Venice Blog

With the reality of the end our Barcelona adventure heavy on our minds, we were doubly committed to planning, so as to fit in as many activities as possible in to the remaining day and a half of our stay.  We decided that the first order of the day would be to check out (there not being any availability for the remaining night at Hostal Muntaner), followed by breakfast, and then a trip to our second hostel where we would spend our final night.  With the assistance of the same wonderful Barcelona Metro rep who had directed us to the Beach the day before, we planned our route to the Catalunyan hills overlooking the city.

The trip required us to step outside our comfort zone of the Barcelona metro system and familiarize ourselves with the trains of the FGC (Ferrocarrils de la Generalitat de Catalunya).  The directions taken from our hostel’s website (IN and OUT Hostel) reassured us that once we exited the train, the hostel was a mere 5,000 steps up the mountain.  Sam and I weren’t sure if to be tickle or mortified… 5,000 steps??  That has to be a typo… right?  Images of sure-footed mountain goats, the Von Graf family crossing the Alps and oxygen masks falling from overhead cabins began to dance across my suddenly hyperactive mind. 

The ride from the city center to our Baixador de Valvidrera stop lasted a merciful 15 minutes, but it was already a little after 11 am by the time we got off and the sun was in its full morning glory.  Sam carried his tote bag slung over one shoulder, while I was weighted down with my backpack, and up ahead of us a lay a short trip up Mt. Everest.  Neither of us was counting, but thankfully the reality wasn’t as bad as we imagined. 

The beautiful lush green hills were a welcomed departure from not only Barcelona with its urban concrete vibe, but Venice as well, quaint architecture, terra cotta shingles and stone pavers notwithstanding.  We were slightly out of breath when we finally arrived at the reception desk, but all told the hike wasn’t that bad… certainly not 5,000 (500 maybe?) steps.  Having secured our bags in the lockers provided at the hostel we turned right around and made our way back to the train station to begin a full day of sight-seeing. 

Our first stop was the Camp Nou, the famed if charmless home of one of my favorite football clubs, FC Barcelona.  It’s hard to describe for the uninitiated the passion that many “soccer” fans have for their teams, but it’s unlike anything we have here in the US.  Myself I’m a fan of Liverpool FC, the team from the famed blue collar city hard on the banks of the Mersey estuary, whose fans share a unique bond with the team, having endured such dark periods as the Heysel Stadium disaster and the Hillsborough tragedy.  It has also been the team of childhood heroes such as John Barnes, Ian Rush and Kenny Dalglish.  I’ve long been an admirer of Barca however, with their distinctive blaugrana uniform and fabled stars such as Diego Maradona, Ronaldo, Johann Cruyff and Luis Figo.

Barça also has an unmistakable place in Spanish history, and an indelible bond with the Catalunyan (Catalonian) people themselves.  Catalunyans have long held to their unique identity, and over the centuries have resisted successive Spanish efforts to break their will and assimilate them into Castellano (Castilian) society.  At no other time was this more the case than during the reign of the dictator Franco, for whom the subjugation of Catalunya became a personal crusade of oppression.  If their fiery idealism was catalyzed during Franco’s reign, then much of the flame of that fire was fanned in the very offices of club FC Barcelona.  Club executives were harangued by Franco, and in at least one infamous case one club president was murdered by fascist troops in 1937.  The club itself was bombed at his command in 1938.  The defiance of the club has thus become both a source of pride and symbol of hope to the Catalunyan people, for whom Barça remains “Més que un club” (More than a club).

Over the past century and a half Barça has enjoyed (and endured) a spirited and sometimes bloody rivalry with perennial Spanish powers Real Madrid, which was Franco’s club.  Real in Spanish means “royal”, and the club’s title is fitting, in that this is the team which historically has always been patronized by the Spanish royal family… the King’s team, or as they are somewhat derisively known the “Galacticos”, in part due the perennial cast of superstars they often bought and stockpiled like so much spare parts, if for no other reason but because they could… as well as to keep such players away from their rivals.  It should be pretty easy then to understand passion, and sometimes bad blood that exists between fans of Barça and fans of Madrid.

 It had taken us a bit longer than planned getting to the Camp Nou, and our visit also lasted a bit longer than expected, and so it was late afternoon by the time we left.  Sam desperately wanted to visit La Sagrada Familia, Gaudi’s yet unfinished masterful homage to the Holy (Sacred) Family. 

