Leaving Venice today.
Last couple of days swept by like aqua alta flowing swiftly into a canale.
We ate, of course: a couple of mediocre meals, an exceptional spread at formal, pricy, worth visiting Veccia Cabana in Ca' d'Oro, an aborted attempt to try out Harry's Dolci (sister to Harry's Bar, but cheaper, more casual) on La Giudecca across the water (closed despite guidebook assurances).
Best last-minute things:
• Chocolate shop Vizio Virtu Ciacolatteria (www.viziovirtu.com), which smells like God's antechamber. A tres chic cocoa-and-caramel-colored place just off the Sao Toma' vaporetto stop. Purchased a dozen tiny, perfect handmade chocolates — tiramisu, which a cocoa-caffe filling and a plain chocolate truffle sprinkled with shaved sea salt. Only got to eat one as we ended up taking them as a hostess gift to our landlady when she invited us up for farewell drinks last night. She and our fellow guests enjoyed them. Had a sip of Bonnie's cold chocolate (like hot chocolate, only..well..cold), very intense, not too sweet — nectar!
• Visiting some neighborhoods where we hadn't venture before, including the aforementioned island of La Giudecca, very non-touristy, a bedroom community of Venice, down-class a bit, where many large, brick former factory buildings have been turned into condominiums, often quite charming with courtyards and the odd small canal. Quiet, populated mainly by residents going about their daily lives and as uninterested in tourists as a fisherman on a Windward side reef.
Other neighborhoods worth checking out for nifty shops, pretty campi include San Polo where the University is. I really meant to get to Burano, the one-time lace island (the local hand-made lace industry is mostly gone; much of what you find here is manufactured in Asia) with its brightly colored homes, beloved of photographers. And we talked about going out to a fishing camp on one of the islands where the owner serves multi-course meals from his catch to select groups of visitors, but we never quite got the nerve up to try making the arrangements, fearful that our Italian would be inadequate. (Actually, KNOWING that our Italian would be inadequate.)
• Saw a couple of Biennale installations.
Q. How do you know it's a modern art installation? A. When you can't tell a) if anything lying around is part of the exhibit or just happens to be something a workman forgot, b) (in the case of performance art or video or music work) you don't know when it's over. We sat through a film of a man huffing and puffing his way up a Welsh hillside, the shale crackling under his feet, and I left mightily perplexed. In another place, they were exhibiting abstract works made by a horse. Yes, horse. Paintbrush in mouth. Even Bonnie drew the line there. I rather liked the colorful splashes myself. But I'm a cretin. On the whole, Bonnie has found the work at this Biennale safe, uninteresting and disappointing. On the whole, I've found it, as I said, mightily perplexing.
Today, we leave La Serenissima who, I'm sure will miss us not at all. But we will miss her!
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Sounds of a Venice night...
Slap, slap, slap ... SLAP! as of a hand on a cheek...wavelets in the canal...
A caw, a cry, a sudden cacaphony of gulls on a nearby roof, disputing territory...
The deep thrumming of a vaporetto engine, water pushed before the hull, building, building, hmmmmmmmmmm, then passing...
Voices, disconcertingly sudden, at the window, the tall narrow window framed in sound-dampening wooden shutters so that you cannot hear anyone until they're right outside and then a blast of liquid Italian vowels, the up-and-down rhythm of a sentence and then gone...
Breathing, like a steam vent at the volcano, like bear or a dog, something with a big, deep chest...
A sound like a baby crying, cats mewling, catterwauling, then nothing...
slap, slap, slap... SLAP!
I will miss this and I will remember it.
A caw, a cry, a sudden cacaphony of gulls on a nearby roof, disputing territory...
The deep thrumming of a vaporetto engine, water pushed before the hull, building, building, hmmmmmmmmmm, then passing...
Voices, disconcertingly sudden, at the window, the tall narrow window framed in sound-dampening wooden shutters so that you cannot hear anyone until they're right outside and then a blast of liquid Italian vowels, the up-and-down rhythm of a sentence and then gone...
Breathing, like a steam vent at the volcano, like bear or a dog, something with a big, deep chest...
A sound like a baby crying, cats mewling, catterwauling, then nothing...
slap, slap, slap... SLAP!
I will miss this and I will remember it.
I hate this. Knowing I'm leaving. Listening to the church bells, the splash of the water in the canal, watching the play of light on the ceiling of my room, knowing that, in a few days, I'll be back in Hawaii, in a different light, with different sounds. And who knows if I'll ever be here again?
Today, we did an art morning, Ca' Pesaro, a modern art museum where there is a Biennale exhibition interspersed with the standing collection, which appears to be primarily from the early years of the 20the century, and the movement that went from representational to cubist and moderne (as if I knew what the hell I was talking about). I liked the way the Biennale artist, Braco Dimitijevic of Sarajevo, wove his extremely life-like figures, made of resin and other materials, into the overall exhibit. One in particular, a hefty man, sitting, his legs sprawled out, seemed to me to speak to a large conventional marble, also a man, also legs outstretched, but not sprawled, not relaxed or in control, but very much posed. And not, like the modern figure, dressed, but nude.
It has been a revelation, seeing modern art with Bonnie, something I would never, ever have done on my own. The galleries after galleries after galleries of older works have pleased but not provoked me as the modern art has done.
We were in a cramped warren of pathways, canals and campi off the St. Stae vaparetto stop and had lunch at a little place, a pizzeria, Il Refelo. The pizza was amazing. I don't like pizza. Never order it. Cadged a piece from Bonnie, cheese and thin-sliced mellanzane (eggplant) and knew that, if pizza were like this in America, I would crave it. Had penne pasta, infused with the flavor of smoked pancetta; I think, based on what I read on the menu, that the name Il Refelo might refer to a wood-burning oven, which lends its style to the menu. I don't know. Tangential Italian. Uncommunicative waiter.
The restaurant is composed of a small room of perhaps a half-dozen tables (which looks as though it would be very nice in the evening), a kitchen and a stone-paved campo, where they set up tables under umbrellas, overlooking a narrow canal used by both "real people" and gondoliers. This is a very lovely, quite and not much visited part of town. A large gull glided in and we watched as he (she?) swallowed a piece of bread twice the width of his neck and performed an elaborate swallowing dance until it had gone down. Then it posed for its closeup on top of a mooring post. Families glided by in their small boats. A professional tour guide brought her party to lunch; a boon for us since she was speaking Italian very clearly and somewhat slowly, so our evesdropping was much more fruitful than usual.
Long dark night of the waiting for the conto (check), as usual.
Invested in a trio of Donna Leon books for the trip home (and I do mean invested; a paperback costs E10, around $15!), had a lovely afternoon reading and lolling in bed, visited our landlady the Contessa who will host us to drinks the night before we leave, played with her little dog Webby and cadged a suitcase from her attic for Bonnie's overflow), got the address of a music shop so I can try and find my favorite Italian pop artist.
Business business.
Can I get a do-over?
Today, we did an art morning, Ca' Pesaro, a modern art museum where there is a Biennale exhibition interspersed with the standing collection, which appears to be primarily from the early years of the 20the century, and the movement that went from representational to cubist and moderne (as if I knew what the hell I was talking about). I liked the way the Biennale artist, Braco Dimitijevic of Sarajevo, wove his extremely life-like figures, made of resin and other materials, into the overall exhibit. One in particular, a hefty man, sitting, his legs sprawled out, seemed to me to speak to a large conventional marble, also a man, also legs outstretched, but not sprawled, not relaxed or in control, but very much posed. And not, like the modern figure, dressed, but nude.
It has been a revelation, seeing modern art with Bonnie, something I would never, ever have done on my own. The galleries after galleries after galleries of older works have pleased but not provoked me as the modern art has done.
We were in a cramped warren of pathways, canals and campi off the St. Stae vaparetto stop and had lunch at a little place, a pizzeria, Il Refelo. The pizza was amazing. I don't like pizza. Never order it. Cadged a piece from Bonnie, cheese and thin-sliced mellanzane (eggplant) and knew that, if pizza were like this in America, I would crave it. Had penne pasta, infused with the flavor of smoked pancetta; I think, based on what I read on the menu, that the name Il Refelo might refer to a wood-burning oven, which lends its style to the menu. I don't know. Tangential Italian. Uncommunicative waiter.
The restaurant is composed of a small room of perhaps a half-dozen tables (which looks as though it would be very nice in the evening), a kitchen and a stone-paved campo, where they set up tables under umbrellas, overlooking a narrow canal used by both "real people" and gondoliers. This is a very lovely, quite and not much visited part of town. A large gull glided in and we watched as he (she?) swallowed a piece of bread twice the width of his neck and performed an elaborate swallowing dance until it had gone down. Then it posed for its closeup on top of a mooring post. Families glided by in their small boats. A professional tour guide brought her party to lunch; a boon for us since she was speaking Italian very clearly and somewhat slowly, so our evesdropping was much more fruitful than usual.
Long dark night of the waiting for the conto (check), as usual.
Invested in a trio of Donna Leon books for the trip home (and I do mean invested; a paperback costs E10, around $15!), had a lovely afternoon reading and lolling in bed, visited our landlady the Contessa who will host us to drinks the night before we leave, played with her little dog Webby and cadged a suitcase from her attic for Bonnie's overflow), got the address of a music shop so I can try and find my favorite Italian pop artist.
Business business.
Can I get a do-over?
Saturday, June 27, 2009
How did it get to be three days?
From a seemingly uncountable number of days, we are now down to three in Venice.
I want only to absorb, pull in, experience, experience, experience. Today, we will go to Ca' Pesaro, a modern art museum, and at least one other cultural site, and then a pizza place Bonnie showed me last night that seemed most intriguing.
We found a new campo. Well, she found it. It's off the St. Stae vaporetto stop. She calls it Our Lady of the Eternal Chic Restaurants or something like that. It's exactly where my folding Italy Auto Club map is centered and torn. But we had not been there together.
We went to experience Osteria la Zuccha (the "pumpkin" restaurant, San Croce 1762 on San Giocomo dell ' Orio) a semi-vegetarian spot that has been highly praised in the media and for which reservations are a must.
Oh, thank God: Rice instead of pasta (okay, it was long-grain jasmine and not short-grain white but it was the first rice we'd had in a long time). A savory and rich pumpkin flan as a first course, so delicious I recommended it to the next party; I was moaning, actually. Rabbit in a kind of marengo (tomato, vegetable) sauce. A rabbit warren of small rooms paneled in strips of wood with views of a canal. We skipped dessert.
One campo after another, each more charming that the last, full of Italians. Find this place!
I must, I'm sorry, but no one's listening so why not indulge myself?, speak about the Long Night of the Italian Table.
Again.
What is it that Italian serving staff have against bringing THE (here insert preferred profanity) CHECK???? When I'm done, I'm done. I wanna go. I wanna give you my money and get the heck outta Dodge or Canareggio or wherever. Did you get the 'give you my money' part?? Moses, let my people go!!!
Even AFTER you ask for "il conto" (the bill) — and it takes a miracle from God to catch a waiter's eye to do that much — an eternity goes by. Michaelangelo paints the Sistine Chapel. Tintoretto does half a dozen commissioned portraits. Popes come and go. And then the bill appears. And then there's a negotiation about whether they take credit cards ("Carta?"), whether you can take your leftovers home ("?????") and then you dither about the tip because, by then, what I want to do is rise like Prometheus, burst my chains and run from the place.
And this is with restaurants I like.
I will never again kvetch when Sally "drops the check" early at a diner. I will pay it with a smile.
Next year in Alohaland.
I want only to absorb, pull in, experience, experience, experience. Today, we will go to Ca' Pesaro, a modern art museum, and at least one other cultural site, and then a pizza place Bonnie showed me last night that seemed most intriguing.
We found a new campo. Well, she found it. It's off the St. Stae vaporetto stop. She calls it Our Lady of the Eternal Chic Restaurants or something like that. It's exactly where my folding Italy Auto Club map is centered and torn. But we had not been there together.
We went to experience Osteria la Zuccha (the "pumpkin" restaurant, San Croce 1762 on San Giocomo dell ' Orio) a semi-vegetarian spot that has been highly praised in the media and for which reservations are a must.
Oh, thank God: Rice instead of pasta (okay, it was long-grain jasmine and not short-grain white but it was the first rice we'd had in a long time). A savory and rich pumpkin flan as a first course, so delicious I recommended it to the next party; I was moaning, actually. Rabbit in a kind of marengo (tomato, vegetable) sauce. A rabbit warren of small rooms paneled in strips of wood with views of a canal. We skipped dessert.
One campo after another, each more charming that the last, full of Italians. Find this place!
I must, I'm sorry, but no one's listening so why not indulge myself?, speak about the Long Night of the Italian Table.
Again.
What is it that Italian serving staff have against bringing THE (here insert preferred profanity) CHECK???? When I'm done, I'm done. I wanna go. I wanna give you my money and get the heck outta Dodge or Canareggio or wherever. Did you get the 'give you my money' part?? Moses, let my people go!!!
