating from around 1350. This is kind of a crossover piece from the Byzantine to the Renaissance style. Previously artists had been unnamed – their work was for the glory of God, and their individual identities were not considered important. Of course, this name means simply `the Venetian’, but it was a step towards artists, and their subjects, becoming individuals, rather than Byzantine copies and copiers. Byzantine gold, fixed expressions, hierarchic sizes, are still evident in this work.
Moving on to Room 2, our next artist was Giovanni Bellini (1434?- 1516). Suzanna pointed out the developing Renaissance features, the use of the arch to give perspective, the structure of triangles in the composition, the symbolism in the colours of the Virgin Mary’s clothes.
In Room 6 we came upon artists considered the giants of the Venetian school, beginning with Titian. Suzanna bemoaned the fact that the one Titian here is not typical of this great artist. (Most of his major works in Venice are still in situ, in the churches they were designed for.) This work, Saint John the Baptist, was apparently painted after a criticism from Michelangelo that `Venetians cannot draw.’ Therefore, Titian painted this portrait in oils, over a previously drawn sketch, which was not his usual method. That showed Michelangelo, though!
Tintoretto (1519-1594), a pupil of Titian, is well represented in the gallery. We looked at a couple of his paintings showing incidents in the life, death and legends of St Mark, the patron saint of Venice. One shows a most amazing depiction of movement, as the figure of St Mark swoops upside down from the sky to save a slave who had venerated his relics.
Veronese (1524-1588) painted one of the works I had visited on my previous visit, and now I enjoyed hearing its story over again. Veronese was commissioned to paint a Last Supper for a convent, but his finished work was judged heretical, because he had included dogs, cats, Protestants etc. in his composition. He was ordered to change it, in accordance with canonical tradition. Instead of changing the painting, he changed its title, renaming it Feast in the House of Levi. Levi, being a publican, could entertain mixed company at his table!
We skipped a few centuries here, as crowds blocked our chronological progression, and Suzanna diverted us into a small room containing portraits by Rosalba Carriera (1675-1758). Rosalba appealed to many of us with her glowing portraits, and we were sorry to hear the story behind her sad self-portrait. She had begun to suffer from glaucoma, and eventually went blind.
We then had to skip backwards, via Tiepolo and his angels, and Canaletto’s Capriccio (his demonstration piece, to show he was a master of perspective) to arrive back at a late Titian. It is a painting of Nicodemus lying prostrate in front of the Virgin. This pleading Nicodemus is in fact an allegorical self-portrait of Titian, and the painting was made for the Frari Church, in exchange for their allowing Titian to be buried there. Alas, his pleading was to no avail. He died at age 90 of the plague, and therefore had to be cremated, though he has a memorial in the church.
Suzanna had proved herself extremely knowledgeable, answering all questions put to her, and throwing in many little stories and anecdotes to maintain our interest. One more comes to mind – she had mentioned the Venetian obsession with blonde hair as a sign of beauty, and she told us how the little wooden balconies we saw atop many old palaces were used by historic Venetian beauties. They would dip their long hair in horse urine, put on a crownless brimmed hat, pull the hair through the crown and drape it over the brim, then sit out on the balcony in the sun to bleach their locks.
I also admired Suzanna’s command of English, even to the extent that she could make up an English word, when necessary, to convey her exact meaning. One word she used often was `dramatacy’, which should become an English word, in my opinion, with its evocation of drama, immediacy, even ecstasy – all very appropriate to the paintings she was describing.
Our tour had to end at one o’clock, and the gallery was due to close. We had to claim back our identical bags, and in the confusion I quickly ran back up the stairs (past security!) to buy a guide book.
Our afternoon was free, and we separated into various interest groups. A few of us in search of lunch straggled back across the Accademia Bridge, and were delighted to see Larry and Jim chatting out in the little formal garden, adding human interest to our view of the Palazzo Franchetti. In vain, though, did we wave, sign and whistle at them to pose and smile for us. Larry eventually noticed Jo, and pointed me out to Jim.
I crossed back to San Stefano Square – our home square – with Gloria, Rita, Marlyse, Jo, Peggy and Sue Ellen. We sat at two adjoining tables in the now bright sunlight. I was delighted to find on the menu a Tiepolo sandwich, and ordered one in his memory. Jo talked of her trip to Indonesia to visit her son. Rita told us the horrors of her flight. We all laughed about our various unfortunately bedraggled entries into Venice.
Following the Yellow Signs
Dwindling energies now left only five of us to set off for the adventure of a walk to the Rialto Bridge and back.
