Venice Adventures cont'd

Some of you may have been confused about the dating of my blogs. The truth is that I didn't have time, or access to the Internet, or was fighting with the program, or was, simply having too much fun to be stuck inside writing all our escapades. So, I jotted little reminders on pieces of papers and tried not to lose them permanently. Now that we are settled in Nice, living a less active schedule, I can get caught up. That's why the timing is off. Only for a few days, provided we don't gallivant off to Monaco and visit Prince Albert and my namesake, Charlene, the new Princess.

Back to Venice.

As promised, this is all about exploring the underbelly of Venice, the markets, the little stores and the maze in which they are found. So we went shopping.

A feat not quite as easy as you may think. We started off at the Rialto Bridge ('cause that's where all good commerce begins) and headed into the bowels of the market.

First we wound our way through the souvenir shops. Mom was pretty good at staying close because she'd already dulled her appetite for souvenirs in the shops near our "wee hoose". She also had had to follow me the night before through the streets of the San Marco district. I am sure that sun has never landed on those cobblestones since the 15th century. The buildings loomed over the roads and street signs were optional. You reach your destination by going from 'campo' to 'campo' or squares, if you want to call them that. Each square has at least five exits from it, and they all have signs that direct you to San Marco. Some roads even have the same name. After going around in squares a few times (I hate la calle della Bissa), we finally found the Venetian version of a Dollarama. Not the store we had been looking for, but it did have the electrical adaptor that I needed. The owner even came from Taiwan, so he was quite happy to learn that my daughter was living in Taiwan. We got a 'special price'.

But I digress. Back to our adventures in the market.

After the souvenir came the real people's market. Everything imaginable. That's where I lost Mom. Her little pudgy fingers started twitching at the sight of all those apricots, grapes, and peaches. And she wading with the best of those Italian mamas and sunburned tourists. Hopping from one foot to the other she started her long process of choosing the perfect peach, gently cupping the peach and, oh so carefully, testing for ripeness. Only to be rudely interrupted by the merchant advising her "no toca". Mom paused and looked quite put out, but was able to restrain herself from lunging over the fruit to throttle the merchant. A compromise was reached and Mom was able to point at her desired fruit and the merchant put it a paper bag. To the day we left, Mom complained that the peaches weren't ripe because she couldn't test the. Did you know that Mom is a tactile buyer? More about that later.

Then on to the fish market, where you got a good look at what all those delicious seafood you eat for dinner, start off as. Mom didn't quite touch the fish, squid, octopus, and different types of shrimp, but her fingers were a-twitching and they hovered just scant centimeters over the slick surfaces. The fish market even had standards, There, carved on the marble columns, were the measurements of the minimum lengths that your fish (sardines) could be. Some bright spark (probably one of my ex-students) had written his measurements under the sardines. It was not a complimentary comparison.

We continued along our merry little way, winding along, following the stream of traffic, because, on this side of the canal, all roads lead to the bus station. Somewhere along the way I spied a SALE -- a SHOE SALE. My dream had come true. Italian shoes. Right up there with chocolate for breakfast.

And I even made it home without losing them.

After that marvelous find, my visit was complete. Even the dinner that we had being serenaded by "classical" music - Dean Martin sing O Solo Mio and Volare - could not compare. All the incredible (and really big - no postage stamp sized Mona Lisa here in Venice) paintings and frescoes by Tiepolo, Titian and Tintoretto (affectionately referred to as the Three T's) could not beat my bargain. Although, I must admit that the Three T's were pretty impressive. And even the fine art that was displayed around the "wee hoose" paled beside my shoes. Sigh.

Venice, You Gotta See it to Believe It

Now this is where I get to tell you all about Venice and how fantastic it is. AND IT IS !!! Unlike anywhere else that I've been. You arrive and look around. The magic that is Venice is indescribable. It seeps into your soul. You are complete.

Probably because it is all water. The buses are really boats. And during rush hour, you have 50+ people stuffed into this longboat, complete with cranky tourists, working Venetians just trying to get home, yelling babies and "elderly" persons tottering from side to side. All wanting to get to their destination and open a bottle of their favorite beverage. How they manage not to tip over is beyond my comprehension. Rush hour in Venice usually consists of at least six vaporettos going in different directions, another half a dozen gondolas plying their way, complete with tourists leaning over trying to get the perfect picture and avoid having their heads removed by the dozen water taxis who are racing around with their important cargo (tourists also taking photos) who weren't up to experiencing the up-close-and-personal contact of the vaporettos. Add to that mix, the poor buggers (traghettos - not so fancy gondolas) who just want to ferry their tourists across the canal. Just pick your spot and enjoy the shenanigans and wonder at the fact that there aren't more bodies floating belly up in the canal.