We were somewhat turned off by line for individuals, and so decided to make ourselves content with just taking in the facades of the exterior.  The building is an architectural marvel… even if somewhat indecipherable at times.  From the seemingly grotto formations on the eastern façade, to the cubist statues to the west, it’s a bit hard for the lay person to determine exactly what the architect’s vision was.  Sometimes however, it’s simply best to suspend the thinking process and simply marvel at the sheer beauty that we as human beings, are capable of creating.  Lest we get too lofty in our appreciation, it also helps to have travelmates such as Sam, who helpfully pointed out “that gold guy hanging out up there…”  Who Jesus you mean, Sam? Lol

After our visit to the shrine, I was desperate to try some authentic Spanish paella and so we headed back to one of our favorite neighborhood spots, Bodega Joan (corner Carrer de Rosello and Carrer d’Aribau, Barcelona), which I was convinced would have it on the menu.  They did, but only in servings for two (made to order I presume) that started at €22… so I went to my excellent back up plan, morcilla con cebollas (black pudding with onions) and sandwiches it was. 

Sam ordered his new favorite beer, San Miguel… and all three of us (Sam, myself and the pretty waitress) got a good chuckle out of my butchering the Spanish language when I tried to tell her that Sam liked the beer… and managed to tell her instead that he liked her, lol.  I immediately corrected myself… but it made for good fun.

After dinner we headed back to IN and OUT, showered and made our way for the center of the hostel’s nightlife, the Cafeteria.  There not only was there internet access, but PC stations set up as well… and as a consequence was the de facto meeting place for the largely twenty-something guests.  We quickly made friends with Jeff and his Japanese roommate Nob (”like the thing on the door”) … Nob having come over and struck up a conversation with me.  He told me that he was a former student in Japan (having “retired” from school, lol), and that he was now backpacking across Europe.  Jeff meanwhile is a med student, originally from Chicago, now studying in Boston… also backpacking across Europe for the summer.  Sam had a good laugh when they both recalled Nob’s reaction to seeing the topless women at the beach.  According to Sam, Nob’s account was that he “observed carefully… very carefully”.

“…too carefully”, Jeff helpfully interjected, lol.

About the only thing funnier was when one of the hippie spawns decided that it wasn’t enough feeding bread to the wild piglet that sauntered up every evening at dusk, he had to actually pet it. 

The startled pig let out a squeal that was matched in tone by the equally startled would-be Dr. Doolittle, as they both leaped about two feet in the air and ran off in opposite directions.  The rest of the night melted away in a haze of warm beer, good times and great conversation.

So Sunday morning after sleeping in a bit late we decided it would be a good idea to hit the beach, especially with it being a lazy day in Barcelona and temperatures expected to be in the low 90s.  I didn’t pack any trunks, but didn’t expect that to be a problem since I was sure there’d be vendors around.  Sam on the other hand was a true boy scout… I half expected him to break out a Swiss army knife equipped with goggles and a portable scuba tank.  To say that he was ready for the beach would be an understatement.

We went down into the train station and encountered a system representative near one of the automated kiosks, and so decided to ask her for directions… and most importantly, ideas.  She very patiently listened to my questions and answered as best she could.  Her personal suggestion as far as the beaches go she said, was El Meresme, which from the system map was one of the southeastern-most beaches on Barcelona’s Mediterranean coast.  We followed her suggestion but I have to say, she would come through later on with great suggestions but can’t say that we particularly enjoyed Meresme once we actually got there.  It was a little bit too much of a concrete wasteland for my taste to be honest. 

The ‘beach’ consisted of a reclaimed waterfront with huge concrete cubes (probably 5 cubic ft in dimension?) acting as an artificial reef, enclosing a deep lagoon.  The water looked inviting enough, but as luck would have it there were no beachwear vendors in site and I was wearing jeans shorts… my own natural buoyancy already being problematic, there’s no way I was going to be swimming in wet denim, lol.  Sam gave it a go though… and paid the price.  At the end of his swim as he was exiting up the steps (yes, the “beach” had steps like a roman bath… and even poolside rails… go figure) he stubbed his toe and picked up some painful splinters.  I probably would have needed to be airlifted… but he was a trooper, no mystery splinters (what they were… wood? Dark concrete?) were going to ruin his fun.