This area of Venice reminds me of the setting of the movie Labyrinth, where the heroine feels she is walking between high, impenetrable walls. These are so tall, there is no distant landmark to give a sense of direction, and so close together (about four persons wide) that one might at first feel claustrophobic. Yet, turn TOWARDS a wall at any point and some enchanting vista will open up. This may be a window into a crystal cave of Venetian glass and sparkling jewels, or feathered masks and exotic costumes, or leather gloves and books and bags, or rich textured fabrics. Or, it may be a `real’ view of a bridge, a canal, a sun-drenched piazza. Or, it may be a sudden turn, leading to yet another narrow passage. Some turns are deceptive – you may arrive unexpectedly at stairs leading down into a canal, and you have to retrace your steps. Walking in Venice is like a taking a magical, mystery journey, and should not be hurried.
We combined our navigational talents. Peggy actually carried a map, which would have been useful if the streets had been named. I shared my prior knowledge that there ARE clues to direction. High on the corners of the brick and plaster walls are fading yellow signs, which say – no, not `Camelot or Certain Death’, but San Marco or Rialto. If you really have a destination in mind, you can eventually find it. So, we arrived at the Rialto Bridge.
Now, all we had to do was return to the Accademia Bridge to get home. Sue Ellen, deceived by the idea that both these bridges were on the same canal, suggested following the canal. Of course, that only works if you’re a boat. Walkers have to dodge `inland’, cross bridges, avoid dragons … Unconvinced, she asked a nearby waiter, pointing - `How long to get to Accademia?’ He looked us up and down. `For me, 20 minutes,’ he said. `For you, 2 days.’ We decided to go back the way we came.
On the way, Peggy succumbed to our first purchase, buying a gorgeous black lace fan that called to her from a window. The rest of us contented ourselves with ice creams.
Now began this evening’s confusion. Jo and Larry were staying at a different hotel, so before Jo left us we all agreed to get together, with our menfolk at 7:00 in the lobby of the Foresteria Levi. We knew we had no means of contact before then, but had jocularly said that if our men had planned something different, we would talk them into agreeing with us.
Jim was `home’ before me. I arrived at about six. He said he, Larry and David had agreed to meet at 6:30 in San Stefano’s Square. I foolishly thought, no problem, then. We had said we’d have our plan override theirs, San Stefano was only four minutes away, Jo would probably bring Larry on from there for seven.
At about a quarter to seven there was a tremendous banging on our door – David stood there. `Where were you?’ he said. `We’ve been waiting at San Stefano’s since 6:30.’ I explained my reasoning, but Sue Ellen had caved, and gone along with David’s plan to meet Larry and Jo, abandoning all others. Now, David wanted to rush back, with us. But it wasn’t seven yet, and we didn’t know where Gloria and Peter, Rita and Vern, Peggy and Lou were. To assuage my guilt, I offered to run off to San Stefano to bring Larry and Jo here. David said we must all go, we did, but then I said I must return, or all the others would stand around waiting for us. By the time we got back, it was seven, and there they all were. We were now a confused party of twelve, and I resolved never again to attempt to organize anything.
Dinner for Twelve
A walking party of twelve is hard to keep together. At the first point where we saw a restaurant with mostly empty tables we stopped, negotiated for two tables to be moved together, and, with some of us unfamiliar with and uneasy at European prices, asked if there could be separate checks. No problem. The waiter made a great show of writing out separate pages. All seemed, at last, to be going well. We relaxed over our meals, enjoyed some good conversation, took pictures.
Admittedly, we were instrumental in screwing up the system. Sue Ellen changed her mind about her main course, and ordered an undocumented special. Extra bottles of water materialized. Desserts were added, without checking they went onto the right page. There was a cover charge for ambiance. So, at the end, we were presented with one humungous check. Suggestions to divide the whole amount by six were vetoed, so there followed a stringent accounting which came out so closely to the result of dividing by six that Rita and Gloria, the accountants, suggested we do that anyway. Not everyone was happy, and in this kind of situation someone sometimes feels ripped off, but we’ve come to accept occasional overcharging as a communal hazard of large groups.
Our darkened walk home was sweetened by the tones of a street singer singing Ave Maria.
Tuesday 19 September
This morning a mosquito took its turn to provide our early-morning wake-up call. We met our fellow-travellers, much refreshed, at breakfast. Rita got a lesson in Universal Spoken English (our name for the simplest form of English its best to speak when traveling). A pleasant Italian lady set out our breakfast tables each morning, and made tea or coffee using one or two basic methods. You could say `regular’, you could say `cappuchino’, you could say `latte’, you could say `tea’, and you would get exactly what you wanted. Rita got into some complicated sentence where she wanted to stress `NOT decaffineated.’ The lady tried to apologise that she didn’t have decaffineated, thinking that’s what Rita wanted. Rita tried again – same result. In the end we all chorused `Its OK, its NOT decaffineated’ and Rita retired happy. What kind of coffee she then got, I don’t know.
David and Sue Ellen joined us at our table again. I repeated my apologies about last night’s meeting, and my resolve not to try to organize anything else. David suggested he arrange this evening. I left matters in his capable hands.