And then why don't you add a HUGE cruise ship to the mix and play chicken along with personal runabouts and that's living life to the max.

The other really strange thing is that you feel you are on a boat most of the time. When you first arrive, you feel very awkward when you timidly step on to the vaporettos. But after seeing all types of people taking it as a normal part of their life, you forget about it. So much so, that you even feel when the "real" ground moves under you. No, it's not getting your sea legs, it's what happens sometimes in the middle of the island. In the supermarket, beside the fruit section. And your mother looks at you as if you have gone crazy. Talk about feeling the earth move under my feet (cue the music and where the hell is Dave?

In Venice, you are surrounded by opulence, magnificence, decadence and decay ( a bit of mold and moss here and there). But where else would people put most of their art on the ceiling and leave their first floor bare. The Doge's Palace was great. Most of what was so impressive about it was on the ceiling -- gold, lots of gold and more gold. You climbed up to meet the Doge. I think he was the original Godfather and everyone knew it.

On a simpler level, life is good. Get up in the morning, go to the cafe (sorry, no accents on this keyboard - can't find them), drink your shot of caffiene, followed by a sweet roll, and then check out the sights. Plenty to see. Check out my pics on Picasa. Will try to create another


Venice

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Next blog, I'll tell you about rabbit warrens, secret treasures, and Mom's adventures in the Rialto market.

Venice

Coming into Venice was a blur. Not because of my alcoholic stupor, rather because it was surrounded by a thick fog.

Venice is wonderful. So different. It doesn't matter where you go, you always come to water. And it's not stinky or smelly. On the map it looks so far, but then five minutes later, you've arrived at your destination. There are so many twisty, turny "roads", or as North Americans know them, alleyways or rabbit warrens. You quickly learn to go with the stream of traffic. One final truth about Venice, all roads lead to either San Marco or the railway station.

Besides, where else do you use a boat as a bus.

Our little house is truly a hidden gem. Very small, squished in between two bigger homes, I think it was formerly the gardener's home or shed. Really compact but with an amazing view. We love it. The gardens are pretty and it is so quiet, you can't believe that you are so close to the main thoroughfare of Venice. But as Eden had its serpent, our little garden has its own downside -- mosquitos. You wouldn't believe how many different ways there are to kill or keep away mosquitos. We have them all, for both inside and outside the house. The little beggars are voracious. All you have to do is open the patio door and you are instantly targeted and impaled by 1000 miniature darts. Venetian mosquitos are smaller than Canadian ones, so if you see or hear them, it's too late. On the upside, the view is breathtaking from inside the house, behind a pane of glass.

From Venice

Breathtaking -- Heart stopping -- Oh, no (as you realize that something has really gone wrong) -- Oh, that is not good -- Not too far away (just halfway across town) -- Oh, that is really bad -- We will have to call the fire brigade -- 200 euros.

That's how our second afternoon began.

We had just finished doing our first load of laundry (so proud of ourselves) and put up the drying rack in the side garden, when Mom and I stepped outside to hang up our wet laundry. Given the mosquito invasion plans, I turned around to close the door. When I heard the clicking of the door and I realized That I'd just done something seriously wrong. With the finality of that click, I looked at Mom, then back at the door with no doorknob, and got that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Neither one of us had a key. Like all good paranoid North Americans (plus the air conditioner was on full blast because it's quite hot and muggy here ) all patio doors and windows were locked. We had no key.

A frantic dash to a nearby store (yes, Italians are very tolerant of touristas) resulted in me leaving Mom to the tender mercies of the minute mosquito demons in the garden and hoofing it halfway across town, without a map, to the rental agency's office. Once again, it really only took 10 minutes, but you know how time slows when you are in a crisis mode. I made it with only one wrong turn and returned with replacement keys in hand. I had expected to see only the remnants of Mom's sacrified body but there she was, calmly sitting on a lawn chair with a branch in hand, keeping the tiny hordes at bay. All was well, I thought, just a bit sweaty and out of breath, but okay.

Then I tried to put the key into the door. It wouldn't go in , let alone turn. I had left the original key in the door, so that I wouldn't forget it. However, that prevented us from using the second key. With another exchange of looks, and Mom trying to look encouraging and optimistic, off I went again. A second call to the agency informed us that if we couldn't somehow push out the key, the only recourse was to call the fire brigade. That would cost 200 euros. I guess that there are no locksmiths in Venice. I also had the stray thought that perhaps there was a burglar at a nearby cafe, but didn't voice it.

