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.