It was soon time to leave, and Venice was raining again, so we put up our umbrellas. To my great delight, Chieko AND her grand-daughter, Chi Se, joined us this morning, and we exchanged effusive greetings. The Takayama party was in yet another hotel, and the ladies exchanged notes on rooms. Apparently every Venetian hotel has its quirks, even the most expensive ones. I revealed the embarrassing detail of our one full length mirror. It is actually IN the shower, and it is barrel-shaped, thereby accentuating my own barrel shape. I confess I am always more comfortable once it has steamed over.
Katerina was our guide today. Peter joined us as a truant, and companions from other hotels joined us en route, so today our number settled to fifteen persons. Marisa joined us, also two new ladies from Baltimore, but there was no Violet, and no Dennean.
Katerina stopped in the first square to introduce us to interesting facts about Venice. She told us the city was founded in 810AD, when the first inhabitants fled from the Barbarian hordes, and decided to use the sea as their defence. She described how St Mark’s remains were smuggled here underneath layers of pork, to prevent investigation. She explained how St Mark was `adopted’ as a patron saint in a political ploy to rival St Peter’s patronage of Rome, when Venice wanted to be seen as a growing power. She talked about the differing ages of Venetian buildings. She mentioned that the cost of a two-bedroomed flat in Venice is now about 355,000 euros, so no young people can live here, so there is no night life. She pointed out the effects of the present storm system, and this morning’s rain – the level of the canals is so high, gondolas and other boats cannot move yet, as they cannot get underneath the lowest bridges. She pointed out the yellow signs we had used yesterday, in this area saying `per San Marco’ and `per Accademia”, so we would know our way home if we got lost. All this information was imparted in a gentle, warm rain which gradually humidified our skin and our hair.
Zodiac Clock
As we reached San Marco the rain stopped, but its effects remained. These were actually quite beautiful. The ornate domes of the Doges Palace were reflected with sharpest clarity in the flooded square. At the far end – the deep end! – pedestrians had to walk on temporary duckboards, placed strategically to form paths to pass from store to store, from restaurant to tourist attraction, without getting their feet wet. A few rebel spirits were splashing in the water. `Hmmph,’ snorted Katerina. `You can tell they’re tourists. No Venetian would touch that water – they know where it’s been.’
We walked directly into the Doges Palace with prepaid tickets, but were immediately part of a pressing throng. Katerina adopted the standard guides’ practice of telling us a little history while we waited.
The Doges Palace is a work in progress – since the ninth century! Sebastiani Ziani (Doge from 1172-1178) transformed a castle that stood on this site into a dogal residence which included administrative offices. In the fifteenth century that Byzantine structure was enlarged by the addition of Gothic features. The major part of today’s palace dates from the sixteenth century restoration it underwent after a disastrous fire in 1577. It remained the symbol of Venetian ducal power until 1797, the end of the last dogeate, that of Lodovico Marin. The doges were, for the most part, elected late in life, because they were supposed to be wise figureheads, not wielders of power.
We proceeded through a series of dark rooms. It was difficult to follow our guide’s narrative because there were so many competing guides, leading groups loudly in several languages. At some point its probably best to relax and enjoy what you see without knowing much about it, to be impressed, as early ambassadors were intended to be, by the sheer opulence. For detailed descriptions of all the wealth, all the architecture, all the art, my readers had better consult the guide book. This was VERY thick, and I didn’t buy one.
We passed upstairs via a magnificent staircase, which I photographed without any problem, and bypassed a room or two walking along an outside corridor. Here we passed one of the notorious telltale letterboxes. Citizens were encouraged to inform on fellow citizens whom they suspected of crimes, or even political incorrectness, by putting a note into the open mouth. A proviso was that the note must be signed, so the accusation could be properly investigated. I photographed one of these, also.
Returning inside, in one of the council rooms I unthinkingly raised my lens towards the ceiling, took a shot, and was immediately surrounded by agitated whispers and tut-tuttings – NO PICTURES. I became aware that I had bounced my photons off a Veronese, and hastily lowered my camera. `I’ll put your name in the letterbox,’ teased Pamela. `At least, turn off your flash,’ she added.
Sound advice. In the next room, the Collegio, I was fascinated by a huge Zodiac clock. It informed us that we were at about half past Virgo, and Libra would be coming up next.
More palace intrigue was indicated as we were shown a disguised door, leading to a secret passage. Those with power were able to pass hither and yon through the palace, without anyone knowing their whereabouts, via these secret routes.
Bridge of Sighs
The next part of the tour is designed to contrast vividly with the previous splendour. We were led across the Bridge of Sighs, the bridge that links the Doges Palace with the prison and torture rooms across the canal. Even today, these cells are dank and depressing. One can sense the despair of prisoners who were led from their trial in the magnificent courtroom to spend probably the rest of their lives in misery and terror. Even the beauty of the bridge and its carvings cannot eradicate this impression.
