I cannot adequately - even after writing about my beloved city for so long, - describe my delirium in returning to Venice, apart from a sensation of being lifted simulanteously off the world and back onto it in a bubble of pure delight. This is the city of my heart: where I found myself, where I found that I was capable of love again - of shoes and handbags, and a language, and a man.
I'd sobbed when I left, broken hearted, because I'd wanted to be here for Carnevale, the mad masked show in mid winter, and had to leave early because my daughter chose that week for their wedding. Now I'm back - with the man as my new husband, delighted to show him the light and life of this mysterious city. To show him what makes my heart dance and my spirits soar. To let him see me behind a camera, capturing my world.
And we're here, for Carnevale, on honeymoon, just as he promised.
So happy was I to be here, that when we were waiting for the orange line Alilaguna - the speedboat from Marco Polo airport to the Grand Canal - (E8 for me with my IMob Venezia card left over from 2011, and E15 for Reno sans his) I did a happy dance on the rocking pontoon, singing ... Oooh, I'm so happy to be back in Venice, tra la la la laaaa. A traveller from Paris smiled, asked me how long it had been since my last visit. And so we began to talk, all the way in, on the silver calm water in just above zero temperatures. His name is Gaspare Manos, he said, handing us his card. He's an artist. Have a look at my work, he said. He lives in Paris, with his wife and baby. He has children in Venice, he's the son of a diplomat, old established Venetian family. We should get together after we've settled in. We docked at Rialto, calm and uncluttered, readying and steadying itself for the madness of Carnevale, the secondary reason for us being here, said goodbye to Gaspare, we'll meet again.
Fosca met us as arranged and walked us over ponte and scale and down narrow calli to our apartment, a splendid, if ridiculously over the top, Victorian, Rococo designed, apartment a few hundred metres from both Rialto and San Marco. She's the go-between for the owner, an architect named Giovanni Broccolini Pasta Sempre or whatever.
So happy was I to be here, that when we were waiting for the orange line Alilaguna - the speedboat from Marco Polo airport to the Grand Canal - (E8 for me with my IMob Venezia card left over from 2011, and E15 for Reno sans his) I did a happy dance on the rocking pontoon, singing ... Oooh, I'm so happy to be back in Venice, tra la la la laaaa. A traveller from Paris smiled, asked me how long it had been since my last visit. And so we began to talk, all the way in, on the silver calm water in just above zero temperatures. His name is Gaspare Manos, he said, handing us his card. He's an artist. Have a look at my work, he said. He lives in Paris, with his wife and baby. He has children in Venice, he's the son of a diplomat, old established Venetian family. We should get together after we've settled in. We docked at Rialto, calm and uncluttered, readying and steadying itself for the madness of Carnevale, the secondary reason for us being here, said goodbye to Gaspare, we'll meet again.
Fosca met us as arranged and walked us over ponte and scale and down narrow calli to our apartment, a splendid, if ridiculously over the top, Victorian, Rococo designed, apartment a few hundred metres from both Rialto and San Marco. She's the go-between for the owner, an architect named Giovanni Broccolini Pasta Sempre or whatever. It's a splendid old palazzo from the mid 1800's, with grand terrazzo floors, carved columns and tall shuttered windows that look down onto crumbling stones and into rooms of our neighbours, voices ringing from the cobbles below. At first inspection, fabulous. Then we look around, um, where's the laundry. Laundry? Sorry, no laundry. There isn't a hairdryer. Hairdryer? You're a woman, and it's winter in Venice and you need a hairdryer? But we pay the rest of our month's rent, in E cash, as requested, thank you very much, accept the bottle of champagne in a plastic carrier bag plonked on the table, and start to unpack.