We pulled up stakes and decided to walk back down the beach towards Barceloneta, where most of the fellow riders had disembarked when we were on the train.  It turns out this was a strip of beaches, so we were pretty sure we’d find one to our liking, and sure enough we did.  We settled in on Selva de Mar beach and decided to take in the sights… and quite a sight, or two it was.  Little did we know that it was a clothing-optional beach… to put it mildly.  I tried my best not to stare and for the most part I was successful… but at times, well… anyways, lol.  There were many beautiful women around… and yes ladies, men as well.  Human beings however come in many shapes and sizes… so it made for quite an afternoon.  Nothing quite shocks the senses as seeing some guy stumble out the water buck naked except for a pair of goggles.  At that point the warm beer being peddled by the South Asian immigrants seemed a bargain… even to a notorious non-beer drinker like me.  After a while one got used to it I suppose… but thankfully the highs were more frequent than the lows.

We stuck around long enough for a child to get lost… and a couple hours later, found.  The developing story given periodic updates by beach patrol over the intercom… the last missive bringing a chuckle and applause from beachgoers when the lifeguard announced with mock seriousness that the lost niño was found. After more than a few hours in the sun we decided to continue walking down towards Barceloneta as it was now around 5 pm and it was time to look for food (see… there I go again, lol).  We walked along Mar Bella, past Poblenou beach, past Bogatell… past Ciutadella vila Olimpica, the Olympic village left over from the ‘92 Games (recall the original Dream Team) and eventually to Barceloneta. 

We both wanted to see the final of the Confederations Cup taking place in South Africa, between the US (men’s national team) and Brazil and were fortunate enough to find a café, Restaurante Pasa Tapas (8 Carrer Doctor Aiguader, Barcelona- corner of Carrer de Carbonell) which not only showed the match (yes, we’re being international, lol) but which also advertised an “American hamburgesa completa” along with fries and a Coke. 

I’m a Pepsi type of guy myself, but I was hardly in the mood for being picky.  We had a great time, not only was the food good, but the staff was very friendly, particularly our Dominicana waitress, who expertly balanced tending to our needs without intruding on us watching the game.  The game itself was very exciting… and very humbling for the US team, who got off to an impressive 2-nil lead in the first half against the Brazilian Goliath, before the giant woke up and scored three unanswered goals on their way to restoring cosmic balance in the second half.

We then made our way back to the hostel decided to call it an early night, especially with a 10 am checkout awaiting us the next morning.  As usual Sam had no problems falling asleep, nor did I for that matter… but restful sleep wasn’t to be, as the midnight gourmands below decided pick up where they left off the night before. 

We eventually made our way to our hostel (Hostal Muntaner, 175 Calle Muntaner, Barcelona) that night where after a bit of teasing in Spanish with one of the staff about how evil the United States was in bringing about the financial crisis… and what little President Obama was actually doing about it (I had to stand up for our guy, lol) he ushered us to our private room with double beds.  Not even one-star accommodations, but pretty swanky by hostel standards, lol.  We did have to share a communal bath though… which was adequate, except the hot water was iffy and the drain didn’t exactly… well, drain.

We were both pretty tired but famished at the same time (I feel like every time I post I talk about how hungry I am… not too sure I want to get on the scale when I get back Stateside).  Food became our top priority, but turned out to be quite a challenge given how late it was.  Barcelona might be a happening city but the restaurateurs would like to have you believe that they have lives, so options become drastically limited later at night.  Having gotten lost trying to find “El Barquito” as directed by Obama’s biggest critic (I suspect he doesn’t know his right from his left, because I followed his directions and ended up in the opposite direction, lol), I stopped this one guy on the street and asked if he knew of any restaurants where we could get something to eat.  He puzzled for a while and started to indicate that it would be tough given how late it was… to which I replied that we really didn’t need a “restaurante”, just someplace where we could grab a bite, a few “bocadillos” as he interjected.  That’s how we ended up at Slavia, having a terrific Catalunyan meal at 11:30 pm on a Saturday night

Sam had the first of many great (I’m told) sandwiches that night, “York” (ham) and cheese, that was really as simple as it sounds, but much more tantalizing than it seems.  I was a bit more adventurous and got judías con butifarra, which consisted of white beans, a Catalunyan chorizo sausage and some really good mushrooms sauteed in some sort of garlic sauce, and piping hot French fries.  Not being able to decide I had asked our server to recommend something and he suggested a típico, (or Catalunyan staple).  I was more than happy to walk back to our hostel after the meal because trust me, that was one dish that really stuck to the ribs.  After making our way back to the hostel and a quick shower it was off to bed around 1 am.