Back in the final room of the palace I was intrigued by the symbolism of the black veil covering the face of Faliero, a doge discredited and beheaded in 1355, memorialized there amongst all the portraits of more honourable doges.
The exit routes were extremely crowded. Each group had to wait for those ahead to step out onto the temporary duckboard pathways, and these were not wide enough to cope with many people at a time. I loitered a little in the bookshop, and found I had lost my companions in the crowd. This was OK, as when I did get out I spent some time trying to get perfect reflection shots, without getting my feet wet.
At the far end of the square I came upon a Post Office, so bought some postcards, and stamps, and sent a couple winging off to England. Following the yellow signs home was easy, though interrupted with much window shopping. I passed a major bookstore, so went in to see if I could find an Italian version of Cinderella to add to my collection of Cinderella books. Sure enough, in Italian she is called Cenerentola, and I was able to spend eight euros on a delightful native edition told and illustrated in Italian, not just the ubiquitous Disney pictures with a translation.
The weather was by now really warm, and, passing a sandwich shop, I went in and fluently pointed to a Genovese sandwich. Adding a bottle of water, I had an instant picnic which I could eat overlooking a Venetian view. Perfect.
Thinking I would return to the hotel to cool off, I ran into Jim there. He had decided to take off early to find somewhere to paint. We walked together to San Barnabas Square, where I left him with his sketch book and watercolours, and wandered a little more myself.
At six o’clock we met back at the hotel, ready for David’s meeting time of 7:00. Though it was David’s arrangement, in fact he wouldn’t be able to make it. Sue Ellen had arranged a separate romantic evening during which she would explain to him that he had bought her some Venetian jewelry. Eight of us, then, set off from Foresteria – Rita and Vern, Gloria and Peter, Lou and Peggy, Jim and me. We were leaderless and without a plan, so set off to see what the Universe would suggest. Our pace proved too brisk for Lou, who at a certain point said he would walk no further, and he left, saying he’d decided not to eat tonight.
Only about 50 feet further along the street we found Al Vaporetto. Their pictures and prices looked good. Their tables were immovable, but we took two adjacent ones, with Peter, Gloria and Peggy at one, Rita, Vern, Jim and me at the other. We had a great meal, and reminisced over old times, as well as discussing the future of the ARA.
On our walk back we passed our friendly neighbourhood opera singer, and some stayed longer to listen to her beautiful voice. Tonight I had borrowed `the’ hotel hair dryer, so spent some time washing and curling my hair before bed. Jim took the opportunity to fix and set up one of the two fans in our room, so we could close our windows all but a crack.
Wednesday 20 September
In spite of this, when I awoke at 6:30 I found I had a set of mosquito bites on my one shoulder that was outside the bedcovers.
Today the whole conference was to take an excursion together to Padua. Breakfast was at the usual time. Everyone was to meet at the Piazzale Roma, the bus station outside of town. We had previously discussed walking there, but this morning agreed that, since we were probably going to be walking most of the day, we would save our strength and get to the bus station by boat.
Our party crossed the Accademia Bridge to catch the Number One steamer to its terminus. That part was easy. We didn’t really know where to go once we got to the Piazza. Buses of all kinds and colours stretched away in every direction, so we sent out scouts to find what might be ours. Gloria found the two buses for us. A lady guide stood beside them with a notice. As we climbed on board, I suggested it might be a good idea to put up a sign where the boats came in. `No, madam, the meeting place is here.’ Well, yes, but it took some time for groups of bewildered scientists, most with no Italian and many with no Roman alphabet, to figure out `here’ from `there.’
At last we were all gathered, and we set off to drive to Padua, about 30km west of Venice. Jim and I sat behind Gloria and Peter, and opposite Pamela and Dennis. Gloria told us about meeting the Queen at a Buckingham Palace garden party, we countered with our meeting the scientist who made a hologram of the Queen, and we all agreed we liked Rolf Harris.
By eleven o’clock we were in Padua and pulling into the gates of the university. Here came a surprise announcement. `Scientists interested in visiting the laboratory, get off. Accompanying persons, stay on.’ Apparently we were to be separated for the morning, visiting two entirely different universities. Our menfolk hastily gathered their stuff and left the bus, the accompanying persons from the other bus joined ours. Our guide now introduced herself as Raffaela, and her companion as Valentina. She began explaining our itinerary to those seated near the front, and it reached the rest of us in a series of Chinese Whispers, so I still didn’t really know what was going on. One disappointment reached me. I had been sure – so sure, I’d never questioned – that our tour of Padua must include the Scrovegni Chapel. This is famous throughout the world, right? The reason most people would come to Padua? The place of pilgrimage for all art historians to see the best preserved frescoes of Giotto? Well, we wouldn’t be going there. Only small, sterilized, pre-booked parties were allowed. Darn!!
