Postponing the Inevitable

I still have colorful Euro bills in my wallet. I also have Euro coins (and some smaller denominations thereof) in my coin purse. I also have a few postage stamps left in my wallet.

I finally put my passport away in my desk drawer. As much as it made me happy to catch an occasional glimpse of it in my purse, I don't want to risk losing it.

On Thursday, I took the well-used Italian-only map of Venice out of my coat pocket. I think I accidentally stole it from someone but it was a better map than the one I brought with me. I also threw away some receipts.

I still haven't dealt with my laundry though. I haven't put away my clothes and I'm still figuring out what gifts I bought and who I meant to give them to.

And sadly, my reveries of Venice are becoming less frequent and less vivid already. And it's only been a week. Usually I last longer. I'm still reading Venice, by Jan Morris, to keep the images and feelings alive in my mind for a while longer. It makes me sad to see that I'm returning to "normal" life again so soon. Mostly it's the sense of wonder and appreciation that I miss more than anything.

Yesterday, to stem the slowly seeping-away feeling, The Boy and I watched two films in which Venice is a primary character. One was recommended by two different friends: Summertime (1955), starring Katharine Hepburn and Rossanno Brazzi (man, is this guy good looking!), about a lonely American secretary who finds love in the arms of a gorgeous Italian man (um, why why why did I not see anyone in Venice who looked like this guy?!! It's probably a good thing that I didn't or else I might not have returned home.)


The other movie, A Little Romance (1979), was recommended by none other than The Boy himself, who still is in love with Diane Lane based on his seeing this film when he was twelve. I was lucky enough to find a used DVD of this film.

Both movies were filmed on location in Venice (A Little Romance was filmed on location in Paris, too, so that's big bonus for me right there) and both movies do capture the look and feel of Venice to some extent.

Katherine Hepburn was more tolerable to me than usual (sorry, I'm not a huge fan), although we couldn't help wondering why the guy was interested in her in the first place. David Lean, the director of Summertime, took great aerial views and sweeping pans of Venice (maybe not in Lawrence of Arabia epic proportions, but still genuinely breathtaking) and edited the film in such a way that you believed that Hepburn had every imaginable pictoresque view of Venice from her budget pensione balcony.

Both films captured the grandioseness of Venice and the romantic otherworldness of it, especially in the canals. It was fun to pause the film and exclaim occasionally, "Ooh, ooh, that's the Basilica de S. Maria della Salute! I was there!" or "That's the Doge's Palace, and across the water is the church designed by Palladio, oh, and see those columns...I was talking to you on my cell phone right there when I ran out of batteries!" Rather than holing up on the sofa with Rick Steves in Italy (I already did that anyway), I got to relive Venice in glorious Technicolor and set to lovely background music.

I'm sure there will come a day soon when I'm tired of sorting through the Euro coins in my coin purse to find an American quarter, and when the stamps in my wallet get grungy and torn. Just as there was a day when I washed the last carnet ticket for the Paris metro I had in my jeans and the little muslin teabag from Mariage Freres fell out of my coat pocket. But I'm going to try real hard to postpone that day for as long as I can. Venice is too amazing, too vibrant, too dreamlike to lose it so soon.

***
Today, I found this Anaïs Nin postcard through StumbleUpon.

I'm sure you can't possibly read the text but here's what it says:

You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living. Then you read a book...or you take a trip..and you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hibernating are easily detectable: first, restlessness. The second symptom (when hibernating becomes dangerous and might degenerate into death): absence of pleasure.

That is all. It appears like an innocuous illness. Monotony, boredom, death. Millions live like this (or die like this) without knowing it. They work in offices. They drive a car. They picnic with their families. They raise children.

And then some shock treatment takes place, a person, a book, a song and it awakens them and saves them from death.

Some never awaken.

I will be sure to read this quote to myself whenever I feel the onslaught of hibernation coming over me. It is inexorable and one must be vigilant.

On second thought, I have decided that I will never take the Euros out of my wallet. That will help a little.