I awoke about 4 a.m. to the sound of voices, dishes banging away in a sink and the smell of some mystery meal wafting up through my window… and unfortunately this would be par for the course for the two nights we spent at Hostal Muntaner.  Apparently there was a suite beneath our apartment, complete with kitchen and late night gourmands, which made getting any sleep quite challenging.  Not for Sam, he was out as soon as his head hit the pillow.  Unable to get back to sleep I pulled on some clothes and headed into the 2^nd Floor lobby.  There I stuck my head out another window and this time was greeted by a different smell and sound wafting down from the room directly above.  This being a family blog, I won’t go into any great detail… but suffice to say it wasn’t exactly cooked onions and food chatter coming out the window.

I decided to go for a walk… exploring if you will.  Probably not the safest or smartest thing to do but I’ve survived some pretty tough streets before… Brownsville and Bed-Stuy during my Brooklyn days… Anacostia in DC’s notorious Southeast quadrant during my post-college days… Barcelona at night couldn’t be all that bad… and thankfully it wasn’t.  I didn’t get too far before I was propositioned by a woman, who didn’t hesitate to interrupt her conversation with two denizens in the alley, having spotted a business opportunity I suppose.  I knew enough Spanish to pick out the one word I needed to, and having heard her three-second pitch I politely declined… “gracias.”

“de nada.”

… she politely responded, as I kept it moving.

I eventually got onto La Avenguda de Diagonal, which seems to be Barcelona’s main artery… and which as it turns out was right near our hostel.  I walked down past La Rambla de Catalunya (”La Rambla”) and to Passeig de Gracia, where the train had deposited us earlier that evening.  I wandered around a bit, then sat down, taking in the late night couples stumbling home from their Saturday night out on the town.  I was feeling a bit wistful and part of me longed for home… nothing like seeing amorous couples about when you’re all alone in an unfamiliar city.  Plus I had hoped to experience a bit of the Barcelona nightlife… maybe next time with better planning, lol.  Before long I noticed a couple gay couples… okay, more than just a couple… it happened to be “Orgullo Barcelona” (”Pride”) weekend, we had no idea.  At any rate, here I was sitting all alone on a park bench at five in the morning… drawing my fair share of stares.  Eventually cars started slowing down… and I decided to leave nothing to chance. Having had my fill of propositions for one night I made my way back to the hostel, climbed into bed to try to decompress from what had been a very long day.

Our trip to Barcelona began aboard the ATVO bus from Piazzale Roma to Treviso Airport, with roundtrip tickets being pretty reasonable at €10 each.   We were scheduled to depart at 3:30 pm, arriving at Treviso just inside the two hour window for our 6:15 pm departure flight.  The bus ride itself was very smooth and uneventful, arriving much sooner into Treviso than any of us expected.  There were a couple other American students aboard also making their way to Barcelona and the collective reaction was… “This is Treviso?”  The shock was in part due to the shorter than expected duration of the trip, as well as due to the modest nature of the “airport”, seemingly just a building on an airstrip… but I suppose all in all befitting of the spartan puddle-jumper circuit typically flown by Ryanair (ryanair.com).  The thing I got the biggest kick out of was the fact that we actually had to walk outside the terminal and onto the tarmac in order to get to the plane… hadn’t seen that since I was a kid.

Baggage check on Ryanair was a mess, but thankfully we packed relatively light and didn’t have to endure the lines and chaos.  I did have to surrender my toothpaste and shampoo going through security though… which was naïve on my part, half expecting that enforcement wasn’t going to be as strict as in the US.  I guess it’s still a bit of a crapshoot either way, since my roommate Sam was able to keep his toothpaste, although he had to surrender a pair of scissors he overlooked in his shaving kit.  Next time I just might pack a butter knife with my toothpaste.

Our flight was scheduled to depart at 6:15 pm and get in to Girona at 7:55 pm… instead we didn’t actually lift off until 7:00 thereabouts, and got in around 8:25 pm, all in all not too bad.  As was our bus trip the flight was uneventful, the plane was a 737, much better than the twin-prop held together with duct tape that I was expecting given that the flight cost only €110 round-trip.  Meals were offered… for a price… as was water… as was, well thankfully the restroom, oxygen and floatation devices came free.  Overall though I can’t complain, the staff was courteous and efficient and I think Ryanair successfully straddled the line of affordability without ever drifting over into cheap.