The apartment looks as if it should be in an architectural magazine, for it's apparent effective use of space. But when you've compromised a kitchen and laundry, the space is just that - visual. The kitchen is beneath a white bench, with only a double hotplate and the cupboards open backwards. The sink tap must be depressed before the "lid" can be put down ... and the kitchen is so small, it's impossible for anyone to help. As for the stairs ... you have to walk up them with your legs apart as they are one big step, one little step. and after falling down them the first night and realising that if there was a serious injury, we wouldn't know who to call, decided that the "design by brilliant Italian architect" (from Giovanni's email) was a death trap. The bed is on a mezzanine, surrounded by glass on two sides, and only a waist high railing on the steps side - no glass or railing as protection. One midnight foot in the wrong direction, trying to find the loo without bumping your head on the ceiling so low that Reno had to put up a luggage tag as a reminder not to give himself brain damage, and you'd be a pile of broken bones at the bottom of the steps. Seriously scary. If we live to tell the tale.The upstairs shower leaks everywhere, the basin tap is broken so that it comes off in our hand. The heated towel rail doesn't work.
But Venice waited beyond our gorgeous hand carved doors and the sour faced woman at the entrance whose job it was it intimidate anyone who dared leave with a smile on their face. Or was she put in her little glass entry box to count the number of guests allowed in the apartments? Invent stories of comings and goings?
As soon as we'd unpacked, we went in search of a supermarket. Like everything in this secretive city, essential services are well hidden behind heavy doors. One twist and a faulty turn and the shop you thought was within reach is an olympic walk away. I took Reno to the only supermarket I knew for sure existed: all the way to San Toma, which led us away from Rialto and into less touristy areas. We filled our little basket with pasta, cheese, salami, and the essential finoccio, fennel, which we love in our salads, made a small lunch on the long refectory table in the apartment, and then tried to find San Marco, which was apparently very close.
As everyone who has been to, or even lives in, Venice knows, nothing is where you think it is. Suffice to say that the first day it took us an hour to reach San Marco, where I sat on one of the yellow plastic chairs belonging to a dangerously expensive coffee shop, in a cold wind, watching the mists across the lagoon hover above the cupolas of various churches. Gondolas bobbed, gulls screeched and crash landed into the puddle of water on the square, where tourists sloshed in shallow puddles. I sat in the weak sun, drinking in the atmosphere, pinching myself that I was here again.
Reno said he'd worked out that Venice was so calming to the soul because, unlike a city with cars, there was no unnatural stop and start, just a natural ebb and flow, which allowed the rhythm of the city to match that of the body. I liked that.
We met Gaspare the following day, in La Cafe in Campo San Stefano, a large campo of restaurants and coffee shops. We talked non stop, of life and the universe. He then took us to his studio, on the first floor of a fabulous 16th century cold stone palazzo with a cistern in the middle and murals on the ceilings. The walls are lined with his large collection of diverse styled contemporary paintings (He’s exhibited with Miro, Klee, Pisarro, Picasso, Renoir, Bonnard, Braque, Chagall. Lucien Freud is a friend who influenced his work. ) He's the son of a diplomat who’s lived in many continents, and currently live in Kenya, with Samburu Warriors as "servants". We lunched back in the campo, on pasta vongole and Bellini, and Gaspare then took us also to his family palazzo - an enormous stone building off a narrow fondamente on the canal. It's filled with the treasures his father collected over the years. Gaspare is planning on doing a mural on the ceiling of the family palazzo and open it to the public for the next biennale. The following day he took us to a restaurant called La Madonna filled with the who's who of famous Venetians where the waiter genuflected and led us to a private table. I commented on the painting behind my head. He said it was an Italian artist, and worth over 70000 E. Has a fascinating family history … lives in Paris, painting in a studio at the back of a chateau. He's invited us to visit him in Paris, which we may do from London.
Quoting Gaspare when I complemented him on a canvas: "I feel totally empty and very excited I thing I may have painted something very important in terms of development in my stile and thinking."
Dawn and some other friends had given us a dinner cruise on an 18th century galleon as a wedding present, redeemable on Valentine's day. It was a cold and frosty night, but we dressed in our wedding clothes, rode the vaporetto to Zattere, where nobody batted an eyelid at my outfit, and spent a wonderful evening eating the finest fish, with the most fabulous attentive service, romantic Italian love songs, and danced under a full Valentine's moon on the deck as the magic of Venice slid past. When we docked at San Marco, we walked home through the chilly, deserted streets, saying it was the most romantic Valentine's night ever.