Even AFTER you ask for "il conto" (the bill) — and it takes a miracle from God to catch a waiter's eye to do that much — an eternity goes by. Michaelangelo paints the Sistine Chapel. Tintoretto does half a dozen commissioned portraits. Popes come and go. And then the bill appears. And then there's a negotiation about whether they take credit cards ("Carta?"), whether you can take your leftovers home ("?????") and then you dither about the tip because, by then, what I want to do is rise like Prometheus, burst my chains and run from the place.
And this is with restaurants I like.
I will never again kvetch when Sally "drops the check" early at a diner. I will pay it with a smile.
Next year in Alohaland.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Io sto Venexiana!
It means "I am (a) Venetian (woman)!"
However, I have purposely used the wrong form of the verb "to be," the one that indicates a temporary state. If I were, in fact, from or of Venice, I would say "Io sono"...but my state of Venecianity is quite passing, I'm afraid.
And I have used the spelling of Venetian as it is given in the dialect of this city — like Hawaiian, a once endangered language; unlike Hawaiian, still forbidden to be taught in schools, but used in homes. This is in homage to my beloved Commissario Guido Brunetti, the thoughtful and often troubled protaganist in Donna Leon's very readable series of detective novels set in Venezia.
Being a person willing to look below the surface, Brunetti, I hope, would forgive my fractured Italian, my pathetic would-be-ism and understand that my delight — when I felt briefly Venetian this morning — came from an honest heart. Not all Venetians would, I fear.
This short period of which I speak came when I was sent, all on my own, proudly and a bit nervously, like a child allowed to venture to the corner for the first time, to do the last grocery shopping of our stay in Venice.
Our list was simple: bread, milk, eggs, butter, a little fruit (I know most of the major food words, so no troubles there, I thought, not considering the complications involved in deciphering the terms for "skim" milk, which turns out to be, "partialmente scremato" — or does that mean half screaming?) and then — potential for failure here — water softener for doing laundry.
My friend, never one to leave anything to chance, gave me minute directions about how to handle the produce end of things, though I'd observed the process myself just a few days before: find the disposable glove dispenser, touch no fruit without a glove on, find the computerized pricing machine, place the fruit on the machine and touch the picture that relates to it, affix the price tag that spits out of the machine, hey pronto!
This all went swimmingly, as did asking for bread at the hot bakery counter ("Buon giorno! Per favore, une ciabatta. Si, una" — they can't even understand me when I'm saying the simplest word in the vocabulary, sigh. "Grazie, signora."), searching out the butter, milk and laundry stuff. Then, a few purchases of my own: superfine cornmeal for baking, fine polenta for boiling — both to be carried home — and, my favorite new munchy, grissini, bread sticks. They had a half-dozen brands, each offering a half-dozen flavors — rosemary, cheese, salt — and shapes (thin as a pencil to stubby and short as a man's thumb) but I couldn't find my favorite sesame. Settled for salted. And a few slices of mortadella, because I like it better than prosciutto or salami.
It was while I was puzzling over the grissini that a Venetian paid me the ultimate compliment of assuming that a) I might be from here, and b) I might speak Italian. Rolling her cart alongside mine, a well-dressed middle-aged woman rattled off an incomprehensible (to me) paragraph, gesturing about her (Italians gesture even when they're on the phone). Being a jaded supermarket veteran, I felt sure she was saying one of two things: "Can you believe these prices? My mother would turn over in her grave!" or "They move things all the time and you can't find a thing!"
My choices of response were slim. I know how to say "I'm sorry. I'm an American. I don't understand." But I wasn't about to say that. I wanted to say, "What can you do?," which would have covered either base. But I wasn't sure how to phrase that (something like "Che lei puoi fa?", I think, but that's probably wrong, the result of dictionary diving).
So I used universal language, smiled, shrugged, laughed, wheeled on. She seemed satisfied, smiling at me later as we both packed up our rolling carts for the walk back home over the bumpy cobbles and bumpy arched bridges. Could she have any idea how happy she'd made me? Probably not.
And now we come to lunch. Is there no end to Serenissima's culinary bounty? Ever since Bonnie and I peeked at the menu and were charmingly greeted by a waiter who popped out his head to say hello (she'd been there before), I'd been dying to get back to tiny Vini da Arturo in an anonymous alley not far from Campo S. Angelo (Calle degli Asssassini, S. Marco 3656A). I'll tell you who I'd assissinate — anyone who got in the way of my going back here.
We had but four dishes: Saor al' Melanzane (eggplant in onion-vinegar marinade), Tagliatelli alla Rucola (housemade pasta strips with arugula sauce), a simple pear salad fresh prepared for us and their off-the-charts and one-of-a-kind tira mi su. Came to more than 80 bucks. I'd pay my share again. Smiling.
The saor — grilled eggplant slices, raisins plumped in something, pine nuts, fruity olive oil, red wine vinegar— achieved the mandatory razor-thin balance of sweet to sour, meltingly oily to cuttingly sharp to make this dish a success. The pasta, snaking around and colored by the gray-green vegetable, reminded us both of luau leaf in the best possible way. (Bonnie said she had tried to replicate this seemingly simple dish at home and failed miserably.)
The salad — no greens, just fruit, fennel, walnuts, couldn't even identify any oil or vinegar, perhaps some citrus? — esquisito! And that tira mi su. As though Italian meringue (egg white whipped to satiny softness with fine sugar) and custard sauce (cream, egg yolk, vanilla) ascended into heaven, sat at the right hand of the father the mother and the holy ghost and on the third day came down to Arturo's and took on just a hint of powdered coffee and chocolate. This frothy, creamy bowl of stuff (not a ladyfinger in sight) is hardly the conventional dish but two spoonsful sent me back to the apartment after lunch in a dreamy, drunken, dangerous state. (I say dangerous because, when I'm sated, I tend to spend money. And if there'd been a light, frothy little silken dress between the Dorsoduro and Campo S. Angelo, I'd be wearing it now.)
As for Bonnie, as she scraped industriously at the bowl, the waiter walked by and laconically remarked, in that seductive accent that adds a syllable to every syllable, "Don'a wash'a da dishes. We do it after."
If, right now, this very second, the Pope granted me this indulgence — that I could choose to return to any restaurants experienced on this trip — I would fly to Arturo's for whatever that gracious waiter suggested; I would be in Bologna again for tortellini with cream and tomato sauces; I would have a strudel from Venice's Jewish gheto bakery in one hand and any flavor of torti di torrone in the other, and I would be ordering rabbit (either the nonna's rabbit stew of La Bitta or the tagliatelli with rabbit and mint ragout from Osteria all' Antica Adelaide) and maybe mussels and, oh, yeah, the whole branzini with the olive oil essence ....and the Panna Cotta of Life from Bitta.
And, you know what? We've got five days and at least a dozen restaurants left to do. May God, and the Pope, have mercy on our souls.
PS no new photos with this post, my camera battery died
It means "I am (a) Venetian (woman)!"
However, I have purposely used the wrong form of the verb "to be," the one that indicates a temporary state. If I were, in fact, from or of Venice, I would say "Io sono"...but my state of Venecianity is quite passing, I'm afraid.
And I have used the spelling of Venetian as it is given in the dialect of this city — like Hawaiian, a once endangered language; unlike Hawaiian, still forbidden to be taught in schools, but used in homes. This is in homage to my beloved Commissario Guido Brunetti, the thoughtful and often troubled protaganist in Donna Leon's very readable series of detective novels set in Venezia.
Being a person willing to look below the surface, Brunetti, I hope, would forgive my fractured Italian, my pathetic would-be-ism and understand that my delight — when I felt briefly Venetian this morning — came from an honest heart. Not all Venetians would, I fear.
This short period of which I speak came when I was sent, all on my own, proudly and a bit nervously, like a child allowed to venture to the corner for the first time, to do the last grocery shopping of our stay in Venice.
Our list was simple: bread, milk, eggs, butter, a little fruit (I know most of the major food words, so no troubles there, I thought, not considering the complications involved in deciphering the terms for "skim" milk, which turns out to be, "partialmente scremato" — or does that mean half screaming?) and then — potential for failure here — water softener for doing laundry.
My friend, never one to leave anything to chance, gave me minute directions about how to handle the produce end of things, though I'd observed the process myself just a few days before: find the disposable glove dispenser, touch no fruit without a glove on, find the computerized pricing machine, place the fruit on the machine and touch the picture that relates to it, affix the price tag that spits out of the machine, hey pronto!
This all went swimmingly, as did asking for bread at the hot bakery counter ("Buon giorno! Per favore, une ciabatta. Si, una" — they can't even understand me when I'm saying the simplest word in the vocabulary, sigh. "Grazie, signora."), searching out the butter, milk and laundry stuff. Then, a few purchases of my own: superfine cornmeal for baking, fine polenta for boiling — both to be carried home — and, my favorite new munchy, grissini, bread sticks. They had a half-dozen brands, each offering a half-dozen flavors — rosemary, cheese, salt — and shapes (thin as a pencil to stubby and short as a man's thumb) but I couldn't find my favorite sesame. Settled for salted. And a few slices of mortadella, because I like it better than prosciutto or salami.
It was while I was puzzling over the grissini that a Venetian paid me the ultimate compliment of assuming that a) I might be from here, and b) I might speak Italian. Rolling her cart alongside mine, a well-dressed middle-aged woman rattled off an incomprehensible (to me) paragraph, gesturing about her (Italians gesture even when they're on the phone). Being a jaded supermarket veteran, I felt sure she was saying one of two things: "Can you believe these prices? My mother would turn over in her grave!" or "They move things all the time and you can't find a thing!"
My choices of response were slim. I know how to say "I'm sorry. I'm an American. I don't understand." But I wasn't about to say that. I wanted to say, "What can you do?," which would have covered either base. But I wasn't sure how to phrase that (something like "Che lei puoi fa?", I think, but that's probably wrong, the result of dictionary diving).
So I used universal language, smiled, shrugged, laughed, wheeled on. She seemed satisfied, smiling at me later as we both packed up our rolling carts for the walk back home over the bumpy cobbles and bumpy arched bridges. Could she have any idea how happy she'd made me? Probably not.
And now we come to lunch. Is there no end to Serenissima's culinary bounty? Ever since Bonnie and I peeked at the menu and were charmingly greeted by a waiter who popped out his head to say hello (she'd been there before), I'd been dying to get back to tiny Vini da Arturo in an anonymous alley not far from Campo S. Angelo (Calle degli Asssassini, S. Marco 3656A). I'll tell you who I'd assissinate — anyone who got in the way of my going back here.
We had but four dishes: Saor al' Melanzane (eggplant in onion-vinegar marinade), Tagliatelli alla Rucola (housemade pasta strips with arugula sauce), a simple pear salad fresh prepared for us and their off-the-charts and one-of-a-kind tira mi su. Came to more than 80 bucks. I'd pay my share again. Smiling.
The saor — grilled eggplant slices, raisins plumped in something, pine nuts, fruity olive oil, red wine vinegar— achieved the mandatory razor-thin balance of sweet to sour, meltingly oily to cuttingly sharp to make this dish a success. The pasta, snaking around and colored by the gray-green vegetable, reminded us both of luau leaf in the best possible way. (Bonnie said she had tried to replicate this seemingly simple dish at home and failed miserably.)
The salad — no greens, just fruit, fennel, walnuts, couldn't even identify any oil or vinegar, perhaps some citrus? — esquisito! And that tira mi su. As though Italian meringue (egg white whipped to satiny softness with fine sugar) and custard sauce (cream, egg yolk, vanilla) ascended into heaven, sat at the right hand of the father the mother and the holy ghost and on the third day came down to Arturo's and took on just a hint of powdered coffee and chocolate. This frothy, creamy bowl of stuff (not a ladyfinger in sight) is hardly the conventional dish but two spoonsful sent me back to the apartment after lunch in a dreamy, drunken, dangerous state. (I say dangerous because, when I'm sated, I tend to spend money. And if there'd been a light, frothy little silken dress between the Dorsoduro and Campo S. Angelo, I'd be wearing it now.)
As for Bonnie, as she scraped industriously at the bowl, the waiter walked by and laconically remarked, in that seductive accent that adds a syllable to every syllable, "Don'a wash'a da dishes. We do it after."
If, right now, this very second, the Pope granted me this indulgence — that I could choose to return to any restaurants experienced on this trip — I would fly to Arturo's for whatever that gracious waiter suggested; I would be in Bologna again for tortellini with cream and tomato sauces; I would have a strudel from Venice's Jewish gheto bakery in one hand and any flavor of torti di torrone in the other, and I would be ordering rabbit (either the nonna's rabbit stew of La Bitta or the tagliatelli with rabbit and mint ragout from Osteria all' Antica Adelaide) and maybe mussels and, oh, yeah, the whole branzini with the olive oil essence ....and the Panna Cotta of Life from Bitta.
And, you know what? We've got five days and at least a dozen restaurants left to do. May God, and the Pope, have mercy on our souls.
PS no new photos with this post, my camera battery died
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Bologna — it's all about the tortellini
Just back in Venezia from Bologna.
For the Tale of the Tortelini, complete with growling waiter, see my Honolulu Advertiser blog (honoluluadvertiser.com, go to Taste and Island Plate links). It's not mounted as I write this, late Thursday night Venice time — having some technical difficulties — but keep checking.
In the case of la cucina Bolognesa, pictures do more justice...See new ones to right and below...