To Live in Venice, Part One

As most of you know, I had a unique opportunity to live in a private home instead of a hotel. My home base, La Casa Bella, gave me the chance to truly experience a life lived fully in Venice, not insulated from the city as I would be had I stayed in a hotel.

To me, living in an apartment is the best way to travel and experience a place authentically. Instead of being planted in an area full of tourists and all things catering to them, I could develop roots in a neighborhood that became very familiar and homey in a short amount of time. Also, I am a very independent traveler. My inclination is to travel alone, mostly because I feel compelled to pursue my own agenda and don't want to impose my itinerary on others.

La Casa Bella is situated on a small canal, the Rio Ognissanti (see picture below), in the sestiere (section) of Venice called the Dorsoduro. In doing my homework on the Dorsoduro, I learned that this area initially was not as populated as the other parts of Venice, due to the frequency of pirate attacks! Okay, now how cool is that? (Well, maybe not too cool if you were the one being attacked by pirates...)

Having always had a serious fascination with pirates (and not the lame Johnny Depp variety), that piece of trivia set my imagination afire when I walked along the Zattere, the large open quay that runs along the Giudecca canal, a wide waterway which divides the Dorsoduro from the Giudecca, another island in the lagoon.

The Dorsoduro is remarkably free of tourists considering the enormous volume of people that visit Venice for daytrips. In the waterway along the Zattere, it is common to see these gigantic cruise boats beached like whales as they have dumped off their passengers for a few short hours. Incomprehensively, a large majority of Venice's tourists arrive for a day's visit, only to depart again by nightfall. The conceit that a person could "do" Venice in the span of a few hours is so amazingly short-sighted that I wonder why such a person would even bother at all. I was there for an entire week and still felt as if I had merely scratched the surface. *rant ends here*

I was really glad I stayed in the part of town that I did. Even though the neighborhood was quiet, it was nice to see local people walking to and from work, congregating at small eateries, and generally carrying on about their daily business. But the canal was just a couple minutes' walk to not only the major sights in the Dorsoduro (of which there are many, including the Peggy Guggenheim Museum, the Basilica di Santa Maria della Salute, the Accademia, the Palazzo Dario (which I saw from my gondola), and Ca' Rezzonico, but to the rest of the city via the wonderful Ponte dell'Accademia bridge.

PS. This has nothing to do with Venice. If you're like me, and you like a good read about pirates and the savage life on the sea, try some of the books I've read within the past year (Under the Black Flag: The Romance and the Reality of Life Among the Pirates, Villains of All Nations: Atlantic Pirates in the Golden Age, and Scurvy: How a Surgeon, a Mariner, and a Gentlemen Solved the Greatest Medical Mystery of the Age of Sail. Oh, and if you're in San Francisco, you've got to visit 826 Valencia, the only pirate supply store/writing studio I know of. It's not as cool as Venice, but it's pretty super cool.

Okay, enough about the pirates.

Three Queens Abroad

Ms. Tango Hours mentioned it first. Ms. Nuit will have to chime in at some point, too.



We're going to Venice.

The whole thing came up very suddenly. It was a complete surprise and a magical, unique opportunity not to be passed by. The stars were in our favor. Love and thanks to one incredibly special person. You know who you are.

But now our trip is very real and fast approaching.

I know almost nothing about Venice, the “Queen of the Adriatic,” except for what lives in my imagination. I have books and maps and websites to read and study. I'm reaching out to you all, in the hopes that you have ideas, fancies, memories, recommendations, advises and wisdom to share with us. Anything you have to offer will be greatly appreciated.

In the meantime, I am convinced that Venice is the perfect city for three women of like spirit:

For us, the daydreamers:

“There is something so different in Venice from any other place in the world, that you leave at once all accustomed habits and everyday sights to enter an enchanted garden.”--Mary Shelley

For us, the sensualists:

“Venice is like eating an entire box of chocolate liqueurs in one go.”--Truman Capote

And for us, the tangueras:

“This was Venice, the flattering and suspect beauty--this city, half fairy tale and half tourist trap, in whose insalubrious air the arts once rankly and voluptuously blossomed, where composers have been inspired to lulling tones of somniferous eroticism.”--Thomas Mann

Next Stop, Venice Station

I take the N-Judah train to work every day. Today the train was almost deserted except for the few poor souls (like me) who actually had to work on the day after Thanksgiving.

