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.