After touchdown in Girona we made our way by bus (www.barcelonabus.com, €20 roundtrip) to Barcelona, an hour away… arriving at night, but still there was more than enough excitement on our parts that not the toothpaste, not the shampoo, not the delay on the tarmac… not the one-hour bus ride… nothing really mattered, we were in Barcelona at last.  I spent roughly nine years studying Spanish, and roughly none of them actually practicing it, certainly none in the past ten odd years.  I was pleasantly surprised then by how much I actually retained.  I probably couldn’t write a high-school level paper for you, but I remembered enough that I could fumble my way through conversations, make out directions and generally communicate well enough to get by.  It was a welcomed relief from Venice where I knew not a lick of Italian and where it was rare that I would encounter someone speaking conversational English… not for lack of effort though on their parts though.

We made our way from the Barcelona Nord bus depot to the Arc de Triomf (pictured above) metro stop directly across the street.  I knew the address of our hostel and a rough idea of which station to get off at, but knew little else about the Barcelona subway system.  It turns out that navigating the system isn’t unlike any other major metro system, close enough to the ones in New York and DC that I’m used to.  Even still I pushed the “information” button at close to 11 pm expecting a menu to pop up on the kiosk screen, not expecting a live voice on the other end.  I proceeded to ask for directions to get to the stop I’d seen close to the hostel on Google, but the rep instead asked me for the address of the hostel.  He soon came with perfect directions as to which would be the nearest stop… certainly much better than I would have done on my own.  I was impressed that I passed my first Spanish test (flawless performance of course, lol), but doubly surprised at the level of efficiency from Barcelona metro authority… really great customer service that was to be the hallmark of our many train rides over the course of the weekend.

And so we’ve come to the end of the first summer session, the halfway point in our sojourn here in Venice.  It is a time for reflection on the two weeks which have passed, time for reflection on new experiences, for many of us new perspectives as well, and celebration of new-found friendships.  It is also the time for the intrusion of reality into our somewhat idyllic daily routines. 

For a few of us reality means returning to the US; for a few more of us reality means saying goodbye (for now at least) to new friends and acquaintances; for all of us it means the harsh reality of exams… we are all here to learn after all, and for good or bad some of that knowledge is being imparted in the classroom.  In International Sales, Professor Meadows has drilled us on the Uniform Commercial Code, as well as the various international conventions governing international sales; namely the Convention on the International Sale of Goods (CISG), The Inter-American Convention, The Hague Convention and The Rome Convention.  Professor Goldberg meanwhile, has done his best to delineate the major points of departure between Civil law and Common law jurisdictions (while also underscoring their similarities), in our brief two-week survey of Comparative Civil Litigation in the respective systems.

Of course much of our ‘education’ is also taking place outside the classroom as well.  For a select few of us the break represents an opportunity to broaden our horizons even further by travelling to neighboring countries.  The fall of internal barriers to trade and travel within Europe is a boon to not only to EU citizens, but also for Americans (for whom visas are not required) and holders of Schengen visas.  While not centrally located, Venice still proves to be a convenient jumping off point for other parts of Europe.  With Marco Polo International a mere 20-minute ride from the city, and Treviso Airport 45 minutes away, much of Europe is decidedly within reach.

Croatia and other parts of Eastern Europe are just a ferry ride across the Adriatic; London is about two hours by air, Munich three, Paris also three and Barcelona about an hour and a half.  Other parts of Italy of course are also within easy reach; Verona and Padua for instance are about an hour each away, while Florence is a three-hour train ride away and Rome six.  In short there is a wealth of travel opportunities suitably flexible for the unpredictability of student budgets. 

Sam and I debated between Paris (his preference) and Barcelona… and fortunately I’ve prevailed on him to give Barcelona a try, selling him on the unique history and culture of Catalonia and my familiarity with Spanish, which at least promises less communication issues than we’ve encountered here in Venice.  That travel to Barcelona happens to be significantly cheaper than travel to Paris also mitigates heavily in favor of the former, and so it is with great excitement that we begin planning our trip to the City of Counts.

Today, Thursday June 25th we got a tour of the Venetian courts courtesy a local Avvocato Giovanni Minelli, who proved to be quite the resource with both his knowledge of and familiarity within the local bar.  The tour began with a visit of the Corte d’Assize, Venice’s criminal court of first instance, the equivalent of an American trial court.  The first thing that struck me about the court was the complete lack of pomp and circumstance reflected in the actual edifice itself.  In fact, I had been past the building a couple times and hadn’t even noticed its presence among the nearby gift shops and sundry tourist traps which populated the Rialto neighborhood.  The only thing which gave away its presence was the bronze plaque signifying its purpose as the seat of the tribunal. 