Turns out we had left the scientists at The University of Padua, and we companions now alighted at The Old University. Our first priority was a rest room, and there was some consternation when the nearest Ladies turned out to be locked! Messengers were sent out to bring back a key and, in the meantime, the unoccupied Gents next door was used as an emergency measure, those still in line outside keeping watch for those inside. That worked fine until the key arrived, which happened while I was in the Gents. The line disappeared into the Ladies. Emerging from my cubicle I came face to – er- face with a lone gentleman. We both panicked. He looked around agitatedly at the furnishings, to make sure he was in the right place. While he was thus distracted, I fled, to berate my companions next door for leaving me in such a situation.
OK, now, where are we? What is this Old University? It’s a very odd mixture of buildings, founded in 1222, and with its most recent façade completed in 1922. Galileo taught here!!
We entered the complex via a courtyard whose walls were lined with many memorials and coats of arms, from which we were led to a museum room. The first teaching of medicine happened here, with the first use of corpses to train surgeons. A large metal automaton stood in one corner, its body like an open cage. Our guide confessed no-one knows if this was a teaching tool, or an instrument of torture. A wooden model in the center of this room showed the construction of Il Teatro Anatomico. This is like a large inverted cone, with tiers of seats looking down onto a central table. Here the master surgeon would demonstrate his skill, while students observed. We now moved into a side room, to find ourselves at the bottom of this cone, looking upward. We were in the position of the experimented-upon! This theatre was in use until 1792.
Our next stop was in the Hall of the Forty. A huge, wooden, home-made lectern dominated the room. Known simply as Galileo’s Desk, it was made for him by his students to help his voice carry further. Paintings of famous scientists line the walls. One is of William Harvey, the English scientist who discovered the circulation of the blood. No photography was allowed in this room.
Moving back downstairs, on the stairway we passed a statue in a glass case. This is Elena Lucrezia Cornaro Piscopia, the first graduate woman in the world (1679) She was allowed to study only literature and philosophy, but not theology. The Pope would not allow this – he considered it too dangerous.
Chieko and Chise, Padua
Our tour was over, and back in the street we were told we had half an hour to spare before lunch. Wandering at will, I made my way around the nearest piazza, photographing ornate windows, visited the Tourist Information Office (who had no information on The Old University), and browsed in an open-air market.
Raffaella then walked us to the restaurant where our menfolk were to join us. Seating got a little complicated, as some tried to save adjacent seats for their partners. This brought me two seats down from Janet Speyer, whose husband, Bryan, then serendipitously walked in with Jim. Peter and Gloria also sat together at our table. Opposite sat a line of lone males, including Lou.
Jan introduced me to Bryan, now sitting between us, and as he realized I was attached to Jim he also realized he already knew a lot about me. He knew, for instance, that we had a mutual friend, Peter Baseley, who had taught his two sons at Worcester School. Turned out also Bryan’s company’s camera may be of use in one of Jim’s company’s experiments, so we all had much to talk about.
At the far end of our table I overheard two (I think Israeli) guys discussing their first experience of Venice. They had arrived in the same weather we had, plus had had to zig zag from city to city in Italy through it, got lost in Venice’s rain-soaked streets, had to hoist their bags up and down innumerable bridges … one of then confessed, he had called his family and said `Venice? Its awful. I’m gonna give my talk today then come straight home.’ Fortunately he had had some pleasanter experiences since then, and was still here.
An excellent and substantial lunch arrived – fortunately, as we were to need much energy for the afternoon.
Baptistery of the Cathedral, Padua
Our group was too large to march together through Padua, so we were split into two groups. Raffaella led us past `typical Renaissance buildings’ to the Baptistery of the Cathedral. Here she showed us the frescoes of Giusto de Menabuoi, painted in 1376/78. For a brief moment, as I entered the room, I thought I saw a Giotto angel, and held my breath. Unfortunately, this was soon explained. Every fresco by Menabuoi, though `inspired by Giotto’ was immediately acknowledged to be an `inferior copy’ of the master’s work. How sad it was, to be here in Giotto’s city, but to be shown only inferior copies of his masterpiece.
On we walked to St Anthony’s Basilica, begun in 1232 and completed at the end of the thirteenth century. Its skyline is impressive and dominant, made up of eight domes, twin bell-towers, and two minarets. It was a relief to walk inside, where the air was cooler, and where pilgrims’ feet could be surreptitiously cooled on the marble floor. Our guide took us almost around the complete circuit of the structure. It is massive. Built in the shape of a Latin cross, with a nave and two aisles, its central high altar features a crucifix by Donatello. Behind this, nine radial chapels form a semi-circle. The chapels contain further sculptures depicting the miracles of St Anthony. The Treasury Chapel contains several relics of St Anthony including, rather gruesomely, his tongue and his chin.