I met Francesca Foscara Faustina Peacock, an ethnic jewels friend I'd made on Facebook, also in Campo San Stefano. She lives and works in Milan, but has a lawyer boyfriend in Venice who doesn't want to leave Venice, so she commutes. And we met. I love how the world works.
Our days are spent walking, wherever we can, and ferrying when our legs get tired. We're shopping at Rialto for the best fish and food, and cooking the best meals at home because as it's carnevale, the residents are taking advantage of the tourists.
We went to the Sebastiao Salgado exhibition at Zitelle, in the rain, magnificent four storeys and numerous rooms of his fabulous photographs, two books of which I got for my birthday.
The hunt for the a laundromat continued for four days, while we dried our smalls and socks on the heated towel rack. Then two days ago some men turned up at our door with a washing machine, several new taps, a trolley on wheels, tools and four plastic chairs. Earlier, Fosca had delivered some new cooking utensils, the cheapest you could get anywhere. The base of the pots and pans were so thin that they rocked on the stove, and one pan bent in the middle when I closed a cupboard door on it. The workers spent two hours installing the washing machine, replacing the taps, adjusting the toilet, and talking about us in Italian. Just as they were leaving, I asked if I could check the shower hose they were supposed to replace. Oops. They'd forgotten, but they'd done a year's plumbing maintenance. And we now have a washing machine, right in the middle of the loungeroom, that rocks and rolls the apartment while it does its 1000 drying spins. At least we'll be able to wear clean clothes. No more excuses to buy the fabulous cheap wool dresses on every corner. Then the maid turned up with a drying rack that can only also be installed in the loungeroom. Now this fabulous contemporary apartment looks like a cheap flat in Brighton! Reno has bought a beret and a wanne-be Borsalini, and the woman in the glass booth downstairs is finally smiling.
To my delight, I once again found the bookshop owned by a crazy man who had them stacked floor to ceiling, in gondolas and boats and over life jackets and rings. He'd even made a flight of stairs up the back wall.
The city is getting ready for Carnevale. It's cold and raining, but
the Italian workers are constructing what looks like a mini colosseum in
San Marco. A few bewigged and masked stragglers are roaming the lanes
already. I've bought two masks to go with my wedding dress, feathers and glitter and skinny eyes, and Reno's
bought his - Casanova! Yeah.
It begins tomorrow. Which promises heavy rain and freezing temperatures. Yeah.
But Venice waited beyond our gorgeous hand carved doors and the sour faced woman at the entrance whose job it was it intimidate anyone who dared leave with a smile on their face. Or was she put in her little glass entry box to count the number of guests allowed in the apartments? Invent stories of comings and goings?
As soon as we'd unpacked, we went in search of a supermarket. Like everything in this secretive city, essential services are well hidden behind heavy doors. One twist and a faulty turn and the shop you thought was within reach is an olympic walk away. I took Reno to the only supermarket I knew for sure existed: all the way to San Toma, which led us away from Rialto and into less touristy areas. We filled our little basket with pasta, cheese, salami, and the essential finoccio, fennel, which we love in our salads, made a small lunch on the long refectory table in the apartment, and then tried to find San Marco, which was apparently very close. As everyone who has been to, or even lives in, Venice knows, nothing is where you think it is. Suffice to say that the first day it took us an hour to reach San Marco, where I sat on one of the yellow plastic chairs belonging to a dangerously expensive coffee shop, in a cold wind, watching the mists across the lagoon hover above the cupolas of various churches. Gondolas bobbed, gulls screeched and crash landed into the puddle of water on the square, where tourists sloshed in shallow puddles. I sat in the weak sun, drinking in the atmosphere, pinching myself that I was here again.Reno said he'd worked out that Venice was so calming to the soul because, unlike a city with cars, there was no unnatural stop and start, just a natural ebb and flow, which allowed the rhythm of the city to match that of the body. I liked that.