 Given Venice’s wonderful architectural tradition one would have been forgiven for expecting something with a bit more of an aesthetic flair, to put it mildly. Truth be told however, the only thing architecturally interesting within the perimeter was the wonderful clock tower pictured below, with its subtle nod to the medieval past reflected in the clock face.

Continuing in the architectural vein, we then got a look at highly stylized, if spatially efficient courtroom, designed by one of Venice’s leading modern architects.  The most interesting feature of the room to me was the riveted, paneled walls, which gave the room the look of a sleek, modernist sound room rather than the proletarian tribunal that it was.  Overall the room was hardly a departure from anything that we may see in U.S. courtrooms, except that it was executed perhaps with a bit more of an architectural flair.  Comparing the effort that was put into the design of the room relative to the other courtrooms however, and it’s no small wonder that the locals seemed so taken by it. 

The next courtroom we visited down on the first floor of the building was more representative of the Venetian courtrooms we saw, stark, unadorned walls in keeping with the unglamorous task of the bureaucrats who occupied it.  Affixed in large letters about the tribunal however were the words “La Legge e’ Uguale per Tutti”, which in my guess roughly translates to “The Law Is Equal for Everyone”.  My attempt to photograph the inscription probably could have ended a lot worse than it actually did, lol.  Before you go “well, duh!”, I wasn’t being quite the obnoxious, clueless tourist that you think.  I was actually standing outside the courtroom at the time, in the vestibule actually, trying surreptitiously to focus on just the words high up on the walls without capturing any of the actual happenings within the room.  Still, I was met by a rather firm-looking functionary who quite irritatedly ushered me away, saying “Via! Via!” or something to that effect, lol.

Next stop were the offices of one of the local prosecutors… the anteroom to which was simply stunning. 

In fact there were many things stunning about that stop on the tour, from the beautiful frescoes on the ceiling and walls of the anteroom pictured above, to the restoration being done to wonderfully aged ceilings inside… to the boxes of files “stored” literally, all over the place.  We even saw a few boxes sunning themselves outside on the balcony.  Thank God for small mercies the fact that it didn’t rain that day, although it would have been fun to see their contingency plans in effect.

Next stop was the Corte d’Appello, on the banks of the Grand Canal.  Again I must stress how friendly and accommodating the Venetian people were (my near minor international incident aside, lol).  Granted that the proceedings we observed were open to the public, but the judges were very accommodating of our sizeable group, including the fact that some of us forgot that we were supposed to “dress appropriately” for the occasion.  At the end of witnessing one bankruptcy proceeding our host, Giovanni explained our presence to the tribunal who then acknowledged us with very kind words (in Italian of course), and later on a local prosecutor prevailed on our behalf in getting the judges to allow us into another tiny courtroom as they first heard, then later announced their decision (after deliberations) in a criminal case.  In the mean time we were able to go downstairs and take some photographs on the courthouse steps along the banks of the Grand Canal.  There too we were able to see local law enforcement in action as a couple of us stragglers were ushered away from the water’s edge as one defendant was brought (by boat, of course) literally to the courthouse doors and then up some secret elevators.

We were given a mini tour of the building, which at one time was the private home of one of Venice’s great families, replete with private stairways for the house staff so that when they went about their chores they wouldn’t have to be seen by the family.  Weird, but interesting all the same.  One of the courthouse staff was very kind to escort us to an upper room, and then to the attic,  which also doubled as, surprise… storage space for files… where we were treated to spectacular vistas of the city. 

Unsolicited and unexpected, this turned out to be the highlight of the tour for many of us.

We concluded our tour of the Venetian courts by retiring for lunch at Osterria Al Assessini, one of the favorite local lawyer hangouts, near the City’s municipal center close to the Rialto.

 There we were treated to gnocchi in tomato sauce and ravioli with ricotta and spinach.  The first course was followed by a second course of roast beef and grilled vegetables… no seafood, but otherwise a perfect way to cap off what was a very enjoyable and insightful look at the non-tourist side of Venice.

So after Friday night the entertainment bar was set pretty high… we’d have to come pretty darn good to top that night we thought.  And so with that in mind it was decided we’d visit the city-run Casino in Cannaregio’s Campo San Marcuolo neighborhood.  It turns out the Casino workers had other plans, as they quite inconveniently decided to go on strike… the nerve, what no one told them we were coming?  So at this point we were waiting for Debbie and Rachael to arrive, both of them having to catch the vaporetto up from Debbie’s apartment near campus.  Sam, Dana and Ryan had already eaten, but Georgine and I were pretty famished and so we decided that food would be the next order of business.