St. Anthony's Basilica, Padua
St. Anthony's Basilica, Padua
Sadly there was no time to explore the city walls, nor the Botanical Gardens, as we now had a date with the Mayor of Padua, and must hasten back to his parlour to meet him. Various officials greeted us as we, the first group, filed into the council chamber. I felt a little self-conscious as four or five cool, suited gentlemen in turn shook my sticky hand. These were dignitaries whose titles I’m afraid I cannot remember, much less translate, but they looked important, and we had, of course, been tramping their hot, humid streets all day. At least some of us in the first group got the chance to freshen up a little in the nearby restroom before the festivities, but the second group was not so fortunate. As soon as they joined us, the ceremonies began.
With one of our scientists from the University of Padua translating, the mayor gave the first speech. To summarize, he told us what a great and mighty city Padua is, what a long history it has, how important it now is in international trade and goodwill, and what an honour it was for us to be here and meet him.
Great credit should be given to Dennis, our president, who now rose to give an excellent speech in reply. To summarize, he told the mayor what a great and mighty organization the ARA is, what a long history it has, how many nations it represents, and what an honour it was for Padua to meet us.
These pleasantries over, and Dennis presented with a guide book of Padua, we all adjourned to an adjacent salon, elegantly decorated, and bounteously supplied with goodies. We drank wine, juice and punch, and munched on many kinds of finger food. Once the food was all gone, we took this as our signal to leave with many thanks for excellent hospitality.
It seemed a long way back to the bus, enlivened, though, by one street poster advertising `monumental itineraries.’ Well, you know what they meant – but we felt like we’d just had one!
Rush hour traffic out of Padua gave us the opportunity for naps on the bus. We arrived back at the Piazzale Roma at about seven. There was a mad rush of tired tourists to catch a boat home, and Jim and I, Rita and Vern, and the Takayamas were the only ones to squeeze onto the first to leave, an 82. This meant we were just in time to photograph the sunset over the darkening Grand Canal.
Back at the Foresteria, we weren’t sure if we wanted to walk any more, or needed to eat anything else, so we agreed with Rita and Vern to contact them in an hour to decide. At about 8:30 our decision was to go together only as far as San Stefano’s Square for a sandwich. I ordered another Tiepolo, and Jim ordered a Titian. Unfortunately our orders got switched, and before I noticed, I had taken a bite of Titian’s anchovy!
We exchanged stories with Rita and Vern, they telling us tales of Minnesota’s ice and snow and fishing. Bryan and Jan happened to walk by our table, and added tales of Hemel Hempstead and its roundabouts.
An ice cream store called to us, and pistachio ice cream made a perfect dessert to eat on the way home.
Thursday 21 September
Routine now wakes us just before our alarm, and just before the pigeon chorus. We ate breakfast at our usual table, this morning with Rita and Vern. I walked to the Palazzo Franchetti with Gloria and Rita, this morning with my hair pinned up and tucked into a hat, hoping this would feel cooler if today continued hot.
Today’s guide, Milla, started off as usual over the Accademia Bridge, but paused in the middle to enjoy the view, and to tell us a little Venetian history. Each guide has a slightly different slant, or a different interest, so we pick up new snippets each day. Milla, for instance, was `into’ masks. At our next stop, outside a store specializing in these, she told us some history of the Venice Carnival, when it became traditional to adopt a second, secret identity. Many masks, though now produced in many forms for tourists, echo the traditional designs. The one with a long bill, for example, represents a doctor in the time of the plague. The bill was stuffed with herbs to ward off dangerous smells, and his long cane was used to touch patients who might be infectious. The `bauta’ is a white-faced mask, and represents a nobleman.
Frari Church, showing Titian's Altarpiece
Today we diverged through St Barnabas’ Square, and walked on to the Frari Church – its full title being The Basilica Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari. It was built with a grateful endowment from someone called Nicolas, who ate a lettuce from the friars’ garden and was miraculously cured. We had some problems counting ourselves to get tickets – we were seventeen persons this morning, but Chi Se only counted as half a person, and one Italian companion had an annual pass … we observed a notice forbidding many activities within the church, but I was happy to see photography was allowed, without a flash.
We spent some time clustered around the pyramid-shaped tomb of Canova, an architect, and moved on to Titian’s memorial.
The most famous of Titian’s paintings in the church, the one reproduced on the tickets, is the magnificent altarpiece, the Pala dell’Assunta (1516). This takes pride of place at the front of the church, under the huge arched apse with its many windows. I also really enjoy his Pala Pesaro. This shows St Peter in the center, presenting the family who commissioned the painting to Mary, seated on a marble throne. Among the members of the family on the right, a small child stares out of the painting at the viewer, as Milla put it, `inviting us to be included.’ In a magnificent side chapel we are told illuminated golden containers contain relics of Christ’s blood.