For the Tale of the Tortelini, complete with growling waiter, see my Honolulu Advertiser blog (honoluluadvertiser.com, go to Taste and Island Plate links). It's not mounted as I write this, late Thursday night Venice time — having some technical difficulties — but keep checking.
In the case of la cucina Bolognesa, pictures do more justice...See new ones to right and below...
Monday, June 22, 2009
At the intersection of dreams and reality
Yesterday began with my favorite things here: An espresso, a small table in the sun, a good book, my favorite pen and small notebook, and people watching. I don't mind a few cents' cuperta for the right to sit down instead of gulping my caffe standing up; the romance is such moments is well worth it. These are fleeting moments of peace, of expectations met, of living briefly inside the pages of the books I've been devouring.
I've faced it. I know I will never live in Europe, never belong here in any real sense, never master the languages (even English) or fully comprehend the cultures. I returned to Hawaii from the U.S. Mainland in part because I realized that I would never know anyplace as well as I know the Islands of my birth, not even the Pacific Northwest, where I had lived for 20 years and where at least I could "pass," not having to answer any questions about when my family arrived there, or what "nationality" I was.
Still, in Heinlein's words, I "grok" Hawai'i. Or, in the Hawaiians' own word, which encompasses a meaning much more nuanced that merely "knowing": I am "ma'a" to the place.
I made reluctant peace with this years ago, in my late 20s, when my dearest wish was to move to England, live in a village along the Thames, marry a lockkeeper and have two children, Nigel and Rose. But in the space of just a few weeks, it became clear that there were insoluble problems, both practical and of a more elusive nature. On the practical side, immigration requirements made it unlikely I'd be able to work there.
Also a consideration was the fact that my British boyfriend didn't want to marry me.
"The thing is," he said, fumbling for words, "your awfully American, you know."
I sat there with my tweed wool skirt from the Scottish Highlands and my "jumper set" (shell and cardigan) from Marks and Spencer, my painfully acquired BBC accent and mastery of idiom (I even knew to call it "Marks and Sparks"), my radically scaled-back speaking volume and emotional range and saw my dreams shattered like a dropped tea cup in his mother's drawing room.
The British are so very, very, very good at sussing out class differences and summarizing them with the least expenditure of words. "Milk first, dear," one well-born character confides to another in one of E. M. Forster's books, condemning in three words the pretentions of a woman she met at tea. One simply does not pour milk in the tea cup first; you might as well drop your h's and refer to your sister as "our Alice."
Longwinded route to this, mi dispiace (I'm sorry): I understand that I don't belong here but I love to "make be-dend," as we used to say when I was a child; it is one of the joys of travel.
One reason I'll never fit is that I don't carry, and talk constantly on, a cell phone. I've got one but can't seem to make it work and, anyway, at international phone rates, I dare not use it. Venetians, on the other hand, can't seem to walk the few steps between one canal and the next without taking or making a call. At least their talking isn't particularly distracting since I can understand little that they're saying. It makes only a musical backdrop.
Yesterday, in one of those fortunate coincidences that can happen in travel, I'd been contemplating a short vaporetto ride to the tiny island of S. Giorgio to see the church of S. Giorgio Maggiore and, in particular, to take the elevator up in the tower to see the city from above. I'd not said told Bonnie yet when she, having checked in with the New York times Web site, came out with, "There's an exhibit at S. Giorgio I want to see."
Despite this, the day didn't begin well; we chose the wrong vaporetto route and, since the exhibit involves a film shown only on the hour, Bonnie was a bit fraught about arriving five minutes after showtime and having to kill an hour in a place that offers few public attractions.
Once a sprawling monastery farm, S. Giorgio now consists of the large and historic church (full of the sort of gloomy paintings of ascending saints, marble statues fronted by flickering tiers of candles and carved wooden pews and that don't interest her but do me), a tiny Benedictine monastery (8 monks) and, from the public perspective, not much more. The bell tower of this gleaming white edifice, designed by Palladio and a short distance across the lagoon from the Piazza San Marco, offers a 360-degree view encompassing all of Venice and many of the surrounding islands.
The Cini Foundation, devoted to artistic and musical research, took over the disintegrating property some years ago. Today, its renovated grounds, farms, quadrangles and courtyards are off limits except to scholars, children in attendance at its summer art camps and other guests. Except when, as now, during Biennale, artistic exhibitions are on display.
In the one-time refectory (dining room), we saw the rare presentation with the capacity to interest and excite us both: It is the re-creation through state-of-the-art laser projection technology of a painting literally cut from the walls of this room by Napoleon's conquering armies. Artist Paolo Veranese's "Le Nozze de Cana" ("The Wedding at Cana") is made to come alive by filmmaker Peter Greenaway. The painting, meticulously reconstructed in a light illusion, is projected on the very wall at the end of the room where it once hung. It was created for this space. With moving musical accompaniment, Greenaway then proceeds to a) pull the painting apart, projects bits of it in panels between the windows on either side of the room and b) bring it alive, positing often hilarious conversations between the wedding guests.
This is one of those things better experienced than described and, anyway, I've got to get ready to leave for Bologna, where we'll be for a couple of days. (I'm not blogging while I'm there, BTW.) But it was fascinating to see how Greenaway remained true to the painting's original nature while catapulting it into a world Veranese could not have imagined. It was a perfect intersection both of the artwork and of Bonnie's and my interests and we left chatting happily.
I've faced it. I know I will never live in Europe, never belong here in any real sense, never master the languages (even English) or fully comprehend the cultures. I returned to Hawaii from the U.S. Mainland in part because I realized that I would never know anyplace as well as I know the Islands of my birth, not even the Pacific Northwest, where I had lived for 20 years and where at least I could "pass," not having to answer any questions about when my family arrived there, or what "nationality" I was.
Still, in Heinlein's words, I "grok" Hawai'i. Or, in the Hawaiians' own word, which encompasses a meaning much more nuanced that merely "knowing": I am "ma'a" to the place.
I made reluctant peace with this years ago, in my late 20s, when my dearest wish was to move to England, live in a village along the Thames, marry a lockkeeper and have two children, Nigel and Rose. But in the space of just a few weeks, it became clear that there were insoluble problems, both practical and of a more elusive nature. On the practical side, immigration requirements made it unlikely I'd be able to work there.
Also a consideration was the fact that my British boyfriend didn't want to marry me.
"The thing is," he said, fumbling for words, "your awfully American, you know."
I sat there with my tweed wool skirt from the Scottish Highlands and my "jumper set" (shell and cardigan) from Marks and Spencer, my painfully acquired BBC accent and mastery of idiom (I even knew to call it "Marks and Sparks"), my radically scaled-back speaking volume and emotional range and saw my dreams shattered like a dropped tea cup in his mother's drawing room.
The British are so very, very, very good at sussing out class differences and summarizing them with the least expenditure of words. "Milk first, dear," one well-born character confides to another in one of E. M. Forster's books, condemning in three words the pretentions of a woman she met at tea. One simply does not pour milk in the tea cup first; you might as well drop your h's and refer to your sister as "our Alice."
Longwinded route to this, mi dispiace (I'm sorry): I understand that I don't belong here but I love to "make be-dend," as we used to say when I was a child; it is one of the joys of travel.
One reason I'll never fit is that I don't carry, and talk constantly on, a cell phone. I've got one but can't seem to make it work and, anyway, at international phone rates, I dare not use it. Venetians, on the other hand, can't seem to walk the few steps between one canal and the next without taking or making a call. At least their talking isn't particularly distracting since I can understand little that they're saying. It makes only a musical backdrop.
Yesterday, in one of those fortunate coincidences that can happen in travel, I'd been contemplating a short vaporetto ride to the tiny island of S. Giorgio to see the church of S. Giorgio Maggiore and, in particular, to take the elevator up in the tower to see the city from above. I'd not said told Bonnie yet when she, having checked in with the New York times Web site, came out with, "There's an exhibit at S. Giorgio I want to see."
Despite this, the day didn't begin well; we chose the wrong vaporetto route and, since the exhibit involves a film shown only on the hour, Bonnie was a bit fraught about arriving five minutes after showtime and having to kill an hour in a place that offers few public attractions.
Once a sprawling monastery farm, S. Giorgio now consists of the large and historic church (full of the sort of gloomy paintings of ascending saints, marble statues fronted by flickering tiers of candles and carved wooden pews and that don't interest her but do me), a tiny Benedictine monastery (8 monks) and, from the public perspective, not much more. The bell tower of this gleaming white edifice, designed by Palladio and a short distance across the lagoon from the Piazza San Marco, offers a 360-degree view encompassing all of Venice and many of the surrounding islands.
The Cini Foundation, devoted to artistic and musical research, took over the disintegrating property some years ago. Today, its renovated grounds, farms, quadrangles and courtyards are off limits except to scholars, children in attendance at its summer art camps and other guests. Except when, as now, during Biennale, artistic exhibitions are on display.
In the one-time refectory (dining room), we saw the rare presentation with the capacity to interest and excite us both: It is the re-creation through state-of-the-art laser projection technology of a painting literally cut from the walls of this room by Napoleon's conquering armies. Artist Paolo Veranese's "Le Nozze de Cana" ("The Wedding at Cana") is made to come alive by filmmaker Peter Greenaway. The painting, meticulously reconstructed in a light illusion, is projected on the very wall at the end of the room where it once hung. It was created for this space. With moving musical accompaniment, Greenaway then proceeds to a) pull the painting apart, projects bits of it in panels between the windows on either side of the room and b) bring it alive, positing often hilarious conversations between the wedding guests.
This is one of those things better experienced than described and, anyway, I've got to get ready to leave for Bologna, where we'll be for a couple of days. (I'm not blogging while I'm there, BTW.) But it was fascinating to see how Greenaway remained true to the painting's original nature while catapulting it into a world Veranese could not have imagined. It was a perfect intersection both of the artwork and of Bonnie's and my interests and we left chatting happily.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
La Bitta but no bill-a
You know you've been in Venice too long when you glimpse a heart-stopping vignette — a particularly lovely arched bridge, a yellow boat, the late sun offering a gentle light — and you're too jaded to unzip your purse and pull out a camera.
Also too full, I was, from last night's dinner at Restaurant La Bitta, just off Campo S. Bernaba, where carefully prepared but unfussy food finally met up with reasonable prices, just-what-you-want atmosphere and warm service. Tired and cold, too, Venice having switched faces as quickly as a tourist trying on Carnivale masks, from intensive, humid heat to a Friday night thunder-and-lighting show and drastically dropped temperatures. I spent the day wrapped in scarves, not having packed for the chill wind.
Despite the cold, we sat where we had previously booked, in the tiny giardino (reservations are a must at popular, 8-year-old Bitta) draped with ivy and offering a view of the ubiquitous swifts with their sharp silhouettes carving up a square of sky high overhead. Here, I finally experienced the attraction of two popular antipasti that, on American menus, have always struck me as pallid and uninteresting: caprese salad and proscuitto with melon. Insalata Caprese con Burrata (E10, burrata refers to the type or region of the cheese, I believe) encompassed a fat purse of fresh white cheese that wept milky richness over the grape tomatoes and lettuce. Orgasmic. Ossocolo de Casado Con Melone (E10) brought together paper-thin ossocolo (a cured ham) and sweet, ripe (this is key and rarely accomplished in the U.S.) honeydew with just a dustling of pepper. Ossocolo has a more pronounced salty, beefy flavor than conventional American-made prosciutto and is a bit drier in texture. Eye-opening. Oh, that's what the Italians are on about when it comes to these two dishes.
I remarked to Bonnie, who agreed heartily, that so much of Italian cooking is really quite easy and straightforward, but impossible to achieve properly without ingredients that approach perfection in freshness or manufacture. Easy for Bitta to make such starters with such cheese, meats and produce.
More work goes into the dish of the night for me, the owne'rs grandmother's recipe for Conlio in Tecia, rabbit stew (E10), a sort of coq au vin with rabbit, richly larded with pancetta and bathed in brown sauce with a breath of cloves and perhaps allspice, a typically Venetian touch (first time I craved steamed rice since I've been here). The smashed potatoes with which it was serve were also flecked with bits of pancetta, the potatoes so fresh they tasted of the musty earth (in a Good Way).
I'll leave it to Bonnie (alohafromveneziaredux on blogspot) to discuss dessert; it's her story, of the search for the perrect panna cotta. My tira mi su (invented in Treviso, near Venice) was wonderful. For all this, plus Bonnie's two glasses of wine and my espresso, plus tip, we paid under E80. (And it tells you how steep are prices here that that seems like a bargain, since it's about $150.)
Some observations, as I prepare to attend Mass on Isla San Giorgio Maggiore in a Benedictine monastery designed by Palladio:
Sitting on the vaporetto yesterday, it seemed to me there are two kinds of Italian men. Type 1 is appealing, dishevilled, with face hair and glasses and undoubtedly glorying in the title dottore or professore or possibly maestro. Type 2 is impossibly handsome with chiseled bone structure, fashionable clothes and hair that begs to be tossled; two-day facial stubble optional. There are other men, I'm sure, with paunches and receding hairlines and such, but they have escaped my notice.
