Venice

I categorically state that I navigated Venice’s narrow, labyrinthine streets (though to call them “streets” is to give the wrong impression, as they are rarely wider than the shoulders of four or five people and their only inhabitants are pedestrians and hand-wheeled carts, so perhaps I should say “walkways”) like a master and without a map after the first day. Maps in Venice are basically useless, because none of the streets have names. Someone, however, has helpfully hung signs, often hand-lettered nearly everywhere pointing to the nearest major landmark—“Rialto” or “San Marco” or “Ferraria”—and so I found that if I just kept a picture of the islands in my head and myself properly oriented, I could get us anywhere. It was like the ultimate Magnuson navigational challenge.

After only a day and a half in Venice, I found myself mischievously entertaining the idea of hanging signs pointing in the wrong direction to befuddle trusting tourists. As I—not really your picture of a standard delinquent youth—came up with the idea so quickly, I can only imagine how many bored Venetian teenage boys have dreamed of this.

I thought Venice was like a fairy-tale city. Although the islands are connected to the mainland by a rail bridge, all the cars and buses have to stop on the very edge of the town, giving Venice an air of still existing in the 17^th century. It is beautiful and as picturesque as I imagined it. It’s also rather melancholy, actually. Perhaps this was because we were there in mid-August, when all the real Venetians were on vacation, so the city seemed to have been frozen hundreds of years ago and transplanted to the 21^st century. The square by San Marco was always deluged with crowds, but as soon as we turned off a main thoroughfare and down a minute alleyway, the city seemed still and secretive.

We wandered. We watched sunsets over the water. We estimated a gondolier’s yearly income and realized that they probably do quite well. We had iffy gnocchi at one restaurant but a delicious meal the next night. We visited the frog boy statue at the eastern tip of Dorsoduro and I eavesdropped on the French couple earnestly philosophizing on its meaning, trying very hard not to giggle out loud until Maddie and I were far enough away that I could explain what they were saying. Maddie systematically canvassed mask stores to find the very best for her price, and we resolved to return to Venice someday for Carnevale. (The costumes look fantastical, although we would have to either buy them there or wear them on the plane, as I can’t imagine trying to pack one.) We visited the Doge’s Palace and the Bridge of Sighs, where prisoners used to be marched into the dungeon and where people now thrust their hands through the stonework grille to wave mournfully at their fellow tourists.

Maddie had read about fragolino, Italian sparkling wine with a strawberry flavor, in our guidebook, and we set off on a quest for it our first night. (I navigated. I just like saying that.) We found it at a gondolier’s bar a few streets to the east of San Marco and ordered one red and one white glass with the intention of conducting a proper tasting. They were DELICIOUS. Especially the white, which immediately became the best drink in the world in Maddie’s view. (I think white fragolino for summer and tokay for winter, and life would be perfect.) We found bought ourselves a bottle two days later, borrowed glasses from our hotel owner, and salute-ed sitting on a set of stairs on the edge of a quiet canal. It was a very tricky corner waterway, actually, so we evaluated the technique of the gondoliers who passed by. Maddie bursting into song near the end capped off the evening for me.

We bought 12-hour vaporetto passes our final day and spent the afternoon on Murano, the nearby island and home of the famed Venetian glassmakers. The glassmaking museum was fascinating, and we were experts on all different methods and types of glass for about two days afterwards. It had glass from the first centuries AD—maybe even BC—which I thought was impressive. And that evening, for a final glorious goodbye to Venice, we took Vaporetto 1 from the train station to Piazza San Marco—in other words, down the Grand Canal. I saw a little girl and her father trundle by in their family boat; she cannot imagine how lucky she is to be growing up in such a fanciful setting.

My crowning navigational glory occurred at about 5:45 am the morning of our departure. We had walked out of our hotel and were heading towards the train station, and about 10 steps behind us, the owner of another hotel had brought her two young Austrian guests to the street and pointed them in the direction of the train station as well. The two boys followed us for approximately five minutes before mustering the courage to ask if I knew the way. And when I delivered them—without a moment’s hesitation along the way—to the foot of the bridge leading to the train station, they burst into applause.

Pictures.