Amanda and Janet aboard a gondola
View from our gondola
The next excitement of today was to be a ride in a gondola. Three had been reserved for us, and Milla hurried us along narrow streets to the canal’s edge to meet them, and our gondoliers. I was in the second, with Gloria, Janet and Amanda.
Once settled in, and pushed off, the motion of the gondola was very relaxing, the mood quiet, with the water lapping gently at our sides. We photographed each other, and this new viewpoint of Venice. The water was still high – we noticed many wet steps and doors. Our gondoliers were experts, easily negotiating each bridge and turn as it came. We were delighted to be photographed in our turn by tourists on the bridges, and volunteered our most elegant waves. Our gondoliers did not sing – they joined in teasing each other to do so – but apparently this is a specialist skill.
Entering the Grand Canal, the water became a little more choppy. We were pulled alongside each other, providing many photo-opportunities in the bright sunlight.
Rita and Jo enjoy Lunch
All too soon our ride was over, and we alighted near San Stefano’s Square. Jo, Gloria, Rita, Peggy and I decided to have lunch at what was now our `regular’ restaurant, and I ventured on Toast Vegetariano, which was excellent. We had a brief discussion about what to wear at this evening’s banquet. Traditionally, this event at the end of the conference calls for formal dress, but this evening we would be walking to it through the streets, and calling on the way at San Marco’s Church. Needed careful planning, and we vetted each other’s proposed compromises so no one need fear being too dressed up nor too dressed down.
Masked Venetian
The afternoon was now free for us to wander at will, and we all had purchases we’d been thinking about during the week. I had decided to buy myself some Venetian glass jewelry, and it was a great pleasure to stroll through the streets with this quest. I found a necklace and earrings in La Cornucopia. A kind assistant helped me try them on. Of course she approved of my choice, and, fortunately, so did I. For the rest of the afternoon I photographed the amazingly beautiful Venetian scenes all around me, the highly decorated gondolas, the lighted window displays, the reflections of ornate buildings in the waters of the canals.
On my walk back along a slightly different route I came upon a small store, Angolo Veneziano, with Christmas glass on display, and I saw in the window a Santa Claus I decided to buy for my sister, who collects these. Inside the store, I then beheld a glass Christmas tree, each branch decorated with a tiny glass hanging angel. I collect angels, so I couldn’t pass this by, could I? Unfortunately I stepped into the store a few minutes behind two American ladies, who were cooing and faffing over the Christmas stuff, picking up one piece, then changing it for another, and another, while two long-suffering gentlemen tourists stood by.
`What do you think, honey?’
`Whatever you want, baby.’
There was one harassed young assistant, who smiled over at me and apologized, but I said it was OK, I could wait. The ladies took another ten minutes, finally leaving a pile of assorted glass pieces on the counter, all of which must be carefully individually wrapped.
`Will you take care of that?’ signaled one to her husband, as she swept on to the next scene of plunder. Obediently producing his credit card, the gentleman grinned sheepishly at me and the assistant, each of us trying not to betray any opinion. `I guess that’s what men are for, on these trips,’ he shrugged.
Before the Banquet
Finally it was my turn, and the assistant began very carefully and very nervously on each of my tiny angels. She confided that she was not a good packer, and her mother packaged all her Christmas gifts for her! Her final advice - `Keep this in hand luggage. And I will pray for you.’ (I am happy to report that her prayers worked. Every angel made it safely home with me.)
Strolling back towards San Stefano I ran into Jo, and we laughed at each others’ packages. Temptation had caught up with both of us on our last day. On the last straight I passed our didgery doo player – another street entertainer who had become one of our favourites.
Jim arrived `home’ shortly after I did, at about five o’clock. We prepared ourselves for this evening’s banquet, and I topped off my outfit with a touch of Venetian glass jewelry, which was later admired. Everyone gathered in their finery around the Palazzo Franchetti gates, until Raffaella led us off towards San Marco’s Square. We made a very elegant procession, and when we got to the square many of us took the opportunity to take photographs of each other against the impressive facades.
Entering St Mark’s we were handed over to another guide, Fiona, whose manner was amazingly chirpy and excited, as she promised us a spine-tingling experience. Once we were all seated safely in the darkened church, all the lights were turned off, leaving us in complete darkness. Then, to spectacular effect, the lights illuminating the golden mosaic ceiling were brought back, very gradually, so the rippling golden glow spread ever brighter above our heads. Eventually, like a dawning sunrise, the whole scene was suffused with the reflection of the amazing shades of gold and amber. It was indeed a miraculous effect.
On the Way to the Banquet
Now three guides led us in three groups around the church, describing all the paintings and all the works of art, the most intricate of which is a golden altarpiece, the pala d’oro, a 10-12th century piece consisting of cloisonné enamel paintings surrounded with gold leaf, inset with around 200 precious stones. It is an amazing piece of craftsmanship.
