So I booked an Air BnB for four nights in my spirit city so I could live as a honorary Venetian for a few days. My vision was to go to the markets every day and cook. It was a dream thirty years in the making. It wasn't meant to be. I should have known there could be issues as the Air BnB host didn't respond to any of my questions. I had to go to a hotel to pick up the key. That was the easy part. The rest...it wasn't ready on time; when ready I was taken through a hallway that looked like it was being half demolished, I had to step over chunks of concrete and plaster. Inside there'd been a hurried clean, the cover on the lounge was still wet, there were tiles on the floor in the bathroom, the paint was flaking off the walls and lying on the floor, when I opened the shutters to the canal, there was a crane operating plus the canal had been drained and there was no Wifi.
I've never had much luck with Air BnB's, this was living proof. I went back to the hotel to complain and he told me he'd find me a room here. No arguments, and no money to be refunded, an exchange deal. All very odd. My dreams of being a Venetian matron over, I went in search of a Spritz, as you do in these circumstances. The drizzling rain I had arrived in had stopped and a softly filtered afternoon sun shone on the canal. I'd never been in this part of Venice before, it was the sestiere (as they called the sections of Venice) of Cicchetti bars. Not such a bad situation to find myself in. Sitting by the canal, Spritz in hand, a cicchetti with gorgonzola and walnuts, life took on the sunset hues. I watch the boats going by taking school kids home; handsome Italian boatsmen, one hand on the wheel, the other usually holding a cigarette; grandmas trailing dogs with diamante collars; older couples arm in arm strolling, ready for aperitivo. Oh, the luxury I have of being here and observing Venetian life go by.
The next day I walk and wander after finding a fabulous cafe on the canal with the best coffee.I try to find a shop that has relocated but find other's instead. I walk in the rain, through the tiny streets of umbrellas fully unfurled. I look into galleries and find Carla Tolomeo's amazingly luxurious and curious armchairs. She's 74 and started out as a painter of angels but now makes chairs out of glorious velvety exotic fabrics with pineapples, birds and roses sculpturally popping up all over. I find a cheap restaurant just off San Marco and eat, drink and then am merry, especially as they bring me a plate of homemade biscuits at the end. I am always amazed how Venice can continually welcome tourists with open arms. Although I know tourism is what keeps Venice literally afloat, it still must be hard to maintain friendly relations with grumpy wet tourists.
The days go quickly, there's a Wifi issue in Venice at the moment so I have to walk out to the bridge to talk, umbrella and phone in hand. I succumb again to depression out of the blue, like Eeyore in Winnie the Pooh, a little cloud is sitting just above my head. The partner and I are missing each other and talking in the rain, trying to find a spot of Wifi, isn't helping.
I have wandered far and wandered wide, have found the oldest paper shop in Venice which started out in 1851 and has a sign on it saying: Rarely Open. I try to find my favourite art shop where there are wooden boxes full of powdered pigments, ground stones. Of course Google maps doesn't work within the tiny alleyways of Venice but I ask locals (easily spotted by the way the dress) and I finally find it, only to discover it's closed, no hours of operation; open somewhere between lunch and aperitivo, I'm told by an Italian who finds me peering in the window longingly.
The old post office, Fondaco dei Tedeschi, which was built in the 1200's for German and northern European traders to stay in is now a department store! I am horrified! Carved on the building is: 'No weapons, no games, no prostitutes. For the rest, free to trade.' The famous painter Titian painted a mural on this building. I suppose this is how the old buildings are preserved. Times, they are a'changing.
I find another beautiful old theatre is now a supermarket, I wander in and look up and around me at the stunning paintings, the old staircase. Does this mean the Venetians are leaving, that plays are no longer being performed? They say more and more are Venetians are moving out because they can't afford it. Will one day only tourists wander this beautiful fragile city, no longer cared for by Venetians? The thought is sobering. I go to my favourite trattoria, close to my hotel and have a large drink, and a pasta dish of velvety homemade taglioni with fresh baby artichokes, zucchini, scampi in a vodka sauce.
I leave Venice, having taken too many photos of canals and sumptuous gondolas, and I'm heading to Mantova or Mantua to meet up with the daughter.
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