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London: March 17 - March 22, 2009

What happened to the Venice section?

Last Day

After yesterday's aborted attempt to get to Sissinghurst, we decided to go on Saturday. Suffice it to say that the train situation has not improved — it all comes down to switching problems, mixed with some engineering work. I don't know how we made it, but we switched at Tonbridge and ended up at the beyond-words lovely home of the writer VIta Sackville-West and her husband, the diplomat, MP, and writer Harold Nicolson. They found a crumbling structure in 1930, bought it, rehabilitated the house, and planned and planted a garden that is world famous today. Their children and grandchildren still live on the property. It is truly a sight to behold. We have been a number of times, but this is the first time so early in the year. It was very encouraging to see the gardens coming to life.

We headed back to town, this time with no drama, and decided to spend some time wandering around. We stopped again in the book stores in Piccadilly, then got stuck in the massive wave of people in Leicester Square on a Saturday evening (the horror, the horror), Covent Garden, and then the area around Trafalgar Square. If anything would ever make you want to leave London, it would be following that route at that time on that day of the week. A quick dinner, back to the hotel to pack. Early bedtime, and now we're here at Heathrow awaiting our flight to Frankfurt, and then home. Here are the last of the photos.

Waiting for a train at Tonbridge, though we were never sure what we were supposed to be doing to get to Sissinghurst.

The main keep of Sissinghurst. This was VS-W's library and sanctuary.

There are archways from one garden to another (most are themed) and you never quite know what's on the other side.

Not a bad place to write and contemplate, huh?

Back in town, one last photo of Rich in Piccadilly Circus.

End transmission. That is all.

6:25 a.m., London, England — March 22, 2009.

Day of Denial, Part II (with apologies to July 29, 1997)

It may be unseemly to complain about being in London, ensconced (is that a word? Let me check; yes it is.) in a comfortable hotel and pretty much having the run of the place. So, I don't want to focus too much on the negative, but our planned trip to Sissinghurst went badly awry. We made it to Charing Cross Station in time and in good shape, but the train, scheduled to depart at 10:00, was canceled at 9:59:59. Switching problems apparently. I asked this monumentally large man at the info desk what happened and he told me to go to the Cannon Street Station. This (and listen up, American transport facilities) was made that much easier by the fact that our train tickets would work on the tube. That's brilliant. So we go to Cannon St (which was fouled up by severe delays on the Circle and District Lines). If you know the tube, you know that this is not good. We did make it eventually, and we stood there for a while waiting for the next train. (At Charing Cross I asked the man who told me to go to Cannon St if he knew the time of the next departing train, he said Sadly, no. Don't you love the British?) The board announcing departures simply vaporized our train, the info desk woman was useless, repeating everything I said, everything I knew already. So, OK, scratch Sissinghurst; we'll go to the V & A, because the new theat[re/er] space has just opened. Interesting. That's about it, really. You'd think that a nation with over 500 years of theatrical history could. . . skip it. I'm not going to whine.

We went to Regent St and as much as I'm not a fan of shopping, I like Hackett Men's, because it's fine and classic and comfortable. There are some OTT items, like the Oxford University Boating Club polos and robes, but generally the shop is a thoroughly professional affair. The staff is neither unctuous nor aloof. They strike a perfect note. So maybe, think I, maybe my day is getting better. We have an aborted trip (again) to the Imperial War Museum, as traffic in Trafalgar Sq is knotted up beyond all repair. It is probably still a mess. I headed back to the hotel, Rich made a new friend at a shop in Davies St (his new favorite haunt), and then the evening was upon us.

We went to the West End, as the theaters were all to dim their lights in honor of Natasha Richardson's death. Sad, wasn't it? A fine tribute, but it lacks the punch of the Broadway effort as the West End theaters have curtain times anywhere from 7:00 to 8:00. But nice, nonetheless. We walked around Soho, had dinner at the Gay Hussar — which is THE classic Soho restaurant, though we had never been. We had stopped earlier and had cappuccinos at Bar Italia, the other Soho spot recognizable from the '50s. At the GH, the food was superb, but the service was incomprehensible. Why are recent immigrants to this nation not apprised of the national drink, i. e., gin? Rich's order was muddled and took about four minutes of confusing talk to get the wrong drink. But, I advise you, should you ever have the chance to go to a Hungarian restaurant, go go go. The owner was the most solicitous, gracious, and European fellow I have ever seen. If you ever want to glean an idea of what old world service is, look to the Central Europeans. I love generalizing.

