What We Learned in Venice

As your diligent correspondent, I want to wrap up the report on our visit to the Aegean and Adriatic with a handful of comments on Venice.

We enjoyed the city much more than we expected to. The palaces are magical. The paintings and statues are overwhelming. The prices are breathtaking.

Getting around is good exercise and, when the crowds are lighter (as they were this time of year), and good fun. We never realized that all those gently-arcing footbridges over the canals actually have steps on either side, so every three minutes or so we were adding more aerobics to our workout.

We had been warned that, as non-residents, we would have to pay 6.50 euros every time we boarded a vaporetto (water bus), which are the best way to circumnavigate the islands. And if any of the boatmen had actually collected a ticket from us (or, from what we could see, anyone else entering and exiting the boats), we would have been a lot poorer after three days -- but it must have been vacation season for the ticket-takers.

San Marco was pleasant on a cool, quiet Sunday morning in late October. After the obligatory walkabout and shuffling through pigeons, we took a table at Grand Caffe Quadri, one of the two original cafes on the square, and for $50 enjoyed a cappuccino and the music of two neighboring caffe orchestras, the Quadri's five-piece band (piano, violin, clarinet, guitar and the all-important accordion) and the similar Caffe Florian combo. They take ten-minute shifts playing little thematic sets (Italian folks songs, bossa nova, American show tunes, and so on). And when their ten minutes is up, that's it -- even if they're in the middle of a number.

Once you've done your San Marco thing, get away from the oppressive retailing atmosphere and head for the neighborhoods. We took a walking tour of Dorsodouro (where we stayed), the finger of land that separates the Grand Canal from the Giudecca. We wandered by the longtime home of Ezra Pound, the original harlot district, the university neighborhood, the gondola maintenance shop (which has an Alpine-like wood facade reflecting the architecture of Alto Aldige to the north), and the main craftsman of forcole (the odd-shaped carvings that hold the gondolier's oars in place, more of which are sold as decorative souvenirs than for the boats themselves). An even more entertaining walking tour of the Cannaregio included a visit to a small brass foundry (where they used to make the hood ornaments for Jaguars), a Venetian printer (Gianni Basso, about whom more below), a marble workshop in Tintoretto's old studio, and other hidden pleasures.

Being introduced to a character like Gianni Basso (or, as he call himself, "Gianni Gutenberg"), is the kind of kick that makes city-wandering fun. He owns thousands and thousands of old carved printing plates, and an endless trove of typefonts. He does small-run specialty printing, setting the type and inking the plates by hand with classic colors like Venetian red. His window features calling cards he's done for Hugh Grant and Gael Greene, music plates for Michael Tilson Thomas, and on and on, a global clientele with whom he will only work in person -- no PCs, no faxes. Sometime next month, we'll be the proud owner of Gianni Gutenberg calling cards.

The secret to getting your "gondola ride" without having to fork over bags of euros is to hop aboard the traghetti, little, genuine gondolas rowed by little, genuine gondoliers, that operate as short-hop shuttles across key points on the Grand Canal and elsewhere. Forty euro-cents a ride. In fact, this article on touring Venice by traghetto (which ran in The Wall Street Journal while we were in Venice) looks like a terrific off-the-beaten-path itinerary, and incorporates segments of our own adventure.

We enjoyed our visits to the Accademia (currently undergoing extensive renovations, but wonderfully easy access to its 13-17 c. paintings at this time of year) and the Peggy Guggenheim (with her modern art collection arrayed in a beautiful canalfront setting). But this was our favorite Venetian painting story:

In Santa Maria Assunta church in the residential neighborhood of Cannaregio, there is stunning carved marble and marble inlay intended to mimic the look of Venetian velvet. There are works by Venetian masters including Tintoretto ("The Assumption of Mary") and Titian. The latter's "Martyrdom of San Lorenzo" is a fine example of the artist's work in chiaroscuro. San Lorenzo (St. Lawrence), we learned, is the patron saint of chefs and comedians. He is depicted being burned alive (hence "chefs') by the Romans, lying on a fiery grate and reaching his hand upward -- but, they say, he's not pleading to God for mercy, but instead is saying, "Turn me over, I'm already done on this side."