Georgine’s feet were hurting so Ryan decided that he would take us both to this one restaurant he knew, where we would wait while he went back (with Sam and Dana) to get Debbie and Rachael when they get off the vaporetto.  As we navigated the twisting passageway that passed for a street I happened to notice the deposit left behind by one of Venice’s canine corps.  I also noticed footsteps behind us and turned to see this pretty signorina following not too far behind.  Georgine and I made a quick right towards the restaurant while signorina continued straight… and wouldn’t you know it, stepped right into the pile of post-digested Scooby snacks. 

I really didn’t have any time to warn her… honestly.  Not that she would have necessarily understood me either, as my lack of Italian would have left me inarticulately gesturing at the ground in front of her. She turned and stared at the spot with a “what the hell??” look on her face, as the dread… and recognition soon set in.  I quickly averted my eyes so as to spare her any further embarrassment, and the last I heard as she disappeared around the bend was the unmistakable sound of leather scraping against concrete, as I imagined her swearing at the gods under her pretty breath.  For what it’s worth though, it was one of life’s great leveling moments… sometimes even the pretty girls step in doggie poop.

We soon abandoned our efforts on dog poop alley, as the two restaurants there were closing the kitchens at 10:30 and here it was already 10:15 with Debbie and Rachael still cruising the canals.  We ran into Arben, the Albanian émigré friend of Dana and Ryan, who worked at a nearby restaurant.  After hearing our plight he phoned his friends at the restaurant and got them to hold the kitchen open for the seven of us as we hurried over.  Our path took us from the Calle del Forno, right on the Fondamenta degli Ormesini, and before long we arrived at Arben’s restaurant, Timon.  The staff there were very friendly and soon set up a table for us along the canal.  Georgine had the eggplant parmesan and Debbie had the artichoke lasagna, while Rachael and I had the meat lasagna.  The food at Timon’s was terrific, the inside of my lasagna had a consistency almost reminiscent of tiramisu, that’s how much it felt like it melted in your mouth, and the same for Debbie’s artichoke variety which I had tasted, even though she confessed that it was too rich for her.

Arben soon joined back up with us and we proceeded to just hang out and shoot the breeze while we digested our meals.  Before long Arben had us downing shots of Grappa, a colorless, fermented, something or the other that was made from grapes, but which was four times as potent as regular wine.  I swear it smelled like jet fuel… but I was curious enough that I decided to be game and play along.  If as it’s said, that liquor puts hair on a man’s chest, then Grappo put an entire weave on my chest. After I swallowed, the flaming liquid seemed to pause at the base of my throat, long enough for me to savor the flavor, before going down. 

Interestingly enough the aftertaste wasn’t bad, a definite sweet-ish grape flavor.  Arben looked at me in part anticipation and part concern.  ”I’m fine,” I assured him, as I struggled to suck oxygen into my lungs.  Ryan was pretty lit from the grappa, and Debbie was getting high just the words coming out of his mouth… and there were a LOT of words.  Ryan took us everywhere from the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire to 20 Questions with Georgine… before he perfected the thousand-yard stare that is, brought on by the potent potables consumed during the course of the night. 

We finished dinner, took a shortcut through Venice’s historic Jewish neighborhood, past the Campo del Ghetto, and the Museo ebraico and Sinagoghe.  We crossed the Ponte delle Guglie turned down the Fondamenta de Venier and settled on the Ponte Tre Archi, where we chilled… literally, in the 60-degree Fahrenheit air.  Before long we were joined by two of Arben’s friends who were passing through, Matteo and Giovanni… the latter of whom absconded into the night with one of two American co-eds he’d met earlier.  Upon the other expressing concern for her absent friend, she was apparently told not to worry that she was in good hands, ”Giovanni, he’s a good boy”.

So much for the deep musings about Venice, now on to everyday life.  My husband & I tried desperately to “top up” my “pay as you go” Italian phone today.  First the phone store where we bought the SIM card for the phone claimed not to have minutes (despite the facts we bought extra minutes there when we bought the phone), the employees sent us to the Tabacchi Store (like a mini, very mini-mart).  Tabacchi store sends us back to, you guessed it, the phone store!  No one at either store spoke English, and we unfortunately don’t speak much Italian (our fault, not theirs). 