Venetian restaurants have a peculiar habit that is beginning to annoy me intensely. The first course arrives rapidly (since we generally eat early and so are often surrounded by empty tables); grazie mille, I'm usually hungry however early we go. The following courses arrive in sedate succession. And then all action stops. The conto (the bill) never comes. You can ask for it. You can look bereft. You can gather up your things. Nothing works. What a contrast to the rapidity with which American servers tend to "drop the check" (often even before you've ordered dessert or a second cup of coffee). I am an enthusiastic but bird-like eater who does not care to linger at table once the food is done. Last night, chilled to the bone, intensely uncomfortable with an aching lower back (I pulled something), I actually left my money with Bonnie and walked out after waiting 15-20 minutes. It was another 15-20 before she emerged.
She was full of glee: She had spoken with the owner, who waited on us, and was so enthralled by her comments that she wrote them down. "What are you doing with that tira mi su," she demanded, eyeing my half-finished dessert. "Here," she said, "you do not order food you do not eat." They chatted about this for a while, and she insisted, literally insisted, that Bonnie, who had finished all her food and part of my rabbit and potatoes, too, felt in honor bound to eat the dessert. The woman then informed her that, at Bitta, you will never get the check unless you ask for it; you can sit there all night with nothing in front of you.
Bonnie thought this was charming. I thought it was indefensible. 1) If I'm paying for a dish, I'll eat as much or as little of it as suits my physical health and appetite (see my previous blogs on Venetian restaurants reactions to a request for a takeout container). 2) A server, in whatever country, should be alert to a table's needs, able to read, and willing to respond to, body language that screams "Let me out of here!"
While it's somewhat enlightening to hear her take on it, I'm pretty much appalled by this and it makes me want to take the remainder of my meals here in cicchetti bars (where you eat standing up and leave when you want) or in the form of take-away food. I resent being enslaved at $20 a plate! Harrumph!
Also too full, I was, from last night's dinner at Restaurant La Bitta, just off Campo S. Bernaba, where carefully prepared but unfussy food finally met up with reasonable prices, just-what-you-want atmosphere and warm service. Tired and cold, too, Venice having switched faces as quickly as a tourist trying on Carnivale masks, from intensive, humid heat to a Friday night thunder-and-lighting show and drastically dropped temperatures. I spent the day wrapped in scarves, not having packed for the chill wind.
Despite the cold, we sat where we had previously booked, in the tiny giardino (reservations are a must at popular, 8-year-old Bitta) draped with ivy and offering a view of the ubiquitous swifts with their sharp silhouettes carving up a square of sky high overhead. Here, I finally experienced the attraction of two popular antipasti that, on American menus, have always struck me as pallid and uninteresting: caprese salad and proscuitto with melon. Insalata Caprese con Burrata (E10, burrata refers to the type or region of the cheese, I believe) encompassed a fat purse of fresh white cheese that wept milky richness over the grape tomatoes and lettuce. Orgasmic. Ossocolo de Casado Con Melone (E10) brought together paper-thin ossocolo (a cured ham) and sweet, ripe (this is key and rarely accomplished in the U.S.) honeydew with just a dustling of pepper. Ossocolo has a more pronounced salty, beefy flavor than conventional American-made prosciutto and is a bit drier in texture. Eye-opening. Oh, that's what the Italians are on about when it comes to these two dishes.
I remarked to Bonnie, who agreed heartily, that so much of Italian cooking is really quite easy and straightforward, but impossible to achieve properly without ingredients that approach perfection in freshness or manufacture. Easy for Bitta to make such starters with such cheese, meats and produce.
More work goes into the dish of the night for me, the owne'rs grandmother's recipe for Conlio in Tecia, rabbit stew (E10), a sort of coq au vin with rabbit, richly larded with pancetta and bathed in brown sauce with a breath of cloves and perhaps allspice, a typically Venetian touch (first time I craved steamed rice since I've been here). The smashed potatoes with which it was serve were also flecked with bits of pancetta, the potatoes so fresh they tasted of the musty earth (in a Good Way).
I'll leave it to Bonnie (alohafromveneziaredux on blogspot) to discuss dessert; it's her story, of the search for the perrect panna cotta. My tira mi su (invented in Treviso, near Venice) was wonderful. For all this, plus Bonnie's two glasses of wine and my espresso, plus tip, we paid under E80. (And it tells you how steep are prices here that that seems like a bargain, since it's about $150.)
Some observations, as I prepare to attend Mass on Isla San Giorgio Maggiore in a Benedictine monastery designed by Palladio:
Sitting on the vaporetto yesterday, it seemed to me there are two kinds of Italian men. Type 1 is appealing, dishevilled, with face hair and glasses and undoubtedly glorying in the title dottore or professore or possibly maestro. Type 2 is impossibly handsome with chiseled bone structure, fashionable clothes and hair that begs to be tossled; two-day facial stubble optional. There are other men, I'm sure, with paunches and receding hairlines and such, but they have escaped my notice.
Venetian restaurants have a peculiar habit that is beginning to annoy me intensely. The first course arrives rapidly (since we generally eat early and so are often surrounded by empty tables); grazie mille, I'm usually hungry however early we go. The following courses arrive in sedate succession. And then all action stops. The conto (the bill) never comes. You can ask for it. You can look bereft. You can gather up your things. Nothing works. What a contrast to the rapidity with which American servers tend to "drop the check" (often even before you've ordered dessert or a second cup of coffee). I am an enthusiastic but bird-like eater who does not care to linger at table once the food is done. Last night, chilled to the bone, intensely uncomfortable with an aching lower back (I pulled something), I actually left my money with Bonnie and walked out after waiting 15-20 minutes. It was another 15-20 before she emerged.
She was full of glee: She had spoken with the owner, who waited on us, and was so enthralled by her comments that she wrote them down. "What are you doing with that tira mi su," she demanded, eyeing my half-finished dessert. "Here," she said, "you do not order food you do not eat." They chatted about this for a while, and she insisted, literally insisted, that Bonnie, who had finished all her food and part of my rabbit and potatoes, too, felt in honor bound to eat the dessert. The woman then informed her that, at Bitta, you will never get the check unless you ask for it; you can sit there all night with nothing in front of you.
Bonnie thought this was charming. I thought it was indefensible. 1) If I'm paying for a dish, I'll eat as much or as little of it as suits my physical health and appetite (see my previous blogs on Venetian restaurants reactions to a request for a takeout container). 2) A server, in whatever country, should be alert to a table's needs, able to read, and willing to respond to, body language that screams "Let me out of here!"
While it's somewhat enlightening to hear her take on it, I'm pretty much appalled by this and it makes me want to take the remainder of my meals here in cicchetti bars (where you eat standing up and leave when you want) or in the form of take-away food. I resent being enslaved at $20 a plate! Harrumph!
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Buon giorno, oggi e Venerdi!
Good morning and today is Friday. How has nearly a week sped by?
Yesterday, after a morning of taking care of business and, well, yes, shopping, I finally made it to Ca' Rezzonico, the city's 18th century museum in a palazzo on the Grand Canal. Grand, indeed. Sadly we could not see the facade, which is masked with plastic as renovation work proceeds. Renovation is a perpetual state in Venice; just as something is finished, something else needs work. Ask any Venetian. Or ask my friend Bonnie, who was at a Biennale exhibit yesterday when water suddenly began pouring down a wall, engulfing the painting she was looking at!
Travel tip: Use the Internet or phone to check ahead on any attaction you particularly want to see; it may be under renovation, affecting hours, or the availability of certain exhibits or features.
Ca Rezzonico's three flours of exhibits, well-kept gardens and colonnade, book shop and cafeteria are a must for anyone who cares about putti (winged cherubs), ornamentation in general and gilt and ebony in particular (don't stand still too long or some restorer will come and cover you in gold or black) but also chinoiserie and the 18th century. Having read a great deal in 18th century English literature and history, I was interested to see what my English 'friends' would have seen when they visited Venice on what was then called the Grand Tour, de rigeur for upper class men after university and before marriage. A lot of naughtiness if the sketches of everyday noble life are to be believed: My favorites, besides the portraits in the Pastel Room, were a pair of famous paintings, one depicting a ridotto (a masked ball) and the other a visit by gracious ladies to a nunnery. In the one, every domino'd figure appears to be smirking at or spying on another, totting up, no doubt, who is flirting with whom from behind their hooked noses and black face coverings. And in the other, the ladies behind the grill are not, as one would expect, in habits, but dresses just as are the ladies in the salon where guests are received; these are, for the most part, superfluous women — widows, the one-great who have been disgraced or impoverished, homely spinsters — who opted for, or were forced into, the convent. They took no vows but simply turned over whatever assets they had and lived respectably under the care of worker-bee nuns, a sort of Christ's zenanah, buzzing with intrigue and gossip about their visitors with as much relish as those at the maked ball.
Afterward, I ventured out a side door and along a rio with no fixed purpose other than to find a late lunch (it was already 2) and wander by myself. Following my nose, as the English say, I stopped at a cicchetti (snack) bar called Caffe Vergnano 1882 in the Fondamenta Gherardini in San Barnaba, the neighborhood we had visited the other night at dinner and a most pleasant place, indeed. According to popular Venice writer Donna Leon, the best bread in Venice is to be had on the Campo S. Barnaba, at the gourmet shop, Pantagreulica. I intend to go back there. (As you will recall, you pay a cover if you sit down in a ciccheti establishment; IF there are even seats offered. Most stand around the walls, perching their plates on narrow ledges provided, nibbling and sipping. In general, Venetians are a stand-up lot. The other day, at Rialto Market, we ran into a political rally after which all the beautifully suited, mobile phone-equipped politicos stood around the public courtyard sipping and eating. Standing up.)
Refreshed by fried polenta squares topped with roasted peppers and prosciutto, polponne carne (meat fritters) and a vegetable rice dish, I continued wandering, taking pictures, turning here and there, stopping to see a couple of smaller Biennale installations, until I reached the Zattere, from which wide lagoon-front pathway, it's a straight shot back to Palazzino di Schio, where we're staying.
Ducked into Billa, one of an ubiquitous grocery chain and the only full-scale supermarket in the Dorsoduro, about the size of a small neighborhood Foodland. I was looking for finely milled polenta to use in experimenting with almond cake when I get home (see my Honolulu Advertiser blog, My Island Plate) and just generally browsing.
Billa in some ways makes its compatriots in Honolulu look backward. For example, when you buy produce, you take it to a weigh station, tap the corresponding led display and find out just exactly what it will cost; a label spits out, speeding checkout later. And every grocery store, not just Whole Foods-type specialty stores, offers a very wide range of high-quality convenience foods, from pre-prepped fresh vegetables to complete meals made in the deli kitchen. Each has at least a small, and busy, deli area for fresh formaggio (cheese) and salumeria (preserved meats) and meats. In general, despite the press of space, the range is impressive with everyday eaters and "buongusti" (gourmets) served equally well.
Later in the day, at my request, Bonnie bequeathed to me the techniques the Contessa had bequeathed to her as to how to make a rich cafe in a twee little stovetop coffee pot provided. The device employs three chambers: the bottom for water, a filter above it for finely ground coffee and the top, in which the coffee makes itself by means of condensation: boiling the water forces air and moisture up through the grounds, depositing a strong brew above.
The secrets: NO TAMPING; use a small spoon to lightly drift the fine grounds in the filter basket. NO WATER TO TOUCH THE GROUNDS; make sure the water level is below the bottom of the filter. Bring to a boil, listen for the cheerful sound, a trilling bubbling rather like pigeons courting (but not really), and in a couple of minutes, it's brewed. The one we have makes about two demitasse cups and I'm giving it a workout.
I'm off to sketch and paint. Today, I have promised myself a day off — no extensive sightseeing, no shopping, just living the good life in Venice, as though I were a respectable retired lady.
Yesterday, after a morning of taking care of business and, well, yes, shopping, I finally made it to Ca' Rezzonico, the city's 18th century museum in a palazzo on the Grand Canal. Grand, indeed. Sadly we could not see the facade, which is masked with plastic as renovation work proceeds. Renovation is a perpetual state in Venice; just as something is finished, something else needs work. Ask any Venetian. Or ask my friend Bonnie, who was at a Biennale exhibit yesterday when water suddenly began pouring down a wall, engulfing the painting she was looking at!
Travel tip: Use the Internet or phone to check ahead on any attaction you particularly want to see; it may be under renovation, affecting hours, or the availability of certain exhibits or features.
Ca Rezzonico's three flours of exhibits, well-kept gardens and colonnade, book shop and cafeteria are a must for anyone who cares about putti (winged cherubs), ornamentation in general and gilt and ebony in particular (don't stand still too long or some restorer will come and cover you in gold or black) but also chinoiserie and the 18th century. Having read a great deal in 18th century English literature and history, I was interested to see what my English 'friends' would have seen when they visited Venice on what was then called the Grand Tour, de rigeur for upper class men after university and before marriage. A lot of naughtiness if the sketches of everyday noble life are to be believed: My favorites, besides the portraits in the Pastel Room, were a pair of famous paintings, one depicting a ridotto (a masked ball) and the other a visit by gracious ladies to a nunnery. In the one, every domino'd figure appears to be smirking at or spying on another, totting up, no doubt, who is flirting with whom from behind their hooked noses and black face coverings. And in the other, the ladies behind the grill are not, as one would expect, in habits, but dresses just as are the ladies in the salon where guests are received; these are, for the most part, superfluous women — widows, the one-great who have been disgraced or impoverished, homely spinsters — who opted for, or were forced into, the convent. They took no vows but simply turned over whatever assets they had and lived respectably under the care of worker-bee nuns, a sort of Christ's zenanah, buzzing with intrigue and gossip about their visitors with as much relish as those at the maked ball.