There is one stop on the line called Van Ness (for those of you who are interested in San Francisco history, James Van Ness was an early mayor of the city, and there's a fascinating little webpage devoted to the names of some San Francisco streets for my fellow SF history buffs out there.)

One of the train drivers, when this particular stop approaches, pronounces it "Venice Station" instead of "Van Ness."
Yeah, don't I wish!

I sure wish I could get off at "Venice Station," leaving the grubby terminal underground to see this sight when I emerge to the street level. (Well, since they're making me work today, the least I can do is blog a little and daydream, right? You understand.)

(Plus, there's a street singer outside our building who has been singing O Solo Mio and other Italian favorites on the corner of Grant and Maiden Lane since 8:30 this morning (it's now 1:49pm). The fact that we can hear him on the 9th floor of our building is very impressive but I may have to kill him soon.)

A month ago I was in Venice, exploring to my heart's desire. Now all the half-written posts I have been meaning to finish are getting pushed down the line in favor of more current events, which I haven't gotten around to either. So for the time being, I'll put up some more photos and that will help me get to 5:30, when I can pass by Venice Station again and smile.


(Yes, Venice really is this beautiful.)

The Museums of Venice

For a tiny conglomeration of islands that measures only two miles in one direction and one mile in the other, Venice has an extraordinary amount of world-class art per square inch. If San Francisco had even one tenth of the art available daily in Venice, I would be over the moon with joy. Not to mention that the buildings that house this treasure trove of art are some of the most beautiful palaces in the city, built during the extravagant heyday of Venice's glory.

I did not go to all of the museums. That would not have been possible in a single week. I decided to choose my haunts carefully, based on my interests and not merely upon the most famous sights. So I skipped the Accademia and some of the more religious-based museums and churches in favor of more modern works and museums that explore the history of the city. I was not disappointed in any of my choices.

My first stop in Venice was the Peggy Guggenheim Collection, in our local sestiere of Dorsorduro, the day after our arrival. This visit was probably the closest thing to a pilgrammage for me, artwise. I had been intrigued by The Red Tower, a painting by Giorgio de Chirico, after having seen the work in an art history class my freshman year in college. For some reason, that painting had stayed with me, even though my only exposure to it had been a 2-inch representation in a thick art book. Now I had my chance to see the real thing, and I made a beeline for the painting when I entered the museum.

It is a unique and singular experience to see up close and in person a work of art that you admire (even if you are not sure exactly why you like it). Only then, does the work truly become art. When you stand in front of the piece, whether it is a painting, sculpture or something else entirely, there is a physical sensation that makes you appreciate and understand what the artist was trying to communicate. In those same circumstances did I understand the greatness of the Mona Lisa, and the genius of Van Gogh.

During my visit to the Guggenheim, I also had a chance to see a charming painting, Empire of Light, by another favorite artist, René Magritte, and be introduced to the works of Max Ernst, Guggenheim's husband and a sensitive artist who was obviously somewhat deranged.

This particular painting, The Attirement of the Bride, was fascinating and nightmarish and very personal, given that the bride is Peggy Guggenheim herself and the circumstances of the imagery are certainly disturbing.







The next museum I enjoyed thoroughly was the Palazzo Fortuny, a large Gothic palazzo in Campo San Beneto, which was transformed by designer Mariano Fortuny into his own atelier of photography, stage-design, textile-design and painting.

The museum itself is very enigmatic. It is more of an atmosphere and a presence than a place to see a certain piece of art. Fortuny is best known for his textiles and silks , but this is by no means a costume museum.

The only fabrics of his design cover the walls on the second floor atelier, giving the large room the feeling of an opium den or a Sultan's lair. The main room is partially filled with strange and macabre artifacts and curiosities, and is best visited when you are in a mood to be slightly disturbed, and wanting to enjoy the feeling of otherworldliness.




The other modern art collection, Ca' Pesaro, is located on the Grand Canal in one of the finest palazzos in Venice, which started construction in 1628 and was completed in 1710. The sestiere of Santa Croce has a very medival feeling to it as you walk the narrow alleyways.