A mercifully brief visit to the crypt concluded our tour. To be honest, this felt dank and oppressive, especially after the glories above, and I was glad, then, that our tour proceeded outside into fresh air.
Our six course banquet awaited us at the Ristorante Antico Martini, serving satisfied customers, we are told, since 1720. We worked up a good appetite, walking there in the dark, and filed into a long and elegant room set with long and elegant tables. Jim and I were seated with the Takayamas, Marc and Marlyse, David and Sue Ellen, and Ed and Lily. Two complete menus were offered – one planned around a fish entree, the other around beef. There was no translation from the Italian, so I cannot be sure what each contained, but both were pronounced excellent.
Our table conversation was lively. We exchanged experiences of Bedfordshire, in England, with the Takayamas, and we were honoured to discover we were sharing in a Wedding Anniversary celebration with Marc and Marlyse, who had spent their honeymoon in Venice 44 years ago.
Between the main course and the dessert Dennis rose to give an excellent presidential speech. He remarked on his learning experiences in the city of Venice. All methods of getting here from the airport were weird, he had walked at night along dark alleys he would never dream of entering into at home, he had experienced the frustration of seeing a coffee shop from his window, and being completely unable to get to it in a straight line. As a projectile specialist, he said, he had found this disconcerting at first, but was now beginning to find it quite fun that there are no straight lines in Venice.
Several awards followed, and then a presentation to Marc and Marlyse, as this is Marc’s last conference before retirement. We had hoped the next conference would be held in South Africa, but sadly this venue is again postponed, and we are all invited to meet next year in White Sands, New Mexico. And so this conference officially ended.
Fish Market
Friday 22 September
Jim arranged two delightful luxuries. Although we are leaving Venice today, he reserved our room through tonight, so we don’t have to rush around, pack, check out, and be cluttered with baggage all day. We still have our base to come back to at any time. He also ordered a water taxi to take us to the airport, maximizing the time we have left in Venice, and minimizing the discomfort of our journey. My hero!
So, we took breakfast a little later than usual, joined at our table by David. (Sue Ellen was sleeping in.) Jim had a brief meeting with Bryan over at the Palazzo Franchetti, then we walked on to make a photographic expedition to the morning fish market. Other produce is sold here – we tried creative shots of mushrooms, figs, sunflowers – but the many species of fish on display make the most surreal pictures.
Reflections, St Barnabas Square
We strolled on to one of our favourite squares, St Barnabas, and enjoyed a brioche and camomile tea in the Café del Artist. What a wonderful combination. Jim painted here for a while, and I wandered taking more photographs.
We moved on to Peggy Guggenheim’s art gallery overlooking the Grand Canal. Peggy Guggenheim began collecting art in the 1930s, and was a patron of several then unknown young American artists, like Robert Motherwell, Mark Rothko, Clyfford Still, and especially Jackson Pollock. She discovered Jackson Pollock while he could still paint, and supported him as he moved on through Abstract Expressionism. She married Max Ernst, one of the early Surrealists.
In Peggy Guggenheim's Garden
In her Venice collection there are therefore many famous names, but many of their works are not typical, being examples of their early explorations. This is extremely interesting from the point of view of art history. For example, she has Mondrians which show his progression from early abstract, before he discovered his formalized and familiar coloured squares, she has Pollocks that look positively realistic, she has Giacomettis before his models became emaciated, and she has a Rothko painted before he discovered floating rectangles.
To my great delight, she has a Kota guardian among her African collection!
The grounds of the museum are a delight. As well as affording views over the Grand Canal, (an atypical angel, Marini’s Angel of the City, shows a Cycladic-like figure riding a horse possibly about to gallop out onto the water) - the gardens contain fascinating sculptures. An optical piece in the rose garden gives mysterious floating images of its observers. We were intrigued to observe what turned out to be a `fake’ Duane Hanson asleep on one of the garden benches!
Peggy Guggenheim loved this spot so much, she has chosen to be buried here, along with her dogs.
We moved on to our last resting place of the day, the Basilica della Salute, where we sat for a while on its steps. Jim sketched, and I contemplated. We walked home via the Zatteria steamer stop, interested to find out for future reference if this would be a good place to enter Venice. We walked alongside the ocean. Our last meal was taken at a restaurant we had visited before, where I chose again a Genovese sandwich. We finished our packing, made successful by the brilliant idea of exchanging briefcases, so Jim carried my narrow one, and I took his wider one, which would successfully transport my fragile angels in hand luggage.
Our water taxi arrived slightly early, but we were ready, and enjoyed an exhilarating ride in our very own transport. We said farewell to the buildings that had become familiar to us along the Grand Canal, enjoyed the whipping wind and bouncing waves as our young driver sped out over the ocean, and looked back on a wonderful glowing sunset over the Venice skyline.
Last View of Venice