Oh, we won £50 on scratch tickets today, and boarding the #38 bus out of Shaftesbury Ave, I found £3 on the seat. Maybe this day didn't suck after all. Here are some photos:

From the upper deck of the bus, heading into Piccadilly Circus.

This, and some of the following photos, are from the V & A, a great, great, great museum.

Here's Rich and I going to. . . oops! Wrong photo!

Just one of the fellas.

If Godzilla got in a fight with the Green Lantern, who would win?

Snooty's brother (Buffalo joke; cannot explain it here.)

12:35 a.m., London, England — March 21, 2009.

All Systems Go

We're at the stage where we're entering into the life and groove of the city, though still able to exploit and enjoy our status as visitors. There was an immensely pleasureable progression to the day, as though each segment flowed effortlessly into the next with no exertion on our part (which is misleading of course; it is damn hard work visiting a city like London). We began the day by walking through Hyde Park on yet another glorious spring day. Remember green? It's here already and it is most exciting to see again. Coming into the former hunting grounds of
Henry VIII from Park Lane, you can go through the famous (?) Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother Gates; I think they're kind of ugly — ornate and maybe just a bit ghastly. I do like the striking and powerful statue just inside though:

When Achilles met Adonis.

It was a fine day, seemingly purpose-built for two lighthearted visitors out on a lark.

Along Rotten Row.

The Serpentine, seen from its eastern edge.

I couldn't resist. I just couldn't.

Feeding the ducks and dogs at the Serpentine Lido. I tell you, they have this dish, sliced tomato and bacon on toast. . .

So we walked through Hyde Park, and into Kensington Gardens. Like the London Eye, the Albert Memorial will always have a home in these pages. It is Rich's magnetic north, his touchstone. He always wants to see it and I always want to photograph it.



Fortuitously, just outside the gates of the Prince Albert Memorial was a bus stop for the #10, the exact same bus that would whisk us to the the British Library. I cannot urge you strongly enough to visit this page (when you're done here of course) and search, explore, and discover. It is an amazing institution. We went to the Treasures Gallery (admittedly, for a library it is not browser-friendly as it is the home for serious research but this installation will thrill you nonetheless). Here you find the Lindisfarne Gospels (begun in AD 698); the Latin was translated into English in the 11th century in the margins and between the lines! What might be considered disfiguring a book can now be seen as a prime example of the Bible as a living entity. Four centuries after it was begun, some nameless, unknowable, unfindable monk decided to enlighten the poor peasantry by writing in the book in English. Amazing, almost to the point of mind-numbing. Oh, and that's just the beginning. There are the original manuscripts for Jane Eyre in Brontë's hand, and the similar efforts of Dr Johnson, Ben Jonson, Keats, and The Beatles. And maybe even Shakespeare? There is a quarto extant that many scholars believe is in the bard's own hand, but it remains sadly, frustratingly out of verifiable reach.

And then there are the four remaining copies of the Magna Carta. I can't discuss their importance here without getting all political, so suffice it to say that when you see documents bearing the king's seal, dated 1215, a papal bull from weeks later excommunicating the whole of England for allowing people their rights, and a searchable interactive display, you are (at least I am) overwhelmed. Imagine that today you are sitting (t)here, reading this without fear of being spied upon, because 800 years ago some landowners forced a king to allow you to do so. Incredible.

From there, we headed to the British Museum — another institution whose Web site is endlessly searchable and fascinating — it is not only an eternally intriguing museum (I mean that; you can never be tired of the British Museum), but an incessant and relentless reminder to look to the past. There was once an exhibit in which the Egyptian Pharaoh Amenhotep implored his scribes to Speak to the future. The future will listen. But the past has a voice too, and it is at this place that you listen and hear it ringing down the centuries. Some photos:

Rich bows before his new lord and master, The Big Bunch of Foil.

These great half-man/half-beast Leviathans guarded the palace at Nimrud, perhaps a banquet hall. I know I'd eat in comfort and safety.

A guard plate, also from Nimrud.

Rich and baboon (Rich on the right) — that kills me every time, it is so damn funny.

Rich and a big lion. I like using Rich for scale, especially since he is tall and vertical, slim and trim. He gives a good sense of perspective.