Although the exterior of the building retains its classic Venetian appearance, inside is a treasury of Impressionist and modern artists.

I have finally had the chance to see a Gustave Klimt painting, Salome, in person. It was large, framed in gold leaf, full of lust and glorious to behold. I visited it three times while I was in the museum, wanting to take full advantage of it while I was there.

Nearby to Ca' Pesaro was a smaller--but no less fascinating--museum, Palazzo Mocenigo. From Fodors (because they described it better than I could): So well preserved it looks like a movie set, this palazzo gives a sense of how wealthy families lived in the last years of the republic. Bequeathed to the city in 1945 by the last surviving Mocenigo heir, the home is richly decorated with polished floors, fabric-covered walls, and glass chandeliers from Murano.

The portego (entry hall), typical of Venetian palazzos, occupies about one-third of the total floor space; once used for receptions and balls, it now occasionally hosts classical concerts. Sparsely furnished, it's lined with portraits of the seven Mocenigo family doges and other notables.

Doors on both sides of the portego open onto bedrooms and salons, where visitors were received with a cup of hot chocolate in the early morning hours after nights typically spent at parties or seated at gambling tables. Furniture and paintings are all original and constitute a permanent exhibit. The mannequins' clothing, lace, fabrics, and accessories on display come from the Center for the History of Textiles and Costumes (housed in a wing of the palace) which organizes 15th- to 18th-century thematic exhibits.

Last, but not least, Ca' Rezzonico, is another palazzo situated on the Grand Canal, devoted to 18th century life in Venice. To say that the interiors of this building are breathtaking do not do it justice.

In addition to the myriad painted ceilings, portraits, gold leaf and fantastic furniture, are the most divine Murano chandeliers still in existence. The craftsmanship of everything in the palazzo is stupefying, but the glasswork, to me, were the most dazzling creations of all.

Of course you are not allowed to take pictures in this or any of the museums but I found a company that makes reproductions of the chandeliers at Ca' Rezzonico. This picture should give you an idea of what they looked like, if not the grandeur, scale and color of the originals.

Back in the lady's dressing room at Ca' Rezzonico, I was able to catch a couple of snaps of one of the plainest rooms in the house. The wash of pinks and greens in floral motifs made me imagine the lady's daily routine of getting dressed, assisted by her attendants, before she emerged for the day into the grand halls below her bedroom.

In one ancient mirror, I was able to catch a glimpse of myself, although dressed in drab grays and black and bundled in sweater, scarf and coat, for a brief moment, I tried to imagine myself as the lady of the house.

To Eat in Venice

I had read in several sources that the food in Venice is not as good as food throughout the rest of Italy.

Now, I've nothing to base that comparison on, as I've never been anywhere else in Italy, but I do have to say that I had one extremely fine meal that will rate in my memory banks right up there with L'Atelier de Joel Robuchon in Paris and the French Laundry in Yountville. And it happened by accident, too!

But I'll save that part for last. Most of my meals in Venice were grabbed on the go, as it seemed I was always en route to somewhere else, and stopping too long for food would interfere with my desire to see as much as I could.

But even the small snacks were delightful, if simple. The local coffee shops, a favorite being in Campo Santa Margherita and simply called Caffe, served a variety of delicious sandwiches with savory fillings. The slices of bread, as soft and white as Wonderbread, but with actual taste and texture, were filled with tuna, pork or shrimp and a variety of accompaniments, including Gorgonzola cheese, marinated red peppers, olives, or grated carrots. These simple sandwiches were as delicious as they were economical.

Pictured above is a cicchetti bar. Cicchetti are a variety of appetizer-like dishes, either served as salads or atop slices of toast. Seafood is a common element, including salmon and anchovies. We shared a number of cicchetti in a small bar near the Guggenheim Museum on our first day in Venice, while resting our feet a bit during that first stroll to get acclimated with our surroundings. Other favorite meals grabbed throughout the days were sweet cantaloupe voluptuously draped in thin layers of proscuitto (sweet and salty together is a wonderful thing indeed!), fresh warm bruschette with a topping of soft, sweet cherry tomatoes sauteed in garlic, olive oil and basil, and a tagliatelle with olive oil and mushrooms. All of this food reminded me that freshness and simplicity make the best dishes!