Our only real disappointment with Venice -- it's difficult to eat well there. Everything has to be shipped in (as one guide said, "Venice produces only one thing: rubbish"). Maybe because it's trapped in a culinary no-man's land between the Germanic bread-and-fryers and the Adriatic catch-and-grillers, they don't seem to have any indigenous dishes of note (I love calves' liver, but "Venetian style" with onions or figs and polenta left me cold). Our most satisfying meals were comprised of cicheti (tapas) at the neighborhood wine bars.

We will be back -- but we may pack a lunch.

Piccolo Mondo

There are six billion people on earth, but it's astonishing how frequently you find yourself talking with someone who has intersected with someone else in your life.

During our just-concluded trip to Europe, we had quite a number of "piccolo mondo" episodes. Here are just four that happened in the last few days:

*On the ship, we befriended a delightful couple from New Zealand. Over dinner last Thursday night, we learned that the gentleman once served as prime minister. He said he has also been a Constitutional lawyer and teacher, and that he and his wife had once lived in Iowa when he taught at the University of Iowa Law School. I asked whether they might ever have met Nick Johnson, an FCC commissioner under President Johnson, whose work influenced Ann and me to get involved in communications policy decades ago; I knew that Nick was a long-time member of the Iowa Law faculty. Turns out they knew Nick well enough to have been his guests for Thanksgiving dinner back in Iowa.

*We took a walking tour through the Cannaregio siestri (district) of Venice. Our guide was a young graduate student of the art of Renaissance from Arizona. He brought us into a dusty workshop (which had served as Tintoretto's studio centuries ago) where men wearing handmade hats of folded newspaper were cutting and carving marble into tombstones for the city cemetery on the nearby island of San Michele. Our guide pointed out the maestro of the shop, a near-deaf 94-year-old man who stood silently as he delicately chiseled the face of an angel into stone. We struck up a conversation with another stoneworker, a man of our age. Upon learning that we were Americans, he reported that he has a nephew who owns a restaurant in Los Angeles on La Brea Boulevard. "What's it called?" our young guide asked. "Al Angelo," the man said. "Wow!" our guide said. "When I lived in L.A., I worked in that restaurant. Piccolo mondo!"

*We were waiting in line at Gatwick for a transfer to Heathrow. I was wearing a fleece jacket promoting the U.S. Comedy Arts Festival in Aspen (now sadly defunct). A woman tapped my arm and asked, "Are you actually a comedian or just a judge?" "Neither," I replied. "My son is studying film in college and is a comedy writer and improv artist." "Oh, our children do comedy, too," she replied, and said that her daughter's name is Rebecca Drysdale. "We saw her perform in Aspen," we exclaimed. In fact, Rebecca won the top performance award during our first year at the festival. Her material and characters (particularly her musical comedy) made a strong impression on our son, who works in a similar vein. The Drysdales also said their son, Eric, was a long-time writer for Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert, and was a part of this year's Emmy-winning Colbert writing team. I told them that the sister of a former member of my staff was the sole woman on that writing team. And, to top it off, we discovered that 20 years ago, Eric attended the same college in Boston that our son attends today and had the same (outstanding) writing teacher.

*As I write this aboard our British Airways flight back to the States, Ann is chatting with Norma, the flight attendant. It came up that Norma hails from Belfast, Northern Ireland. Ann mentioned that she and our son visited the city last July at the invitation of our friend George Clarke, a one-time camp counselor for our son, to attend the premiere of George's independenly financed political/zombie movie (a first for Northern Ireland in countless ways!). No, Norma wasn't at the premiere, but she knew all about the film from local press.

Piccolo mondo, indeed.