We walked around the area of the British Museum (Have you visited the site yet? You should.), and of course had a most pleasant lunch at the Forum Café, a favorite spot. We're quite comfortable there. We strolled through Bloomsbury Square on our way towards the bus. I forgot I had set the camera to black and white, but the feeling of the famous doors in the square is palpable:

Virginia, is that you?

We decided to go to the London Eye, but our bus was on diversion so that took much longer to get to than we anticipated. Uh. . . for future reference, on diversion means someone messed up big time, and all routes are impassable. Here are pictures from the Eye. I don't know, I think it's more interesting from the outside.

I love this full river shot. The Thames, still vibrant and jam-packed 2,500 years after people first settled along it.

A little too close to the window, thank you,

So after the Eye, we made it back to the hotel. Long day, man, long day. We had dinner at a favorite Italian spot near the hotel and then walked around Mayfair. Quite posh, with doormen abounding in front of the most ordinary looking buildings. You know that something is going on, and that there is now way in hell you could ever get into one of these places unless maybe (maybe!) you're with Prince William. We had a quick nightcap at the bar, had a small conversation with the barman (French dude who knew how to make a Martini — quite refreshing!) who thought my French was not bad. Read: he's impressed, so thanks to Didi for all those lessons.

Brother, I am dying right now. Good night.

12:15 a.m., London, England — March 20, 2009.

A great London day

What makes a grand day in London, you may well ask? The sort of day we had yesterday was typical and yet special. When you go to a beloved spot, it is nice to have all the time you need to revisit and recall. It was a lovely spring morning, chilly, a little misty. We are across from Green Park and it is well and truly spring here. Here are some snappy snaps of our first day.

At Westminster Palace.

I love the London Eye; it always has and always will make at least one appearance on these pages. I also love lines that intersect, so here is one shot of the Eye as seen through the gates of the Ministry of Defense.

A member of the Household Cavalry, mounted. Not much to see here (these are the guards — not those at Buckingham Palace— who remain stone- faced no matter what provocation they endure. I liked the reflection in the window. (I just tested the page and man, those disposables are just not meant for the Web.)

So, what made the day so London-like? We started by having a coffee at the Pret near the Green Park tube, I then had a haircut at Trumper, we spent the rest of the morning at Waterstone's and then Hatchard's (two of the world's greatest bookstores, bought our train tickets at Charing Cross, picked up our theater tickets for the play, had lunch (where Rich got so [righteously] angry at the slow service I have taken to calling him The Rage of Two Continents), then took a bus to Kensington High Street to do some shopping. The bus broke down along the way (in a rather spiffy neighborhood on a glorious day, so no big deal) and we got a chance to relax and enjoy the sights. We hung out in the room for a while, before going to the theater. A play about the theater. A play about backstage life at the theater. A play about backstage life at the theater involving homosexuality. It was "Plague Over England," and it concerned Sir John Gieigud's arrest in 1953 for indecency when he propositioned a copper in the Chelsea public loo. We then walked back to the hotel via the Embankment to Westminsters, where we caught the subway to Green Park. It was just, as I said, a wonderful day.

A path in Green Park.

There are not many interesting ways to shoot Buckingham Palace, but the daffodils help soften its leaden exterior.

Rich along the Mall, near the newly unveiled statue to Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother.

Some nice work on the bas-relief panels show the Queen Mother's efforts during World War II.

Rich reenacts the time and place when the Queen said hello to him and the drunken Irishman booed her before falling down.

From Trafalgar Square, looking down Whitehall and the Houses of Parliament.

St. Mary Abbot in Kensington. I don't know why I like obstructed views so much.

8:05 a.m., London, England — March 19, 2009.

Back in London

There was an odd sensation of homecoming yesterday as we got off the plane in London. It was a fine flight, getting a chance to cross the Alps once again. If you've ever experienced a fear of flying, or even a momentary panic, you may want to stay of that route. The mountains look truly menacing from the air; worse, even, than the Rockies. Maybe it's the time of year, but the sun shone off the mountaintops, while the valleys were misty and foggy. Just an odd combination, and sitting on the aisle I kept my eyes diverted from the windows. It was nice, however, to see the white cliffs of Dover as we crossed the Channel.