Finally, by displaying a top off card someone else had purchased & a 50 Euro bill, we convinced the phone store to sell us minutes!  Of course, everything, including the instructions given by the number we had to call was in . . . Italian. No English option.  Finally, I begged the nice gentleman at the copy & printing store we use every morning to help us.  Despite being probably the only Italian who does not own a “mobile”, he listened to the instructions & topped my phone off.  What a wonderful man!  Despite what others have said, I have found Venetians to be nothing but kind and helpful.  We, the guests in their country, should all be seen the same way by them.

-RM

 Well, we’ve survived week one in Venice.  We’ve endured incredible heat for several days, cool breezes (even requiring jackets one morning), some heavy rain and the high tides that flooded part of Piazza San Marco a few days ago. 

It is often said that Venice cannot be confused with any other city in the world, and that is so true.  The narrow streets and alleys and small canals of the Dorsoduro, San Polo and San Croce, the siestres (districts) in which classes are held and many of us live, bustle with Venetians, students, and, of course, tourists, maps in hand, all walking – no cars, bikes or even roller blades.   The campos (squares) of Venice are generally small and relatively plain, unlike the fancier Roman piazzas, but this just contributes to Venice’s uniqueness.   What I find most intriguing are the sounds of Venice.  I sit here typing in the center of town, yet I can hear the birds singing, church bells ringing and people talking on the square four floors below.  There are no cars drowning out these other sounds as in other major cities around the world.  I muse that it must sound about the same as it has for the last 1000 years since Venice was founded . . . until a jet heading to or from the airport passes by overhead, brings me back to the 21st century. 

Venice is a study in contrasts.  Two-thirds of Venetians actually live on the mainland, in Mestre, an industrial area like so many around the world.  But even on the islands there is variety.  The Lido is an upscale “Jersey” shore, with beaches (public and private), cars, and the ubiquitous t-shirt, beach apparel and ice cream shops.  Cannaregio, the home of the original Jewish ghetto and a “newer” area, has wider and livelier streets and shops.  San Marco, home of the famous Piazza San Marco (St. Mark’s Square), the Doge’s Palace and Basilica San Marco, has upscale shops (think Gucci & Prada) next to the famously overpriced and low quality tourist shops.  San Marco is the hub of the tourist industry, Venice’s primary economic activity these days.  Then there are the Rialto markets on the Grand Canal, where Venetians have been trading with themselves and the world for a 1000 years and now home to open air fish and produce markets (pictured above).  I even joined the tradition, jostling with Venetians on their Saturday morning trip to the fruit and vegetable markets, to purchase some fruit using the Italian taught to us on the first day of the program by our Italian teacher, Roberta. 

-RM

So after our the Karaoke session at Café Blue on Friday night, the rest of my classmates left me and went to Campo Margherita, the local hangout for the college crowd.  There, it turns out the night’s entertainment was only just beginning.  Apparently a fight broke out between two dueling groups of young men, one American, the other English, both equally hopped on that age old combination of alcohol and testosterone that has prompted many an “invitation to fisticuffs…” as Justice Holmes would say. 

Now, of all the nationalities present in Venice, why these American kids chose the Brits to go have a rumble with is besides me.  No one enjoys a good grog-infused mêlée more than the British… and I say that as a football (soccer) fan who it just so happens, is also a fan of the Three Lions (the English Men’s National Team).  So no offense, but I know a thing or two about what liquid courage does to the English male adolescent psyche.  Besides, it’s only been two-hundred and thirty-three years… they still haven’t gotten that whole Revolutionary War thing out of their system… they enjoy nothing better than whupping Yankee behind.

For the details on the brouhaha, we turned to our intrepid roving reporter Dana, who I’m told followed the action with beer and pizza in hand, all the better to capture the developing situation in HD.  My hero.  Typically during these mob-style set-tos all manners of missiles and projectiles are set in motion, and few of them ever reach their intended targets.  Now as brave as I’d like to think I am, I also happen to like my blood inside my skin… so you can best believe that left to me we’d still be getting a second-hand account of the rumble.  At any rate, Dana reports that the Brits pretty much won the fight (they’re professionals, that’s how they do *shrug*)… with one American kid receiving a bloody gash to his cheek.  According to Sam, he seemed more concerned about the matching gash in his designer jeans than the source of the blood on his face.  Handbags at ten paces… as the Brits would say.