I returned to the house and Mom and I pondered our fate while we waited for the rental agent to arrive. We looked at our various options (which window would cost the least to replace). The front and patio windows were quite large (and $$$$ to replace) and the bathroom window was about a foot square. No way I was going to slip through that one. Then Mom remembered the kitchen window. I didn't because it was shuttered and dark. We went around the side and there was the shutter. We moved the rickety table sitting in front of it and tried to open it. It moved! Then we looked at the glass window. I reached up and shoved. It moved, very easily, I might say. After a quick jig of joy and jubilation, Mom shove me through the opening. Good thing I remembered my old memories of shimmying through the milk box at our old home on Pharmacy Ave. And Danny going headfirst down the stairs. I went through the window feet first, with nary a scratch, just a multitude of mosquito bites.

I opened the door for Mom, gave her a key to keep, phoned the rental agent, and we sat down and sighed. Crisis resolved.

Hopefully, this will be the last one we have to experience. That makes three.
One, I lost Dave's hat that I'd borrowed in Vienna.
Two, I left the electrical. adaptor in Vienna.
Three, the locked door in Venice.

Wel, I still haven't told you about the sights that we've seen and the good things that have happened; however, they will have to wait til next time. I have a few photos posted on Picasa, so try this link. Maybe it will work. Venice">Venice

Midnight train to Venice

Just a quick blurb about our choo choo train ride. This is the second overnight train ride we've taken, and, I must say, it isn't anything like the Orient Express or even Angelina Jolie's misadventures in "The Tourist".

In fact it was more like two sardines in a tin can doing the fandango, trying to figure out where to put our suitcases and ourselves. In addition, we are insatiable button pushers. As a result, the porter was not amused. Especially after we asked him to open the window and we discovered the we were trying to push open the window instead of sliding it down.

In addition, the washrooms for our "first class" car weren't working so we had to mingle with the hoi poloi in second class. Whereupon we discovered that they had a newer version car and their washroom was much nicer and larger. But still smelly.

And Mom's breakfast bun was stale. She was unhappy. You shouldn't mess with Mom's buns. Makes for a cranky mommy.

However, as bad as it was to haul Mom's suitcase up two flights of stairs because the escalators weren't working and the elevator was blocked off for construction in their fancy railway station, the aching muscles pale in comparison to the retina scarring that seared my eyes just before bedtime, thereby producing horrific nightmares of TME - too much exposure. As usual, Mom, the friendly soul that she is, was chatting up an Argentinian in Spanish. This is the same man who then proceeded to ask me if I was married. But that was not all. As I was returning from the "steerage" class, I chanced to glance sideways into an open compartment. To my dismay, and involuntary gag reflex, I was met with a vision of manly pulchritude - an immense and very hairy back and (one presumes) an equally hairy backside thankfully covered by a pair of white with bright red polka dotted boxers. I stumbled back to my compartment. It was the same Argentinian that had been talking to Mom earlier. Yup, just our luck.

Vienna, a City with Culture and Sturm

Well, we have blitzed Vienna and checked her out thoroughly. She is beautiful and, more importantly, tried her best to teach us about Viennese life.

Schonbrunn Palace - Vienna's answer to Versailles

We checked out both royal palaces and were surely impressed. The first one was Schonbrunn Palace which was similar to Versailles. But more accessible. The comparison is apt considering it was built (mostly) by the mother (Marie Theresa) of Marie Antoinette. Bet the Momma was some pissed at the French after spending all that effort and money to spruce up the place. Good thing she had 13 more kids to marry off to other royalty of the time.

To show you how great the place was, check out the WC. Now I know how guys feel when they pee in the woods.



As for the comment that you want to see more pics of me, wouldn't be a problem ... except that every time that Mom tried to take a photo, she was almost run over by a horse and carriage or a train. I kept thinking of that song, "Grandma got run over by a Reindeer". See example below:

Schonbrunn Palace - front entrance

Moving on to the Hofburg Palace in the city, I couldn't believe how many different table settings there were. This is actually the first time that I saw more wine glasses than cutlery on a table. I like how the Austrians think.

We also learned about their famous Empress, Sisi. Her story is similar to Princess Di's but she lived longer. She was also considered the first lady to actively and vigorously try to maintain her beauty. Talk about obsessive. She had a physical workout that would put a Marine to shame. Her bedroom contained: a chin up bar, wooden ladder to pull herself up AND a set of gymnastic rings. Three hours a day! With a 20inch waist well into her 50's. She also loved chocolate and sweets. Eat your heart out Tyra!

We figured out how the Austrians control the gangs around here. They pipe opera music at night. If there is no opera on a given night, they replay one ona really giant Jumbotron screen. Difficult to be gangsta when you have to rap to Mozart's "Magic Flute" or his "Don Giovanni". It definitely give new meaning to night music. We are right on the main (take that to mean really expensive shopping area) drag and is quite interesting to watch the people. And the street musicians are mostly playing or singing classical music.