We landed at Gatwick, which was a new experience for us as we usually go to Heathrow. There is still the marathonn walk to Customs. I'd like to know whose bright idea it was to make everything so damn far apart but maybe it's just me getting older. What makes it worse is carry-on luggage. It is amazing how burdensome it becomes and how quickly. The computer seems to be the problem. For something that weighs four pounds, it magically weighs thirty pounds when I put it in a bag. And then it shifts all over the place, so I obviously need to get a separate case for it, though I am loath to be one of those travelers who seems to be some sort of walking coatrack, with bags and appurtenances hanging off me.

Passport control was refreshingly fast and pleasant, even respectful. I went first and the woman asked if I were traveling with anyone. I gestured to Rich behind me in line, and said I was with my partner. She asked if he was my business partner, and I said no, he's my spouse. She said that as we are traveling as a family we can have our passports checked together. That's the first time we've been accorded such a consideration, certainly in Europe, and quite possible ever.

We took the Express train to London Victoria (not worth the $60 though I couldn't find a better way — this was most definitely not the time to sit on some bus making who knows how many stops. The hotel check-in was a bit of a mix up. Well, not the check-in but once again the marketing people have created more problems than they know. Rich uses his SPG membership to make the booking; he gets an email confirmation, stating that our room will have stunning city views and the room, while nice, looks out onto an empty office building with mattresses against the windows. Hmm. See, in London, there is The City (the financial center) but saying city views is rather meaningless at this hotel. The desk clerk says, fine, but it doesn't say park views, which is really the only views they have. Damn you marketers! You've screwed everyone! Suffice it to say that we have a lovely view over Green Park, facing Piccadilly. Yet another bit of confusion (Japanese tourists were harrassing a different desk clerk en masse a bit later) resulted in us receiving Internet access for the length of our stay for a token amount. Bravo, Richie!

We unpacked, and began strolling around, first charging up our Oyster cards for use on public transportation. Each subway ride costs £4 ($5.60) so a seven day pass for £26 is a no-brainer. By your seventh trip you're in the black. Oh, and there will be plenty of trips. While we are inveterate walkers, Rich has more stamina than I and the idea of hopping on a bus or train comes almost always from me. We headed to Westminster, up Whitehall, Trafalgar Sq., and then to Jermyn St. I have an appointment today (Wednesday) with the gentleman's hairdresser at Geo F Trumper. You really have to see this place: established in the 18th century it is a tiny and narrow affair, crammed with all sorts of shaving, bathing, grooming, cleansing, and accessorizing items. Though I am not a shopper, or much of a browser, the stock on their shelves makes you want to need a 100% badger shaving brush with ivory handle and your family crest (in my case a bottle of Simon Pure Ale and a pack of Pall Malls) burned into the end. A haircut is quite reasonable, about $25, and they take care of you like proper barbers. They snip and clip to clear away all stray outgrowths that appear on a man. They even comb your eyebrows, an oddly luxurious feeling. Perhaps that $25 is on a sliding scale — I saw the fellow give my head a quick glance when I asked the price.

We had dinner at Bhatti, a great Indian restaurant near Holborn that we go to when we're here. As it was St. Patrick's Day the idea of a walk through the West End through Piccadilly Circus was out of the question. The British may have a lot to answer for when it comes to Ireland and the Irish, but they will not be denied a chance to indulge in bouts of binge drinking. This is a notorious problem here, and the loutishness it brings out has become noticeably worse. It is very difficult to walk in areas that are crowded with pubs (the West End, Soho, the Strand) as you will no doubt run across large groups of carousing young men and stumbling women. They are not menacing, really, and the only thing to fear is their size. They can be one large (and loud) swerving body, knocking into you, and sending you reeling or into the street. So the danger comes from their movements; I've never seen violence towards a stranger, unless it's another swerving mass of celebrants.

The misty mist of Green Park in the morning. It promises to be a lovely day.

While writing this, I heard clip-clop and a bus belching, a beautifully typical London sound.

Two things: You may have noticed that in the photos of Venice, I am wearing the same clothes for three days. Who knew it was going to be 70°? It was cold, damp, and bitter when we left Boston, and we checked on Venice and London before we left and it appeared that it would be only slightly warmer. Consequently, I have a suitcase full of clothes that are much too hot to wear during the day. Also, I've figured out the time difference thing. Venice was five hours ahead, but I know for a fact that it is also an hour ahead of London, which is five hours ahead of Boston. Huh? We had to turn our watches back upon arrival in England, which confounded us immensely. The light went off in my head last night. The early conversion to Daylight Savings Time in the US is the culprit. They have yet to adopt summer time here, so there is the missing hour. OK, camera battery is charged up, and we will enjoy our first full day. Haircut, British Museum, British Library, theater. And walking — God knows there will be walking.