We met Gaspare the following day, in La Cafe in Campo San Stefano, a large campo of restaurants and coffee shops. We talked non stop, of life and the universe. He then took us to his studio, on the first floor of a fabulous 16th century cold stone palazzo with a cistern in the middle and murals on the ceilings. The walls are lined with his large collection of diverse styled contemporary paintings (He’s exhibited with Miro, Klee, Pisarro, Picasso, Renoir, Bonnard, Braque, Chagall. Lucien Freud is a friend who influenced his work. ) He's the son of a diplomat who’s lived in many continents, and currently live in Kenya, with Samburu Warriors as "servants". We lunched back in the campo, on pasta vongole and Bellini, and Gaspare then took us also to his family palazzo - an enormous stone building off a narrow fondamente on the canal. It's filled with the treasures his father collected over the years. Gaspare is planning on doing a mural on the ceiling of the family palazzo and open it to the public for the next biennale. The following day he took us to a restaurant called La Madonna filled with the who's who of famous Venetians where the waiter genuflected and led us to a private table. I commented on the painting behind my head. He said it was an Italian artist, and worth over 70000 E. Has a fascinating family history … lives in Paris, painting in a studio at the back of a chateau. He's invited us to visit him in Paris, which we may do from London.Quoting Gaspare when I complemented him on a canvas: "I feel totally empty and very excited I thing I may have painted something very important in terms of development in my stile and thinking."
Dawn and some other friends had given us a dinner cruise on an 18th century galleon as a wedding present, redeemable on Valentine's day. It was a cold and frosty night, but we dressed in our wedding clothes, rode the vaporetto to Zattere, where nobody batted an eyelid at my outfit, and spent a wonderful evening eating the finest fish, with the most fabulous attentive service, romantic Italian love songs, and danced under a full Valentine's moon on the deck as the magic of Venice slid past. When we docked at San Marco, we walked home through the chilly, deserted streets, saying it was the most romantic Valentine's night ever. I met Francesca Foscara Faustina Peacock, an ethnic jewels friend I'd made on Facebook, also in Campo San Stefano. She lives and works in Milan, but has a lawyer boyfriend in Venice who doesn't want to leave Venice, so she commutes. And we met. I love how the world works.Our days are spent walking, wherever we can, and ferrying when our legs get tired. We're shopping at Rialto for the best fish and food, and cooking the best meals at home because as it's carnevale, the residents are taking advantage of the tourists.
| |
| Salgado exhibition |
The hunt for the a laundromat continued for four days, while we dried our smalls and socks on the heated towel rack. Then two days ago some men turned up at our door with a washing machine, several new taps, a trolley on wheels, tools and four plastic chairs. Earlier, Fosca had delivered some new cooking utensils, the cheapest you could get anywhere. The base of the pots and pans were so thin that they rocked on the stove, and one pan bent in the middle when I closed a cupboard door on it. The workers spent two hours installing the washing machine, replacing the taps, adjusting the toilet, and talking about us in Italian. Just as they were leaving, I asked if I could check the shower hose they were supposed to replace. Oops. They'd forgotten, but they'd done a year's plumbing maintenance. And we now have a washing machine, right in the middle of the loungeroom, that rocks and rolls the apartment while it does its 1000 drying spins. At least we'll be able to wear clean clothes. No more excuses to buy the fabulous cheap wool dresses on every corner. Then the maid turned up with a drying rack that can only also be installed in the loungeroom. Now this fabulous contemporary apartment looks like a cheap flat in Brighton! Reno has bought a beret and a wanne-be Borsalini, and the woman in the glass booth downstairs is finally smiling. To my delight, I once again found the bookshop owned by a crazy man who had them stacked floor to ceiling, in gondolas and boats and over life jackets and rings. He'd even made a flight of stairs up the back wall.
 |
| Reno, Gaspare and I at San Stefano. |
 | |
| Outside our apartment |
The city is getting ready for Carnevale. It's cold and raining, but
the Italian workers are constructing what looks like a mini colosseum in
San Marco. A few bewigged and masked stragglers are roaming the lanes
already. I've bought two masks to go with my wedding dress, feathers and glitter and skinny eyes, and Reno's
bought his - Casanova! Yeah.It begins tomorrow. Which promises heavy rain and freezing temperatures. Yeah.
But when this man walked towards me, across Piazza San Marco, the fire in my heart raged, and I added this memory to the few that are the miracles in my life.
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