Afterward, I ventured out a side door and along a rio with no fixed purpose other than to find a late lunch (it was already 2) and wander by myself. Following my nose, as the English say, I stopped at a cicchetti (snack) bar called Caffe Vergnano 1882 in the Fondamenta Gherardini in San Barnaba, the neighborhood we had visited the other night at dinner and a most pleasant place, indeed. According to popular Venice writer Donna Leon, the best bread in Venice is to be had on the Campo S. Barnaba, at the gourmet shop, Pantagreulica. I intend to go back there. (As you will recall, you pay a cover if you sit down in a ciccheti establishment; IF there are even seats offered. Most stand around the walls, perching their plates on narrow ledges provided, nibbling and sipping. In general, Venetians are a stand-up lot. The other day, at Rialto Market, we ran into a political rally after which all the beautifully suited, mobile phone-equipped politicos stood around the public courtyard sipping and eating. Standing up.)
Refreshed by fried polenta squares topped with roasted peppers and prosciutto, polponne carne (meat fritters) and a vegetable rice dish, I continued wandering, taking pictures, turning here and there, stopping to see a couple of smaller Biennale installations, until I reached the Zattere, from which wide lagoon-front pathway, it's a straight shot back to Palazzino di Schio, where we're staying.
Ducked into Billa, one of an ubiquitous grocery chain and the only full-scale supermarket in the Dorsoduro, about the size of a small neighborhood Foodland. I was looking for finely milled polenta to use in experimenting with almond cake when I get home (see my Honolulu Advertiser blog, My Island Plate) and just generally browsing.
Billa in some ways makes its compatriots in Honolulu look backward. For example, when you buy produce, you take it to a weigh station, tap the corresponding led display and find out just exactly what it will cost; a label spits out, speeding checkout later. And every grocery store, not just Whole Foods-type specialty stores, offers a very wide range of high-quality convenience foods, from pre-prepped fresh vegetables to complete meals made in the deli kitchen. Each has at least a small, and busy, deli area for fresh formaggio (cheese) and salumeria (preserved meats) and meats. In general, despite the press of space, the range is impressive with everyday eaters and "buongusti" (gourmets) served equally well.
Later in the day, at my request, Bonnie bequeathed to me the techniques the Contessa had bequeathed to her as to how to make a rich cafe in a twee little stovetop coffee pot provided. The device employs three chambers: the bottom for water, a filter above it for finely ground coffee and the top, in which the coffee makes itself by means of condensation: boiling the water forces air and moisture up through the grounds, depositing a strong brew above.
The secrets: NO TAMPING; use a small spoon to lightly drift the fine grounds in the filter basket. NO WATER TO TOUCH THE GROUNDS; make sure the water level is below the bottom of the filter. Bring to a boil, listen for the cheerful sound, a trilling bubbling rather like pigeons courting (but not really), and in a couple of minutes, it's brewed. The one we have makes about two demitasse cups and I'm giving it a workout.
I'm off to sketch and paint. Today, I have promised myself a day off — no extensive sightseeing, no shopping, just living the good life in Venice, as though I were a respectable retired lady.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
A post in telegraph form
When I first traveled with my friend, Bonnie, to Venice in 2007, I hadn't yet entered the blogosphere and was amazed and privately appalled at the tyranny that blogging exercised over her. Every day, we'd arrive home from our excursions and, as I settled into a chair with a book, she'd say, "I've got to blog. I've got to blog" and then she'd be busily typing for an hour or more.
Now I, too, am a blogger and a digital photograph taker and editing film and adding media is definitely cutting into my chair-and-book time. So this morning, a blog in brief...
Last night: Osteria All Antica Adelaide, Ca' d'Oro. Charming look, not so charming service, winning food. Brimming plate of mussels with tomatoes and whiff of garlic (more than 30 mussels, drinkable zupetta); only E10. Craving pasta; tagliatelli with rabbit ragout; E9. Heaven, pasta perfectly al denta, ground rabbit sauce with mint — meaty, herby, satisfying. (Online research reveals mint a happy innovation; rosemary traditional.)
Venice tip (maybe all Italy tip, don't know): Request take-home carton at risk of humiliation. At another place, friend was outright refused until she insisted. At Osteria, hostess' face went through a series of indescribable expressions that appeared to encompass surprise, disdain and what-can-you-expect-from-savages in equal measure. Got container. Had leftover pasta in omelet for breakfast. So there.
Friends' meal: Delicious mixed greens salad with beguiling purse of mozarella fresca, raw corn, cherry tomatoes; E10. Rigatone alle melanzane with ricotta di pecora (hard form of sheep's ricotta), the sweetest red bell peppers ever (as though they'd been baked in honey); E8. Healthy, delish.
Service: Always slow, Italians linger. But this, slow to the point of being ignored; wait for conto (check) stretched out till eyelids drooping. Annoying rose merchants interrupted meal twice; should not be allowed.
Rose seller diversion: Men approach you, offer to sell roses. Persistent in smarmy fashion. If woman alone, offer to give rose. If accepted, offer to sell a second (at jacked-up price). Just say no. Or pay $4 a stem. (Okay, I bit once.)
Dessert: Torta ai fichi. Fig cake. Dense, nutty, bits of sweet fig. Simple e perfetto! (Skip the overdone caramel sauce.) E4.5
Diversion the second: Note "coperto" on restaurant menus; cover charge. Coperto applies whenever your butt hits a chair. At Osteria Adelaide E1.50 persona.
A domani.
Now I, too, am a blogger and a digital photograph taker and editing film and adding media is definitely cutting into my chair-and-book time. So this morning, a blog in brief...
Last night: Osteria All Antica Adelaide, Ca' d'Oro. Charming look, not so charming service, winning food. Brimming plate of mussels with tomatoes and whiff of garlic (more than 30 mussels, drinkable zupetta); only E10. Craving pasta; tagliatelli with rabbit ragout; E9. Heaven, pasta perfectly al denta, ground rabbit sauce with mint — meaty, herby, satisfying. (Online research reveals mint a happy innovation; rosemary traditional.)
Venice tip (maybe all Italy tip, don't know): Request take-home carton at risk of humiliation. At another place, friend was outright refused until she insisted. At Osteria, hostess' face went through a series of indescribable expressions that appeared to encompass surprise, disdain and what-can-you-expect-from-savages in equal measure. Got container. Had leftover pasta in omelet for breakfast. So there.
Friends' meal: Delicious mixed greens salad with beguiling purse of mozarella fresca, raw corn, cherry tomatoes; E10. Rigatone alle melanzane with ricotta di pecora (hard form of sheep's ricotta), the sweetest red bell peppers ever (as though they'd been baked in honey); E8. Healthy, delish.
Service: Always slow, Italians linger. But this, slow to the point of being ignored; wait for conto (check) stretched out till eyelids drooping. Annoying rose merchants interrupted meal twice; should not be allowed.
Rose seller diversion: Men approach you, offer to sell roses. Persistent in smarmy fashion. If woman alone, offer to give rose. If accepted, offer to sell a second (at jacked-up price). Just say no. Or pay $4 a stem. (Okay, I bit once.)
Dessert: Torta ai fichi. Fig cake. Dense, nutty, bits of sweet fig. Simple e perfetto! (Skip the overdone caramel sauce.) E4.5
Diversion the second: Note "coperto" on restaurant menus; cover charge. Coperto applies whenever your butt hits a chair. At Osteria Adelaide E1.50 persona.
A domani.
About that museum visit. . .
Well, we never made it to the museum, it's midafternoon and we're moving like old women and craving coffee (or, alternatively, a nap).
You see, there was this dress shop in the Calle Longa di Sta. Maria Formosa, and this shoe shop (actually, several shoe shops) and half a hundred places where I had to stop and take a picture (I've got a theme in mind for a Venice series) and then this pizza place where we just couldn't resist the jewel-toned array of fresh pies, and then we stopped in at the Rialto Market and there was some kind of fresh plum we never could get the name of, and we were out of Parmeggiano and that required queuing up (and being cut in on by locals) and I had to make a picture of the gooseberries, translucent crimson and rare pearly white ones — I've always loved the way gooseberries seem to shine with a light from within — and then I remembered reading about this bookshop, Librero Acqua Alta, and we had to retrace out steps to find it and it was all that we could have hoped.
And, well, you see, I'm out of figurative breath just reciting what we did.
So, back to Salve Rosa, the bakery, where we ate like good Venetians, standing up, having chosen three pastries: zeleti (cornmeal and current cakes), something they said was "prune cake" but was more of a raisin bread and — the winner by a knockout — some kind of almond cake that, as Bonnie said, "was almost a frangipani but not quite." (Which, lest we confuse the Tahitians in the audience, is not a reference to the flower aka plumeria but to a classic tart made with almond paste.) The moist raised cake, cut into thick fingers, rested on a bottom crust and we have no idea what it's called, nor did anyone at the bakery seem interested in telling us.
This theme, reverberating through the morning, was the only shadow on a beautiful (if self-indulgent) day. I am reminded irresistably of Sally Field at the Academy Awards, but in a bad way: "You hate me. You really really hate me." There were the pastry shop people who ignored our questions and grew impatient when I fumbled with the money. There were the Rialto market stall-keepers who looked right over our heads to serve locals first, then picked out the poorest produce to give us, bagging our tomatoes and apricots with a heavy hand. There was the shop owner who dawdled for a lengthy conversation in the narrow door of her shop even though it was clear we were very interested in her wares and wanted to come in. I asked Bonnie if I should say "Permiso" ("with your permission" — the polite form of "make way if you don't mind") but my wise and experienced friend warned me not to go there. If we had fallen in love with the shop's handmade brocade ballet slippers that was our problem and we would have to possess ourselves in patience. We waited. We bought. She was quite gracious by the time we were walking out the door with three pairs between us.
Digression, the first: Not only do many restaurants not take credit cards here, but smaller shops — often the most interesting ones — don't either. The shoe lady doesn't even have a store phone. Though I'm sure she has a mobile.
Digression, the second: One wonders what would happen if you separated a Venetian from his or her mobile phone. At the very least, an international incident. My favorite scene of the day was when, in the campo that fronts the Rialto Market, we ran into a political rally, complete with banners and an escort of polizei. Having marched there from somewhere, the group of well-dressed politicos (well, they're Itallian; it goes without saying they're well-dressed) broke for a stand-up lunch in the campo, and stand-up drinks outside of famed Al Merca, a bar that's been doing business since 1918 and every one of them clutched a phone in one hand and a drink in the other (except for the ones who had Bluetooth equipment in their ears).
Well, I'm determined to make something of this day. Off to the museum. And the bank.
Ciao! Photos to come.
You see, there was this dress shop in the Calle Longa di Sta. Maria Formosa, and this shoe shop (actually, several shoe shops) and half a hundred places where I had to stop and take a picture (I've got a theme in mind for a Venice series) and then this pizza place where we just couldn't resist the jewel-toned array of fresh pies, and then we stopped in at the Rialto Market and there was some kind of fresh plum we never could get the name of, and we were out of Parmeggiano and that required queuing up (and being cut in on by locals) and I had to make a picture of the gooseberries, translucent crimson and rare pearly white ones — I've always loved the way gooseberries seem to shine with a light from within — and then I remembered reading about this bookshop, Librero Acqua Alta, and we had to retrace out steps to find it and it was all that we could have hoped.
And, well, you see, I'm out of figurative breath just reciting what we did.
So, back to Salve Rosa, the bakery, where we ate like good Venetians, standing up, having chosen three pastries: zeleti (cornmeal and current cakes), something they said was "prune cake" but was more of a raisin bread and — the winner by a knockout — some kind of almond cake that, as Bonnie said, "was almost a frangipani but not quite." (Which, lest we confuse the Tahitians in the audience, is not a reference to the flower aka plumeria but to a classic tart made with almond paste.) The moist raised cake, cut into thick fingers, rested on a bottom crust and we have no idea what it's called, nor did anyone at the bakery seem interested in telling us.
This theme, reverberating through the morning, was the only shadow on a beautiful (if self-indulgent) day. I am reminded irresistably of Sally Field at the Academy Awards, but in a bad way: "You hate me. You really really hate me." There were the pastry shop people who ignored our questions and grew impatient when I fumbled with the money. There were the Rialto market stall-keepers who looked right over our heads to serve locals first, then picked out the poorest produce to give us, bagging our tomatoes and apricots with a heavy hand. There was the shop owner who dawdled for a lengthy conversation in the narrow door of her shop even though it was clear we were very interested in her wares and wanted to come in. I asked Bonnie if I should say "Permiso" ("with your permission" — the polite form of "make way if you don't mind") but my wise and experienced friend warned me not to go there. If we had fallen in love with the shop's handmade brocade ballet slippers that was our problem and we would have to possess ourselves in patience. We waited. We bought. She was quite gracious by the time we were walking out the door with three pairs between us.