7:30 a.m., London, England — March 18, 2009.

I've decided to keep the two destinations separate here, and I'll put London on top to save endless scrolling for my scores of thousands of readers. Yes, I know you're out there, following my movements and actions like a Pam Dawber stalker. I kid Pam, she's great. Anyway, I will add any new posts on top of the old ones so that the London section will be in reverse chronological order, as opposed to the Venice entries, which were sequential. We're sitting in the lounge now at the Venice airport, named after Marco Polo, which is kind of charming and exhilirating, isn't it? To name an airport after an explorer, and not just some person who no one remembers? I'm looking at you Logan, O'Hare, Hartsfeld, Hobby, and Reagan National. As Venice was the gateway to the east for much of its history (evidence includes the Byzantine influence on its churches, the distinct dialect, and the exotic architectural touches), to have an airport named for such a man whose extraordinary achievements can still be dumbfounding I find to be fitting beyond all description.

We were a bit confused as to how to return to the airport. Having spent so much for lunch at the Gritti yesterday, a €95 ride via a water taxi seemed most profligate. We asked around and found that the Alilaguna was the best bet for €13, but it only ran hourly. Catching it meant the difference between a smooth ride, or one fraught with anxiety. We caught it, and it was in fact the same route that brought us in. Being somewhat more familiar with the ways of the system, we did not panic or feel as lost as we had upon arrival. Everything, as they say, went tickety-boo.

I am anticipating getting the photos developed from the disposable camera. Twilight was just so enchanting last night: who was it who went to Venice to learn how to paint light? Turner? Constable? One of those guys, I know that. Or maybe Canaletto.

On the plane now to London. It is roomy and comfortable with scarcely any passengers. Boarding took about 6 minutes. And awaaaaay we go!

11:35 a.m., Venice, Italy — March 17, 2009.

Happy St. Patrick's Day To You All!

12:25 p.m., I can see Ireland off the port side of the airplane — March 17, 2009.

Venice: March 13 - March 17, 2009

I want to read about London now.

And Awaaaaay We Go!

[I edited this part; I hated the photos.]

It seems to have taken forever, of course. We were quite lackadaisical about preparations — I waited until last night to pack and even then did it in about fifteen minutes. God knows what I threw in there. (I once went to Buffalo with one sock. Packing is not a favorite hobby.) Work was quite productive despite my shortened day, and I even got a chance to stop into Silvertone for a quick lunch. Rich picked me up at the Blue Line, I had a fast shower, and now we are sitting in the lounge. On board we will be upstairs on a 747. That seems like such a remnant of the glory days of flying. When 747's were first introduced, the upstairs was a cocktail bar — pianist, bartender, attractive lighting. Oh, yeah, it was a scene. Now it is all seating but roomy and fairly comfortable; at least you don't feel like you're being held hostage.

We're on board and I must say that although we've traveled in first class before, this Lufthansa outfit has the others beat by einen kilo. Sorry, but the flugen attendant has congratulated me on my pronunciation and it is taking on a life of its own.

OK, now they've turned the lights down for dinner so I'll wrap this up now. Güten nacht!

Somewhere over the Atlantic, sometime during the night — Mar 13 2009.

Layover

So, we've had our first bit o' tension. Landing at Frankfurt was fine, but we were directed to about seven different locales for us to enjoy this rather spectacular lounge. I think Rich gives up too early, claiming things are a mistake and admitting defeat. My feeling is that we are in a foreign country, the language of which we do not know. Most people graciously step in with English, so we've been lucky but I do think we walked in a hugely huge circle to get to set our bags down. The lounge is, as I said, beautiful: sleek, chic, with a sense of boutique. There is a full service restaurant, showers, quick nap beds, and a full bar, viz:

Wasser wasser everywhere. . .

It is 6:15 a.m. and we're feeling rather ragged out, but we have a comfortable spot to relax in. I cannot believe that everywhere you look in this award-winning lounge, there is every service imaginable and yet the still — still! — charge for Internet access. This is a never-ending peeve of mine, too big to be a pet peeve, more like an obsession. And again I ask: how can Internet be free at a Red Roof Inn but so expensive in a state-of-the-art lounge. Business travelers, curse them!