But best of all is the new wine called "Sturm". Mom loves it. Just like her Apfelwein and just as potent. One Sturm and she sleeps like a baby. We have been drinking Sturm most meals (except for breakfast) but today, I tried a white wine, Prosecco, with rose petals. Really good and you could smell and taste the rose petals. Guess that I'm going to be saving up my rose petals from now on.

We've been doing quite a bit of walking because it is faster than the trams and subways, and because it is all so close. The downside is that Mom gets quite tired and needs her afternoon nap. - even if we don't have a room. She slept today on a park bench. Just imagine, Nana puff, puff, puffing on a park bench with her little piggies wiggling in the breeze.

We were also wandering around the rose gardens today when we came upon the Fall Harvest Festival in front of the palace. Check out the ladies and especially their purses. Beats the heck out of those Saint Bernard dogs. Eat your heart out Big Dave.




Well it's time for us to gather up our bags (and chocolate) and head for the train.
Auf Wiedersehen, Vienna.

And away we go ... into the wild blue yonder

September 6, 2011

The day has finally arrived.

The suitcases were packed with vigour and some force but they did close and they both weighed under 16 kg. 

 

The flight over was uneventful but delicious. Our first taste of chocolate (profiteroles) was met with silence while we savoured the moment. We also tried a new Italian wine - Prosecco. Fizzy like Asti Spumante but sweeter and much nicer. Mom has a new favourite drink.

 

Vienna - The Musical Centre of Europe ... and Decadent Desserts

Mozart's Statue, Burgarten

Madonna and children ?

Sun was shining when we arrived -- one hour early, and not because Mom had gas and was helping push the plane around. We figured out our way to the hotel without too much damage to the Viennese population who had to share the subway with our suitcases. Rest assured that no old men suffered leg or foot amputations. Obviously, Austrian old men are wiser than Parisian seniors.

And the "apfel strudel". And the coffee. A moment of silence once again, to relive the delicate pastry melting in our mouths. This was the first of many along the Karntner Strasse. The major shopping centre of Vienna.

 

Now that's the way to promote your product

Walking around Vienna makes us feel so couth. Like we know all about culture such as opera, Mozart and classical shit, I mean stuff. So much so, that we decided to attend a concert celebrating Mozart's and Strauss's music, complete with or hedges, and opera singers and ballet dancers. now maybe it had a little to do with "that nice young man all dressed up. He was quite persuasive. 


After all, when in Vienna, you must attend at least one concert.

So off we went.



Contrary to our initial impressions, we really did enjoy our concert. It was a good variety of orchestra music, led by an older gentleman who obviously loved his work and an ensemble of young extremely talented musicians (the flautist was extraordinary); an opera diva with a set of pipes that could shatter the crystal on the real chandeliers above; a baritone (Mom said that was what he was called) who had a smile that could be seen from the back of the room, and two ballerinas that could dance on a postage stamp. The guy ballerina (o?) looked more like he belonged in the Austrian version of the Marines, but he sure was light on his feet. One could forgive the fitted pants. 

Concert at the Kursalon

The audience was quite eclectic -- mostly tourists -- French, Eastern European, Spanish, Italian, French and Japanese. Someone should tell the Japanese ladies that pearls are passé. But at least they dressed up. Others could have easily been contestants on "What not to Wear". Definitely time for a wardrobe change. But we had some laughs looking at and imagining conversations between the various attendees. All in all, a good time.

Pre-Boarding Antics

Almost ready to spread the wings!  One last mountain to climb -- PACKING THE SUITCASE!

I pulled out the suitcase from the crawlspace a couple of days ago and put it on the floor. I’m not sure if it’s an optical illusion, but it looks smaller and smaller every time I look at it.  Maybe it’s because of the mound of “essentials” that I’ve start to accumulate beside it. Rolling up the clothes (to prevent wrinkles, you know) just resulted in extra-large cloth crescent rolls that would have made the Pillsbury Dough Boy blush. Even with my special kamikaze throw-yourself-on-the-zip-locked bag-full-of-clothes-using-your best Sumo-wrestling pinning technique doesn't seem to make much difference. I just look ridiculous spread on the bed, wriggling on a plastic bag to get all the air out. The air was coming out of the Bag, NOT me.

My dilemma remains - Damn, THE SUITCASE still looks small! I need one of those shrinking ray guns.  But then I’d need to pack an enlarging thingamajig, and that might cause some uncomfortable comments and questions while I was going through Customs. Hmmmm.

As you can tell by Dave’s photo (which I took to remind me of what home looks like) he has reconciled himself to my prolonged absence. His facial expression is to encourage me to “spread my wings” but somehow it just come out like “two months of nothing but potatoes - heaven!” Arrangements have already been made for Big Dave sleep-overs unsupervised.

I'll miss you.  I'll be just fine. Honest.

Times like that I am really glad I am not going to be home.