Digression, the first: Not only do many restaurants not take credit cards here, but smaller shops — often the most interesting ones — don't either. The shoe lady doesn't even have a store phone. Though I'm sure she has a mobile.
Digression, the second: One wonders what would happen if you separated a Venetian from his or her mobile phone. At the very least, an international incident. My favorite scene of the day was when, in the campo that fronts the Rialto Market, we ran into a political rally, complete with banners and an escort of polizei. Having marched there from somewhere, the group of well-dressed politicos (well, they're Itallian; it goes without saying they're well-dressed) broke for a stand-up lunch in the campo, and stand-up drinks outside of famed Al Merca, a bar that's been doing business since 1918 and every one of them clutched a phone in one hand and a drink in the other (except for the ones who had Bluetooth equipment in their ears).
Well, I'm determined to make something of this day. Off to the museum. And the bank.
Ciao! Photos to come.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
No sign of Venice and a little matter of sanitation
Taking my morning stroll this morning, I recalled something I'd read recently but not previously noticed: In addition to the lack of cars, Venice is noteworthy for its relative lack of signage.
Street names are painted on the stone walls, or carved there. Discreet brass nameplates identify buildings. Anonymous doors of apartments are flanked by small bell buttons and an apartment number but rarely a name, unless the building itself has one. Even businesses refrain from blaring billboards, outfitting their storefronts with painted signs in keeping with the building's design, or in the case of restaurants and bars, perhaps a splash of neon — "Bar" "Ristorante" — to enlighten the shadowy alleys at night.
The exception, as my fellow blogger and traveler has indignantly noted in her Web log, is the occasional, though generally temporary, startling defacement of a priceless treasure, such as the stories-high fashion ad now affixed to the Doge's palace, obscuring the view of the Bridge of Sighs. And banners often billow from windows and balconies, such as those advertising the Biennale (biannual modern art show on here now) and its exhibits and events.
But these deprecations aside, Venice declares itself with dignity. So much dignity, in fact, that it can be quite difficult to figure out where you are or in what business or building. La Serenissima settles her watery skirts around her like a well-mannered matron and considers it no business of hers to assist you in finding your way. If you don't know, well, perhaps it's not for you. Which is why, around every corner, there is an inconvenient stoppage of visitors, maps wilting in their hands, puzzled looks on their faces, fingers pointing, standing generally stage center in the narrow pathways. No wonder Venetians scorn tourists.
Also in my perambulations, I noted the nightly flowering of plastic shopping bags dangling from the old-fashioned center-mounted brass doorknobs that front many homes. This is how Venice handles refuse. There is no room for large garbage cans as most homes have nothing we would call a yard, or even, in many cases, a back door. Doors are flush with the building fronts, opening directly onto the street without benefit of porch or stoop. Some homes possess courtyards or gardens at the rear, but these often have no outlet to the street. And, in any case, garbage cans would crowd the often narrow walkways, present a removal problem in a streetless city and deface La Serenissima's beauty. So Venice handles its unmentionables in a quiet and tidy fashion: the garbage (whatever cannot be recycled) goes out daily in a small sack, set near the door or hanging from the doorknob and is picked up by men wheeling large barrows door to door, offloading them from time to time into narrow boats that negotiate the canals. They just clattered noisily along our Fondamenta, whisking away the evidence.
If you're staying more than a few days, you soon become quite Venetian, stuffing a cloth or net shopping bag into your purse or pack each day, for carting home purchases; locating the nearest small market and planning your day around quick stops for just the few things you need — a loaf of bread, some cheese or meats from the salumeria, a carton of milk for your morning coffee or cereal, a few of Venice's famous biscotti (not the sweet rusks but what we would call cookies, ranging from delicate butter biscuits to great rounded lumps of sweet dough flecked with dried fruit or chocolate — more of this later). There are grocery stores but they are small by our standards (like a Waikiki ABC) and resourceful Venetians have found ways to pepper their pathways with necessities. We stocked up on paper goods (useful to know: toilet paper=carta igienica) at a local dry cleaner.
Important to know about restaurants: Many restaurants here don't take credit cards because the service fees are so high; be prepared with cash. Lots of it. Many restaurants are closed on Tuesdays, not Mondays. Some allow patrons to select a wine from their stock, drink what they wish and pay for it, leaving the half-drunk bottle for others to finish. Pick the bottle you'd like to sample, they'll tell you how much you'll be charged per glass. And, it is said, many restaurants maintain a quiet double standard; locals are charged less and given better quality — even to the use of the best pasta water (the oldest is said to be the best, imparting flavor). Experienced an interesting way of charging for fresh fish last night: By the gram; 100 grams (about 1/4 pound) was E8, so our whole branzino ran to E30 (!) with a side of grilled vegetables. The fish of just less than a pound dressed out perfectly for two.
We're off soon for colazzione (breakfast) at Rose Salva, famed for its zelita (cornmeal and sultana cakes) and other confections.
Arrivadercila.
Street names are painted on the stone walls, or carved there. Discreet brass nameplates identify buildings. Anonymous doors of apartments are flanked by small bell buttons and an apartment number but rarely a name, unless the building itself has one. Even businesses refrain from blaring billboards, outfitting their storefronts with painted signs in keeping with the building's design, or in the case of restaurants and bars, perhaps a splash of neon — "Bar" "Ristorante" — to enlighten the shadowy alleys at night.
The exception, as my fellow blogger and traveler has indignantly noted in her Web log, is the occasional, though generally temporary, startling defacement of a priceless treasure, such as the stories-high fashion ad now affixed to the Doge's palace, obscuring the view of the Bridge of Sighs. And banners often billow from windows and balconies, such as those advertising the Biennale (biannual modern art show on here now) and its exhibits and events.
But these deprecations aside, Venice declares itself with dignity. So much dignity, in fact, that it can be quite difficult to figure out where you are or in what business or building. La Serenissima settles her watery skirts around her like a well-mannered matron and considers it no business of hers to assist you in finding your way. If you don't know, well, perhaps it's not for you. Which is why, around every corner, there is an inconvenient stoppage of visitors, maps wilting in their hands, puzzled looks on their faces, fingers pointing, standing generally stage center in the narrow pathways. No wonder Venetians scorn tourists.
Also in my perambulations, I noted the nightly flowering of plastic shopping bags dangling from the old-fashioned center-mounted brass doorknobs that front many homes. This is how Venice handles refuse. There is no room for large garbage cans as most homes have nothing we would call a yard, or even, in many cases, a back door. Doors are flush with the building fronts, opening directly onto the street without benefit of porch or stoop. Some homes possess courtyards or gardens at the rear, but these often have no outlet to the street. And, in any case, garbage cans would crowd the often narrow walkways, present a removal problem in a streetless city and deface La Serenissima's beauty. So Venice handles its unmentionables in a quiet and tidy fashion: the garbage (whatever cannot be recycled) goes out daily in a small sack, set near the door or hanging from the doorknob and is picked up by men wheeling large barrows door to door, offloading them from time to time into narrow boats that negotiate the canals. They just clattered noisily along our Fondamenta, whisking away the evidence.
If you're staying more than a few days, you soon become quite Venetian, stuffing a cloth or net shopping bag into your purse or pack each day, for carting home purchases; locating the nearest small market and planning your day around quick stops for just the few things you need — a loaf of bread, some cheese or meats from the salumeria, a carton of milk for your morning coffee or cereal, a few of Venice's famous biscotti (not the sweet rusks but what we would call cookies, ranging from delicate butter biscuits to great rounded lumps of sweet dough flecked with dried fruit or chocolate — more of this later). There are grocery stores but they are small by our standards (like a Waikiki ABC) and resourceful Venetians have found ways to pepper their pathways with necessities. We stocked up on paper goods (useful to know: toilet paper=carta igienica) at a local dry cleaner.
Important to know about restaurants: Many restaurants here don't take credit cards because the service fees are so high; be prepared with cash. Lots of it. Many restaurants are closed on Tuesdays, not Mondays. Some allow patrons to select a wine from their stock, drink what they wish and pay for it, leaving the half-drunk bottle for others to finish. Pick the bottle you'd like to sample, they'll tell you how much you'll be charged per glass. And, it is said, many restaurants maintain a quiet double standard; locals are charged less and given better quality — even to the use of the best pasta water (the oldest is said to be the best, imparting flavor). Experienced an interesting way of charging for fresh fish last night: By the gram; 100 grams (about 1/4 pound) was E8, so our whole branzino ran to E30 (!) with a side of grilled vegetables. The fish of just less than a pound dressed out perfectly for two.
We're off soon for colazzione (breakfast) at Rose Salva, famed for its zelita (cornmeal and sultana cakes) and other confections.
Arrivadercila.
I heard it just now. The sound of La Serenissima: the characteristic squeak of a rubber boat bumper against a piling in the rio right outside; I was taking a short turn outside where there's a cooling breeze and the warm light pours out of the opened windows on the second and third floors of the buildings, where Venetians traditionally live. (The first floor was where the boats were docked in sea level slips and where businesses were often housed; in the houses of the wealthy, the second or third floor was the piano nobile, where private lives were lived.)
I should be exhausted and, in fact, I could barely keep up a conversation at dinner; all my energy had been spent on the two days of travel it takes to get here from the Islands. No missed connections this time, but two plane changes and a long, long flight over the pole from Philadelphia.
Today's best moments:
• bumping along in the chop aboard an Alilaguna water bus, Italian pop singer Paulo Meneguzzi flowing through the Bose speakers from my iPod, watching the boatmen thread skilfully around each other.
• turning into the Fondamenta (walkway along a canal) in the "street" where I stayed two years ago and where I'm staying now, seeing my girlfriend's smiling face appear in the second-story window, feeling "a casa" (at home).
• wandering aimlessly in the back alleys around San Marco square, where the high-end shops are; best was an antqiue shops near Campo San Stefano where I saw a gold watch that pins on a garment; it's been playing on my mind ever since. I've always wanted one of these, and my rule on shopping is, if something is still on your mind a day later, it might be meant for you. I also saw the perfect gift, a pair of espresso cups that will complement a friend's china. Didn't get 'em but I'll be going back as it's in the street nearby where we have our daily espresso.
• watching the waiter deconstruct a whole grilled fish with a spoon and fork, pausing to dig out the tender moist cheeks, and, in the end, slathering the remnants (skin, bones and such) with olive oil and using the fruity, fishy results to dress the fillets.
• that quiet stroll and the sounds of La Serenessima.
Tomorrow, Ca' Rezzonico, which houses the 18th century art of Venice and also an exhibit that's part of the Biennale, the biannual modern art celebration going on here now. And we're going to venture out to Rose Salva for breakfast, known for its cakes, gelato and traditional Venetian baked goods. Gelato for breakfast? Perche non?
I should be exhausted and, in fact, I could barely keep up a conversation at dinner; all my energy had been spent on the two days of travel it takes to get here from the Islands. No missed connections this time, but two plane changes and a long, long flight over the pole from Philadelphia.
Today's best moments:
• bumping along in the chop aboard an Alilaguna water bus, Italian pop singer Paulo Meneguzzi flowing through the Bose speakers from my iPod, watching the boatmen thread skilfully around each other.
• turning into the Fondamenta (walkway along a canal) in the "street" where I stayed two years ago and where I'm staying now, seeing my girlfriend's smiling face appear in the second-story window, feeling "a casa" (at home).
• wandering aimlessly in the back alleys around San Marco square, where the high-end shops are; best was an antqiue shops near Campo San Stefano where I saw a gold watch that pins on a garment; it's been playing on my mind ever since. I've always wanted one of these, and my rule on shopping is, if something is still on your mind a day later, it might be meant for you. I also saw the perfect gift, a pair of espresso cups that will complement a friend's china. Didn't get 'em but I'll be going back as it's in the street nearby where we have our daily espresso.
• watching the waiter deconstruct a whole grilled fish with a spoon and fork, pausing to dig out the tender moist cheeks, and, in the end, slathering the remnants (skin, bones and such) with olive oil and using the fruity, fishy results to dress the fillets.
• that quiet stroll and the sounds of La Serenessima.
Tomorrow, Ca' Rezzonico, which houses the 18th century art of Venice and also an exhibit that's part of the Biennale, the biannual modern art celebration going on here now. And we're going to venture out to Rose Salva for breakfast, known for its cakes, gelato and traditional Venetian baked goods. Gelato for breakfast? Perche non?
Friday, June 12, 2009
Like what?
The title of my blog perhaps deserves some explanation.
It's the title of a favorite book, "It's Like This, Cat" by Emily Neville (1964) a coming of age story that I read during a period in my childhood when my school had a built a new library, all pristine surfaces, new carpet and light streaming through the windows, and I was reading all the Newberry and Caldecott prize winners.
The story's protagonist was a boy of about 10, living in a New York apartment, free to explore and roam with his friends when he wasn't in school, puzzling over the mystery of girls and dealing with what would come to be called peer pressure. I was a girl of about the same age, living in an out-of-the-way valley on an island in the Pacific, my movements hampered by overprotective parents and the lack of public transportation, puzzling over the mystery of boys and dealing with what would come to be called peer pressure.