Well, anyway, I'm going to avail myself of the shower and hope a shave and wash-up will revivify me. Rich and I agree that if we have to pass out for a bit once we get to Venice it will help us be awake to hear the chimes of midnight in the Piazza San Marco. It is supposedly magical. I can only say that I was rather impressed with the Las Vegas version of the Campanile tolling that great hour.

6:40 a.m., Frankfurt, Germany — March 14, 2009.

La Serenissima

The flight from Frankfurt to Venice was a relief after the hellish running in circles we did in Germany. The Italian Alps were spectacular, still covered in snow, dark and forbidding. The entrance to Venice itself is over thoroughly industrial land so it's not the prettiest approach. Arrival was a bit confusing still; we bought tickets for the water bus system, but you pay a surcharge for airport transportation. My first attempts at Italian were fairly successful, though I was a bit confused when we talked about the return trip ticket. I'm still not sure how we're getting to the airport. Each 72-hour pass is €33 (about $44), but as each single trip is €6, we'll get our money's worth quickly.

The trip on the boat was indredibly long and hot, made worse by the fact that we didn't know where we were, had yet to become oriented, and didn't know the sequence of stops. I think there was an Italian celebrity onboard; he was allowed to go up top of the boat (I wasn't, and desperate for air I felt this slight sharply). As fate would have it, he and his girlfriend were staying at the same hotel and the staff made a bit of a discreet to-do over his arrival. He looked like an incredibly Greek Isle-tanned Adrian Brody, so if you know someone who fits the description…

The quayside view from San Zaccharia along the Riva degli Schiavoni.

The bustling Riva degli Schiavoni.

The room, of course, was not ready and I really needed it to be — I felt as if I had been wearing the same clothes for three days and I just wanted to be horizontal for a while. Well, so it was not to be. As we are located closely to Piazza San Marco, we walked around that area for a while getting some flavor of the city, the tourist destinations, and the flow of life.

The famous Campanile of San Marco (l) and the Doge's Palace (r).

The bell tower again, through some trees.

The Doge's Palace.

We walked around, not getting too lost, and took some obligatory photos of the area around San Marco. Now, this area is always crowded with tourists but why must it always be groups who break into "O Sole Mio" (not knowing any more than that phrase) and "That's Amore"? I guess there is some sociological aspect of feeling more secure in a crowd to act goofy, but to act in a manner that is so cliché is beyond ridiculous. And it can be anyone from anywhere. I am quicker to hear an American accent, but they can be Canadians, Germans, French, Italians, Japanese — anyone. Group travel must be the most obnoxious thing in the world. There is also the loudness factor, but that I've seen duplicated many times, chiefly by Croatian football fans in London on our last trip. So, there, I guess it's universal.

Not everyone is interested in hotels, but if you want to see what our hotel, the Danieli looks like, I set up another page to view some shots.

Here are some photos in the immediate area of our hotel:

San Giorgio Maggiore which sits at the tip of La Giudecca across the lagoon from San Zaccharia.

The same shot (roughly) at dusk. It's a bit blurry as we were boarding the vaporetto but the blues together are amazing.

We were going to to take a vaporetto (I think I now know the difference between vaporetti, motoscafi, taxis, and gondolas) to as far as we wanted and then get off and wander. We got off at the Rialto Mercato stop, and walked around the San Polo area of the Dorsoduro district (they're called sestieri [sixths] in Venice as the city is divided into six districts). The prows of gondolas are decorated with key-like ornaments that recall the Doge's hat, the six districts and an extra one for the Giudecca. We had a nice walk and a lovely dinner with a relaxing ride down to the hotel. After dinner we decided that we really, really, really needed a bed, so we were back early after taking these photos:

Santa Maria della Salute

The Rialto Bridge. People have been living, dying, swinging from, diving off, murdering, selling, prostituting, and generally cashing in on it since the 9th century. Until 1854 it was the only bridge to span the Grand Canal.

I cannot even tell you how happy I was to fall asleep for nine straight hours. Desperately needed hours they were, too.

4:10 p.m., Venice, Italy — March 15, 2009.

The Stendahl Syndrome

That is the name given to the phenomenon of being overwhelmed by art, beauty, culture, and sophistication. I am loving Venice so much that, could it be?, I almost would trade some days in London for a chance to linger a while and really savor some of the things we've done and come across. We began the day by taking the vaporetto to the train station and did a long loop around the Dorsoduro section along the Giudecca Canal. We walked around that area quite a bit, finding it most lovely and active.

Another canalside photo.

Il Redentore, Palladio's great church.

In the neighborhood of the train station (and those following).

The bustling train station.

This church chimed like mad at 11:00 a.m.

Along the Grand Canal.

Coming back down the Grand Canal provided some beautiful shots. I will be the first to say that to go camera mad is to ruin a vacation. In Venice, it is impossible to be too bored with taking shots, of thinking that you've already seen it or done it. Each bend of the canal brings you vistas that are quite literally breathtaking. Everything seems to float. Many of the buldings have entrances with steps to the water so there is a sensation that buildings, homes, churches simply rise out of the water of their own volition, of some magical force extracting them from a damp demise and holding them at just the right level.

This gondolier, trolling for business, was so cool, so nonchalant that he commanded attention.

And still I take photos:

A boy running home after a rugby game.

We alit at the Ca' Rezzonico and wandered around to the Accademia. This is a museum that holds many of the most stunning works of Bellini, Tintoretto, and Veronese. Many are altar pieces, massive in scale, devout in execution, and compelling to behold. I wish I had the link, but I urge you to find it and browse the collection. I snuck a couple of photos as I didn't want to get accosted like the time at the Tower of London, so there is not much to reproduce here, but the cieling and the dome centerpiece were highlights.

A bit blurred from my haste, but this is the ceiling.

St. Helen (the mother of the Emperor Constantine) finds the true cross.

We headed back to the hotel to relax for a bit, and spotted the Ca' Dario, site of murders, suicides, orgies, diplomatic expulsions, madness, and genius for seven centuries. It now sits empty:





We stopped at a bacaro for a spritz (a uniquely Venetian drink with prosecco, Campari, seltzer, and an olive — not bad, but takes a bit to get used to), had dinner in Dorsoduro served by a young woman who must surely be the world's greatest waitress. She had six tables of two, a table of seven, and a table of twenty. Among them all she spoke German, English, Italian, and French, was charming and gracious, and seemed to be enjoying the challenge. If she stopped for a moment, someone should build a restaurant around her and make her its centerpiece. My Italian isn't so great (though I am doing quite well and am unafraid to initiate conversations, even if I don't catch every word or shade of meaning), but I hope I conveyed to the owners how wonderful she was. And now, I'll finish this up and post it. It might be early Wednesday until I get the tail end of Venice and the beginning of London on here. Ciao e buona notte!

10:55 p.m., Venice, Italy — March 15, 2009.

La Bellezza

I could not have conjured a more perfect day, with the weather being absolutely spotless. We woke late because both Rich & I could not get to sleep: no amount of reading, television, tossing or turning helped. Finally, fatigue did us both in, but exacted its price in the morning when we didn't wake until 9:30. When we're in a city on vacation, we don't like to sleep in much. I like the mornings in a city, the quickening pace and possibilities of the day.

We went to the Lido, which is a thin strip of land off to the east of Venice proper. The Lido is on the far side of the island and I only hope that they have time to clean it up. For such a famous spot, it was dirty and unkempt — not in the glorious, decrepit way that Venice itself is, but in an ignored, forgotten way. We walked back and stopped for a cappuccino, walked some more, found a pharmacy. This was no time to forget how to say "bad cough" in Italian, but I got as far as "I need something for a ˜" I acted the rest, though in asking for a suppressant , I think I asked for a soppresata (a type of salami). Live and learn, huh? And speaking of bad timing, the camera battery died, so we're going back to the Lido to walk around a bit more. I needed a bathroom break, so I stopped in and had a cappuccino. A woman next to me had a spritz, and I asked (in Italian), "How do you pronounce that?" This began a lively conversation, with me un derstanding about half of what she said, much of what she meant, and all of what she intended: to be warm and welcoming. She congratulated me on my use of verbs and the beauty of my city ("Boze-tone? Ah! Que bella città!) She was friendly and spirited, and open-hearted. It is one of those moments in your life that you remember for a long time; a moment in passing with a stranger who says things that please you and carry much more weight than they should, but somehow still do. I bet I remember what she looked like for the rest of my life.