Best friend of the boy in the story is a cat, named Cat, in whom he confides. Much of the action, as I recall (I must re-read this book sometime soon) takes place in the form of his internal monologue. I, too, lived to the rhythm of my own voice within, as I roamed Kepaniwai River, Iao Needle Park, trails in the West Maui Mountains (the only places I could go; my working mother thought I was safely in the house reading).
I still talk to my cats, particularly the one named Cat (actually Popoki, cat in Hawaiian). I still talk to myself. When I was ruminating about a blog title, "itslikethiscat" just jumped out.
And there you have it.
PS: I found the book on Amazon.com and you can read it there.
It's the title of a favorite book, "It's Like This, Cat" by Emily Neville (1964) a coming of age story that I read during a period in my childhood when my school had a built a new library, all pristine surfaces, new carpet and light streaming through the windows, and I was reading all the Newberry and Caldecott prize winners.
The story's protagonist was a boy of about 10, living in a New York apartment, free to explore and roam with his friends when he wasn't in school, puzzling over the mystery of girls and dealing with what would come to be called peer pressure. I was a girl of about the same age, living in an out-of-the-way valley on an island in the Pacific, my movements hampered by overprotective parents and the lack of public transportation, puzzling over the mystery of boys and dealing with what would come to be called peer pressure.
Best friend of the boy in the story is a cat, named Cat, in whom he confides. Much of the action, as I recall (I must re-read this book sometime soon) takes place in the form of his internal monologue. I, too, lived to the rhythm of my own voice within, as I roamed Kepaniwai River, Iao Needle Park, trails in the West Maui Mountains (the only places I could go; my working mother thought I was safely in the house reading).
I still talk to my cats, particularly the one named Cat (actually Popoki, cat in Hawaiian). I still talk to myself. When I was ruminating about a blog title, "itslikethiscat" just jumped out.
And there you have it.
PS: I found the book on Amazon.com and you can read it there.
Swimming the stream
Think "stream of consciousness," my friend advised when I said I had been assigned to do a blog at work (honoluluadvertiser.com, go to Taste link, look for My Island Plate).
Today, my stream of consciousness is flowing toward the Rio della Fornace and the Fondamenta Soranzo in Venice, where I will arrive Tuesday calling out to the Contessa, "Ciao, Mama, io sto a casa!" (Which, I hope, means, "Hi, Mom, I'm home!"). And if I get it wrong, I think Il Cane Webby (Webby the Dog) is bilingual and I speak passable dog.
One of the joys of traveling is leaching the pleasure in either direction from the itinerary — in advance and after the return — by means of the printed page.
My first choice was James H. S. McGregor's "Venice from the Ground Up" (Belknap/Harvard University, 2006). It's an architectural, anthropolical, cultural and social history of the city that begins with the frightened Mainlanders who fled to the protection of the Venetian islands in advance of the barbarian hordes in the sixth century, and brings the reader to the current day.
Being an 18th century kind of gal, my most profound impression upon closing the book was, "Napoleon has a lot to answer for."
I've long been rather a conflicted fan of Napoleon. His wife, after all, inspired the empire waist, whose (as Georgette Heyer always termed them) "clinging draperies" flatter us rounded curves type women. I've read much of the Battle of Waterloo (I'm a Wellington junkie, too).
But what his defeat of Venice did, stripping La Serenissima of its singular power and of many of its most important works, which McGregor says formed the heart of the Louvre's art collection, that, I cannot readily forgive. (And when he was done, he left it to the Austrians to finish the job. Many of the works have never been repatriated.)
I look forward eagerly to touring Ca' Rezzonico, the art museum of the 18th century.
Reading about the history of a place, and in particular its cultural and social history, always adds depths to the colors and shapes around me as I travel. I recall looking up from a book as I glided down The Thames for the first time in a hotel boat, realizing that the water meadows, stately homes and historic places I was seeing in real time would be familiar to people who had lived in the times of which I had just been reading.
The alpha and omega of my travel experiences came when visiting Castle Howard in York (setting for the original "Brideshead Revisited"), standing on the eastern steps of the Temple of the Four Winds and looking out over a rolling landscape of tilled fields and woods. "Quick!," I said to my best friend, another 18th centurian, "which century is it?" "I. Don't. Know," she responded in tones of wonder. Due to peculiarities of the landscape, no paved roads or other modern structures were visible. There was no modern machinery in the fields just then. We might have been in any time since agriculture was invented.
For the history-minded, a consummation devoutly to be wished, and one that cannot be planned, only courted.
I'm courting such moments in Venice, and recalling a few I experienced in 2007 — laughing as my friend's hair flew out behind her as we clung to our hold on a speeding water taxi and distant Venice took on shape at the far den of the lagoon; listening to the slap of the waters against the greasy stones or the sound of my footsteps' echo in a dim sotoportego (a tunnel in which the building above are joined over a narrow passage); breathing in the scents of butter and vanilla in a bakery in Murano while my excited friend, who had trained in patisserie, spoke to the baker in halting Italian; kneeling at Mass in a church off the Zattere on a Saturday night, bathed in prayers in (to me) unintelligble Italian, knowing that others were listening to the same words in their own language the world over.
"We read," a character says in "Shadowlands," "to know we're not alone."
We travel, perhaps, for the same reason.
Today, my stream of consciousness is flowing toward the Rio della Fornace and the Fondamenta Soranzo in Venice, where I will arrive Tuesday calling out to the Contessa, "Ciao, Mama, io sto a casa!" (Which, I hope, means, "Hi, Mom, I'm home!"). And if I get it wrong, I think Il Cane Webby (Webby the Dog) is bilingual and I speak passable dog.
One of the joys of traveling is leaching the pleasure in either direction from the itinerary — in advance and after the return — by means of the printed page.
My first choice was James H. S. McGregor's "Venice from the Ground Up" (Belknap/Harvard University, 2006). It's an architectural, anthropolical, cultural and social history of the city that begins with the frightened Mainlanders who fled to the protection of the Venetian islands in advance of the barbarian hordes in the sixth century, and brings the reader to the current day.
Being an 18th century kind of gal, my most profound impression upon closing the book was, "Napoleon has a lot to answer for."
I've long been rather a conflicted fan of Napoleon. His wife, after all, inspired the empire waist, whose (as Georgette Heyer always termed them) "clinging draperies" flatter us rounded curves type women. I've read much of the Battle of Waterloo (I'm a Wellington junkie, too).
But what his defeat of Venice did, stripping La Serenissima of its singular power and of many of its most important works, which McGregor says formed the heart of the Louvre's art collection, that, I cannot readily forgive. (And when he was done, he left it to the Austrians to finish the job. Many of the works have never been repatriated.)
I look forward eagerly to touring Ca' Rezzonico, the art museum of the 18th century.
Reading about the history of a place, and in particular its cultural and social history, always adds depths to the colors and shapes around me as I travel. I recall looking up from a book as I glided down The Thames for the first time in a hotel boat, realizing that the water meadows, stately homes and historic places I was seeing in real time would be familiar to people who had lived in the times of which I had just been reading.
The alpha and omega of my travel experiences came when visiting Castle Howard in York (setting for the original "Brideshead Revisited"), standing on the eastern steps of the Temple of the Four Winds and looking out over a rolling landscape of tilled fields and woods. "Quick!," I said to my best friend, another 18th centurian, "which century is it?" "I. Don't. Know," she responded in tones of wonder. Due to peculiarities of the landscape, no paved roads or other modern structures were visible. There was no modern machinery in the fields just then. We might have been in any time since agriculture was invented.
For the history-minded, a consummation devoutly to be wished, and one that cannot be planned, only courted.
I'm courting such moments in Venice, and recalling a few I experienced in 2007 — laughing as my friend's hair flew out behind her as we clung to our hold on a speeding water taxi and distant Venice took on shape at the far den of the lagoon; listening to the slap of the waters against the greasy stones or the sound of my footsteps' echo in a dim sotoportego (a tunnel in which the building above are joined over a narrow passage); breathing in the scents of butter and vanilla in a bakery in Murano while my excited friend, who had trained in patisserie, spoke to the baker in halting Italian; kneeling at Mass in a church off the Zattere on a Saturday night, bathed in prayers in (to me) unintelligble Italian, knowing that others were listening to the same words in their own language the world over.
"We read," a character says in "Shadowlands," "to know we're not alone."
We travel, perhaps, for the same reason.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Get a (traveling) clue
The cat is in the suitcase.
Subtext: “Obviously, you are packing to go somewhere. We are not pleased. We do not like change. We will impede your progress with all our furry might.”
In fact, I do like change and I am going somewhere: a second trip to Venice (last one: two years ago), to eat; see the Biennale (semi-annual modern art show); to visit the Contessa who lives in the palazzino where we stay in Dorsoduro and her little dog, Webby; to eat; to visit Ca’ Rezzonico, a haven for art of the 18th century (much more to my taste than modern art, if truth were known); to eat; to paint and photograph; and to eat.
Last time I went to Venice, I was so busy and clueless that I left all the planning to a Venice-practiced friend and simply packed a suitcase and got on a plane. This led to her feeling overburdened and me being even more clueless.
This time, I’m so prepared that my file of research threatens to put my suitcase over weight limits before I’ve even packed a single item of clothing.
Here, my thoughts for on planning for overseas travel, useful for first-time travelers.
Getting ready for the road:
• Research. Check book-related Web sites for good reads about the area. Input various searches for blogs, tourism web sites, maps, history. It’s important to state searches in a variety of ways so as to find different databases: Venice shopping, Venice history, Venice culture, Venice guidebooks, Venice maps, Venice biennale, Venice transportation, Venice cell phones, Venice weather, etc. etc.
• Get your passport or renew it, well in advance. The process can take weeks.
• By far the most important thing to pack is already on you: that squishy gray matter between your ears. Use your brain to: accept that your own someone else’s turf — cultivate a humble, respectful, pleasant attitude; realize that customs differ and that’s not bad — you’ll be out of your comfort zone, get over it. For example, in Venice wine and coffee bars, you pay more if you sit down, less if you stand up at high counters along the walls; this may seem odd but it’s how Venetians do it. Do as the locals do and do it with a (genuine) smile on your face.
Prepare to be stranded:
Anyone can get bumped and end up sleeping on the airport floor, as I did at JFK on my last trip.
• In your carryon — pack tiny portions of toiletries and needed medications; sturdy munchies and water bottle; something to double as a blanket and pillow; socks, earplugs, eye mask, noise-reduction had phones; wrinkle-free garment that you can sleep in and/or wear out plus a change of underwear; amusements (books, iPod, etc.)
• Activate a phone that works internationally (many ways to do this, consult cell phone provider).
• Use a travel agent and keep the phone number with you. Often, they can effectively intervene on your behalf when something goes wrong mid-travel.
• Consider travel insurance.
• Invest in the best lightweight, wheeled luggage you can afford.
• Try to stay with the same carrier, or at most, one domestic and one overseas carrier, making for smoother connections, more likely to be upgraded. Do NOT accept a layover of less than three or four hours for international travel.
• Preview the layouts online of all the airports you will pass through; you can find these online.
Money:
• Call customer service for any credit card you plan to use and alert them to your travel plans; prevents them locking up the card due to a suspicion of illegal activity.
• The best exchange rates are generally afforded at cash machines within the country in question, though you’ll be charged a fee by your credit card company.
• Have sufficient money in the currency of each country you’ll pass through to buy food and accommodation for one night.
• Do not carry large amounts of cash. Place valuables in a money pouch worn inside your clothing. Don’t take or wear a lot of exensive jewelry.
• Use curbside check-in and tip generously; these folks can often check things through more efficiently than the ticket agents.
• Place your tickets in the order of the destinations through which you are traveling. Make sure each agent pulls the correct ticket. If the incorrect ticket is pulled, you will be in big trouble and probably miss a connection while getting reticketed.
• If you are using e-tickets, or have booked a car or other things on a particular credit card, you must have that credit card with you. Check expiration dates.
• In negotiating with airline personnel, speak in an even tone, don't be nasty and remember that they're dealing with dozens of you a day. If they can't resolve your immediate problem, suggest alternatives: Hotel or food vouchers? A transfer? Standing by? Be pleasant and persistent; they can help you if they want to.
• Airports can be very enjoyable places; there are often museums and, of course, lots of shops and restaurants. You may have to pass through security to get to them, though.
• Accept that you may find yourself emotionally sideswiped by a travel disaster — angry, scared, weepy, off-base. Do what you need to do to release your emotions and get back on an even keel. And know that, at some point, you'll be back home again.
Backup plans:
• Designate a home contact, someone reliable that you can reach in case of an emergency. Leave with them all important phone numbers, house and car key copies, copies of important documents, copy of will, contact information for your doctors, any vital health information, instructions for what to do in case of a home emergency (“if the house floods, call Joe the Plumber, 555-1333”).
• Make multiple copies of all important documents — passport, driver’s license, insurance cards, traveler’s check serial numbers, vouchers, itinerary. One for suitcase or hotel safe, one remains with home contact.
• Check on your health and auto coverage while traveling; get a contact number, preferably a toll-free international one. If you’re roughing it or trekking, consider buying a policy that assures you care and transport in case of illness in the outback.