Coming back along the Canal (the effects of which are with me always; I feel tipsy and rocky throughout the day), we went to one of the grand old palaces for lunch. We got some really good photos. We are out of electricity just now, and the Internet is subsequently down, so I'll post them when I can. Well, the Gritti Palace restaurant is not for those who like a quick or light lunch. The bill was a heartstopping amount, but the sun shone in a way we haven't seen in months, the food was incredible — never again will I scoff at the lowly zucchini — the service so elegant you feel (I hate this analogy) like royalty. It was a perfect, absolutely perfect, moment in our lives. The funny part about my rudimentary Italian is that every Italian responds in English while I continue in Italian. I earn some goodwill when I say (ad nauseum; ask Rich), "L'Italiano parla Ingles, l'Americano parla Italiano." Oh, ha ha ha, everybody laugh. For those prices they should indulge me.

Some more walking around La Fenice, the canal side streets (the Rios), and more coffee. I even have a movie of a gondolier singing that I will have to put up somewhere. I'll supply the link, but I think it turned out well. I am sitting here in the window, with my computer on my lap, and finding the talk wafting up from the kitchens to be as spellbinding as the city is intoxicating. I am following a pattern of behavior established long ago by the likes of Byron and Keats, yet can scarcely believe it is happening to me. I am falling in love. Ciao, belli! London tomorrow, the theater, Sissinghurst, and the Tate Modern await us still!

4:05 p.m., Venice, Italy — March 16, 2009.

Arriverderci Venezia!

We're going to England tomorrow, so I'll stop with the obnoxious easy Italian. As I mentioned previously, so much of our time has been spent on the water buses that I am in continual pursuit of my land legs. I am always rocking somewhat internally and feel that climbing stairs will see me pitch backward or that walking around will see me take an unexpected left into a canal. Worry not, however, for tomorrow we reach terra firma.

We came back to the hotel to dress more appropriately as the sun was glorious throughout the day, too warm for the way I was dressed. I wrote some postcards (had to include my Italian professor) and we went back to the Lido. While there was nothing particularly compelling to return to (it is beautiful though), our plan was to take the one water bus from terminus to terminus. Line 1 takes you from the Lido to the P. le Roma, the bus station, via the Grand Canal. We timed it so that it would be late afternoon and dusk during our trip, always a great time for photos. The way the sun is setting now was particularly fortuitous as heading west on the Canal we would see the left bank (Dorsoduro) in shadow, and the right bank (San Marco and Canareggio) in brilliant sunlight. We had to buy a camera for that as our camera's battery was dead. I hope they turned out; we'll see when we get them in London.

From the P. le Roma, we took another bus up the Giudecca Canal. Not so many stops, a stunning purple sunset, deep choppy water, banging against the bus stops, zigzagging in straight lines across the canal, and I had a seat in the bow. I was very, very happy. The whole thing took about two hours, so maybe that's why my head is swimming, though the waiter at dinner insisted we try a drink "smoother than grappa" (well that narrows the field!). Now that I think of it, we've had a free drink every night; is this a Venetian tradition? An Italian one? Something to pass the time? Who knows? It's a fine gesture, and no one was insulted when when we proved incapable of finishing any of them.

OK, here are the latest photos:

Vittorio Emmanuele, Italy's first king upon unification.

At lunch at the Gritti Palace.

The vaporetto, our much used mode of conveyance. They're clunky and choppy but work perfectly well.

Santa Maria della Salute. Again.

Workmen were loading this mirror onto their boat and it reflected the canal at certain angles. I don't know how much of it was captured here, but I was entranced watching it.

A gondolier seen at the end of a long narrow street.

Behind the opera house, La Fenice. (NB: Watch here as I'll get the movie of the gondola ride complete with a serenade.)

I dig the lines of this photo. Verticality, verticality!

I like how absolutely perfectly I am in full shadow.

La Fenice, the Venetian opera house.

Angles and stairways, my favorite composition.

I think of gondoliers as hyper-macho sort of men, so to see this guy cuddling his puppy was sweet. Venetians take their dogs everywhere. The dogs are often small, and it is touching to see the way that men stroke and hold their dogs, protecting them against the dangers of city life.

11:25 p.m., Venice, Italy — March 16, 2009.

The last evening in Venice.

These photos have that graininess inherent to disposal cameras. I'm afraid the effect is less than attractive on some of the shots, especially the last one. Too bad.

Lagoon.

The smaller canals that radiate from the Grand Canal (some go through to the Giudecca Canal) can come as delightful surprises.

The approach to the Rialto.

The eternally fascinating Rialto.

Farewell Venice.

7:15 a.m., London, England — March 19, 2009.

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