Avoiding overpacking:
• A week before, assemble everything you’re thinking of taking. Check for needed cleaning, repairs, try on anything that’s iffey. Now cut the amount by half.
• Practice pack: Put everything in the suitcase that you MUST have (medicines, electronics, chargers, paperwork) then tailor the amount of personal items you take to the space left over.
• For a week or two in Europe: three tops or shirts, one skirt and one pant for women or two pants for men, a “nice” outfit for dining out (preferably something that can go from day to night), five sets underwear, shawl and/or pareau and/or scarf and/or hat (required in some churches, useful in weather extremes), two or three pairs shoes (sturdy walking, “nice,” casual slipons for going through security), nightclothes (a long T-shirt can do double duty). Avoid overly bare clothing which might be offensive in some contexts. Lots of Web sites offer packing tips, such as independenttraveler.com
• If you haven’t traveled lately, please, PLEASE go to the TSA Web site and learn the current security rules so you don’t hold others up during check-in. www.tsa.gov/travelers/customer/claims/pack.shtm
Subtext: “Obviously, you are packing to go somewhere. We are not pleased. We do not like change. We will impede your progress with all our furry might.”
In fact, I do like change and I am going somewhere: a second trip to Venice (last one: two years ago), to eat; see the Biennale (semi-annual modern art show); to visit the Contessa who lives in the palazzino where we stay in Dorsoduro and her little dog, Webby; to eat; to visit Ca’ Rezzonico, a haven for art of the 18th century (much more to my taste than modern art, if truth were known); to eat; to paint and photograph; and to eat.
Last time I went to Venice, I was so busy and clueless that I left all the planning to a Venice-practiced friend and simply packed a suitcase and got on a plane. This led to her feeling overburdened and me being even more clueless.
This time, I’m so prepared that my file of research threatens to put my suitcase over weight limits before I’ve even packed a single item of clothing.
Here, my thoughts for on planning for overseas travel, useful for first-time travelers.
Getting ready for the road:
• Research. Check book-related Web sites for good reads about the area. Input various searches for blogs, tourism web sites, maps, history. It’s important to state searches in a variety of ways so as to find different databases: Venice shopping, Venice history, Venice culture, Venice guidebooks, Venice maps, Venice biennale, Venice transportation, Venice cell phones, Venice weather, etc. etc.
• Get your passport or renew it, well in advance. The process can take weeks.
• By far the most important thing to pack is already on you: that squishy gray matter between your ears. Use your brain to: accept that your own someone else’s turf — cultivate a humble, respectful, pleasant attitude; realize that customs differ and that’s not bad — you’ll be out of your comfort zone, get over it. For example, in Venice wine and coffee bars, you pay more if you sit down, less if you stand up at high counters along the walls; this may seem odd but it’s how Venetians do it. Do as the locals do and do it with a (genuine) smile on your face.
Prepare to be stranded:
Anyone can get bumped and end up sleeping on the airport floor, as I did at JFK on my last trip.
• In your carryon — pack tiny portions of toiletries and needed medications; sturdy munchies and water bottle; something to double as a blanket and pillow; socks, earplugs, eye mask, noise-reduction had phones; wrinkle-free garment that you can sleep in and/or wear out plus a change of underwear; amusements (books, iPod, etc.)
• Activate a phone that works internationally (many ways to do this, consult cell phone provider).
• Use a travel agent and keep the phone number with you. Often, they can effectively intervene on your behalf when something goes wrong mid-travel.
• Consider travel insurance.
• Invest in the best lightweight, wheeled luggage you can afford.
• Try to stay with the same carrier, or at most, one domestic and one overseas carrier, making for smoother connections, more likely to be upgraded. Do NOT accept a layover of less than three or four hours for international travel.
• Preview the layouts online of all the airports you will pass through; you can find these online.
Money:
• Call customer service for any credit card you plan to use and alert them to your travel plans; prevents them locking up the card due to a suspicion of illegal activity.
• The best exchange rates are generally afforded at cash machines within the country in question, though you’ll be charged a fee by your credit card company.
• Have sufficient money in the currency of each country you’ll pass through to buy food and accommodation for one night.
• Do not carry large amounts of cash. Place valuables in a money pouch worn inside your clothing. Don’t take or wear a lot of exensive jewelry.
• Use curbside check-in and tip generously; these folks can often check things through more efficiently than the ticket agents.
• Place your tickets in the order of the destinations through which you are traveling. Make sure each agent pulls the correct ticket. If the incorrect ticket is pulled, you will be in big trouble and probably miss a connection while getting reticketed.
• If you are using e-tickets, or have booked a car or other things on a particular credit card, you must have that credit card with you. Check expiration dates.
• In negotiating with airline personnel, speak in an even tone, don't be nasty and remember that they're dealing with dozens of you a day. If they can't resolve your immediate problem, suggest alternatives: Hotel or food vouchers? A transfer? Standing by? Be pleasant and persistent; they can help you if they want to.
• Airports can be very enjoyable places; there are often museums and, of course, lots of shops and restaurants. You may have to pass through security to get to them, though.
• Accept that you may find yourself emotionally sideswiped by a travel disaster — angry, scared, weepy, off-base. Do what you need to do to release your emotions and get back on an even keel. And know that, at some point, you'll be back home again.
Backup plans:
• Designate a home contact, someone reliable that you can reach in case of an emergency. Leave with them all important phone numbers, house and car key copies, copies of important documents, copy of will, contact information for your doctors, any vital health information, instructions for what to do in case of a home emergency (“if the house floods, call Joe the Plumber, 555-1333”).
• Make multiple copies of all important documents — passport, driver’s license, insurance cards, traveler’s check serial numbers, vouchers, itinerary. One for suitcase or hotel safe, one remains with home contact.
• Check on your health and auto coverage while traveling; get a contact number, preferably a toll-free international one. If you’re roughing it or trekking, consider buying a policy that assures you care and transport in case of illness in the outback.
Avoiding overpacking:
• A week before, assemble everything you’re thinking of taking. Check for needed cleaning, repairs, try on anything that’s iffey. Now cut the amount by half.
• Practice pack: Put everything in the suitcase that you MUST have (medicines, electronics, chargers, paperwork) then tailor the amount of personal items you take to the space left over.
• For a week or two in Europe: three tops or shirts, one skirt and one pant for women or two pants for men, a “nice” outfit for dining out (preferably something that can go from day to night), five sets underwear, shawl and/or pareau and/or scarf and/or hat (required in some churches, useful in weather extremes), two or three pairs shoes (sturdy walking, “nice,” casual slipons for going through security), nightclothes (a long T-shirt can do double duty). Avoid overly bare clothing which might be offensive in some contexts. Lots of Web sites offer packing tips, such as independenttraveler.com
• If you haven’t traveled lately, please, PLEASE go to the TSA Web site and learn the current security rules so you don’t hold others up during check-in. www.tsa.gov/travelers/customer/claims/pack.shtm
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Addicted to TV? Me?
The announcer on a Bravo network ad yesterday caught my attention when he said something (proudly) about "being just as addicted as you are."
Then there are those ads for Lulu or Fufu or whatever it is, which allows you to watch TV wirelessly on your laptop or phone or whatever. The ones that (again, proudly) declare themselves to be aliens with the goal of turning your gray matter into (edible) mush.
Addicted? Time for the checklist.
Does the substance interfere with your relationships? You mean when my husband is trying to tell me about his day and I'm trying stay focused on a "Project Runway" episode I've already seen multiple times.
Does the substance cause you to be isolate and numb out? Does it count as numbing out when I find my chin is on my chest and realize they're naming "America's Next Top Supermodel" and I can't remember the last 15 minutes? My friends should KNOW not to call when Isaac Mizrahi is getting ready to say, "Goodbye, Darling"?
Does the substance go hand in hand with others — such as food, drugs, cigarettes, alcohol, overspending? Well, there is that temptation to swing down to channel 2 and see what the Home Shopping Network is touting in the jewelry hour. And there are those chips and cookies that seem to be the only things that speak louder than "The Real Housewives of New Jersey."
Is the substance something you sometimes hide or feel ashamed of? It's not a lie to tell people I watch PBS, the History Channel and National Geographic and Netflix "Masterpiece Theatre." I do. Just not all the time.
Do you consume the substance in the morning? Well, I do get up at 5 every weekday to watch "West Wing" reruns; they help me polish my witty repartee.
Does the substance cause you to neglect household duties? Ha! I'm safe there. I am the world's living expert at getting the laundry stuffed in the washer and the bed made during commericals. I can do taxes, cook, pay bills, even work on blogs and other tasks while Tyra has a tirade; there's a direct line of sight from kitchen and dining room to TV.
Does the substance cause you to be late to important appointments. No, I can make it to today's doctor's appointment if I leave RIGHT NOW.
Addicted. Shmadicted.
Then there are those ads for Lulu or Fufu or whatever it is, which allows you to watch TV wirelessly on your laptop or phone or whatever. The ones that (again, proudly) declare themselves to be aliens with the goal of turning your gray matter into (edible) mush.
Addicted? Time for the checklist.
Does the substance interfere with your relationships? You mean when my husband is trying to tell me about his day and I'm trying stay focused on a "Project Runway" episode I've already seen multiple times.
Does the substance cause you to be isolate and numb out? Does it count as numbing out when I find my chin is on my chest and realize they're naming "America's Next Top Supermodel" and I can't remember the last 15 minutes? My friends should KNOW not to call when Isaac Mizrahi is getting ready to say, "Goodbye, Darling"?
Does the substance go hand in hand with others — such as food, drugs, cigarettes, alcohol, overspending? Well, there is that temptation to swing down to channel 2 and see what the Home Shopping Network is touting in the jewelry hour. And there are those chips and cookies that seem to be the only things that speak louder than "The Real Housewives of New Jersey."
Is the substance something you sometimes hide or feel ashamed of? It's not a lie to tell people I watch PBS, the History Channel and National Geographic and Netflix "Masterpiece Theatre." I do. Just not all the time.
Do you consume the substance in the morning? Well, I do get up at 5 every weekday to watch "West Wing" reruns; they help me polish my witty repartee.
Does the substance cause you to neglect household duties? Ha! I'm safe there. I am the world's living expert at getting the laundry stuffed in the washer and the bed made during commericals. I can do taxes, cook, pay bills, even work on blogs and other tasks while Tyra has a tirade; there's a direct line of sight from kitchen and dining room to TV.
Does the substance cause you to be late to important appointments. No, I can make it to today's doctor's appointment if I leave RIGHT NOW.
Addicted. Shmadicted.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Venice is a fish . . .
And an elusive one. I'm headed there in 10 days and I feel as though it's reeling me in, the hook through my lip a delicious anticipatory pain.
I'm reading a history of Venice (Napoleon has much to answer for), battling jealousy as I scan my girlfriend's blog (she's already there, and when I read today how she'd revisited some sites we enjoyed together two years ago, it was difficult not to pout).
My Venice file is growing fat. I want to see the 18th century treasures in the Ca' Rezzonico this time, to attend Mass with our landlady again and see how much of the sermon I can understand, to attempt to walk the width of the city, from the Dorsoduro where we're staying, to the Cannaregio. (But probably I'll just do what I usually do on trips. As the guy said in "Being There," "I like to watch," preferably from a comfortable seat, with a camera or paint brush in my hand.)
We'll visit the modern art exhibits of the Biennale, return to the Rialto Market where I plan to shoot a video the Web site of the newspaper where I work. I've made note of a chocolate shop and Jewish bakery I have to visit for my cooking and eating blog. I'm determined to buy some Venetian-style velvet slippers. There's a bookshop, Acqua Alta, that I've got to find. And I need another album by my favorite Italian pop artist. Having visited Murano last time, I hope to see the lacemaking island of Burano this time.
Think I can do all this in two weeks. And go to Bologna? And possibly Turino (there's a woman there who spends part of the year in Hawaii, is a member of Slow Food and promised to cook for me)....
One can but try.
WAA
I'm reading a history of Venice (Napoleon has much to answer for), battling jealousy as I scan my girlfriend's blog (she's already there, and when I read today how she'd revisited some sites we enjoyed together two years ago, it was difficult not to pout).
My Venice file is growing fat. I want to see the 18th century treasures in the Ca' Rezzonico this time, to attend Mass with our landlady again and see how much of the sermon I can understand, to attempt to walk the width of the city, from the Dorsoduro where we're staying, to the Cannaregio. (But probably I'll just do what I usually do on trips. As the guy said in "Being There," "I like to watch," preferably from a comfortable seat, with a camera or paint brush in my hand.)
We'll visit the modern art exhibits of the Biennale, return to the Rialto Market where I plan to shoot a video the Web site of the newspaper where I work. I've made note of a chocolate shop and Jewish bakery I have to visit for my cooking and eating blog. I'm determined to buy some Venetian-style velvet slippers. There's a bookshop, Acqua Alta, that I've got to find. And I need another album by my favorite Italian pop artist. Having visited Murano last time, I hope to see the lacemaking island of Burano this time.
Think I can do all this in two weeks. And go to Bologna? And possibly Turino (there's a woman there who spends part of the year in Hawaii, is a member of Slow Food and promised to cook for me)....
One can but try.
WAA
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