Gelato is ubiquitous in Venice, and all that I sampled was wonderful. We were lucky enough to be staying near Nico, which has a reputation of serving the best gelato in Venice. I had the Gianduitto (hazelnut) and took my cone to go while strolling along the Zattere, watching all kinds of boats roam up and down the waters between me and the Giudecca.

Okay, now for the pièce de résistance. I had been wandering the narrow alleys of Santa Croce and San Polo after having spent the morning in two incredible museums: Ca' Pesaro and the Palazzo Mocenigo (more on those later). I hadn't eaten anything for breakfast that morning (just hungry for beautiful sights and not food, I guess), and was making my way back towards the Rialto Bridge. On a particularly tiny alleyway was a small restaurant window that made me backtrack as I almost passed it by. Nothing in the window would indicate that this was a spectacular restaurant in any way, but after reading the menu in the window, I knew this was the place for me to reward myself after the morning's activities.

It was late, getting on towards 2pm, when I entered the almost empty restaurant, called Vecio Fritolin. The waiter, obviously a professional like the kind you would encounter in Paris, warmly welcomed me to a small table by the window. That's where the fun began.

My eyes glazed over at the menu choices, and my stomach responded with eager anticipation. While I read the menu, a basket of the most delicious, warm bread (three kinds that they make at the restaurant) arrived at my table, along with the spritz, an apertif of sparkling water and Campari served with a slice of lemon, that I ordered. I only remember one of the breads, although all were delicious. But this one was so fragrant with olive oil and studded with sunflower seeds that it left the other breads behind.

My waiter (pictured above) was the epitome of gracious service. I finally decided on an appetizer of soft-shelled crabs with Venetian polenta and a main course of pumpkin gnocchi with smoked duck. Believe me, this was a very tough decision. While I devoured the bread and savored my spritz, a woman came in to make her dinner reservations. Apparently, my little lunch hideaway was recently reviewed in the New York Times. Bingo!

Which is how I got my perfect pictures of the restaurant! Thanks, New York Times website! That is my nice waiter, above! (For all I know, he could be the owner. I was so engrossed in the place that I didn't make much small talk. Plus my mouth was full of that bread and I was trying to be demure.)

Let's just say that the chef created the culinary equivalent of tango bliss in my mouth. I swooned. What the hell is Venetian polenta and why do you want to dip your entire body in it? (Now I know that all polentas are not created equal and I will have to wander the world looking for this silky warm pudding again.) The crabs were incredibly soft and full of the salty flavor of the sea. The pumpkin/duck gnocchi: ridiculously good.

I did not lick the plates, even though I wanted to--badly. I did tell the waiter to please tell the chef that I wanted to marry him. I was totally serious. Which got a chuckle out of the waiter but did not produce the chef to my table, sadly.

It's probably a good thing I did not order dessert or else I'd still be there.

The Tango Angels of Venice

A lot of the tango blogs I read talk about Tango Angels. We all have one or wish we had one or remember one fondly. I'll admit it's a topic I like dissertations on: certainly I have been wondering where mine have disappeared to recently. But I don't recall anything written lately where anyone has talked about being a Tango Angel. Maybe it's hard to tell when you've done it.

Well, I can say now that I have been a Tango Angel. As much as I'll remember the times that someone's taken me under his wing and shown me the stars while dancing, I also now know that I've done that same thing for someone else. As Nuit has talked about the little box where she puts her happy tango memories, I'll be sure to put this little story in mine...

Just so you know, Venice is not a destination for tango. I think we assumed, being tourists, that if the tango scene in Venice was not large, at least it might attract some other visitors, like ourselves, to the local dances. In San Francisco, it's very common to meet people on holiday or on business who attend the local milongas and have a great time dancing with the locals. I've had some exceptional dances with partners who I'll probably never see again, as they were just passing through town. *snif*

And Tina, our in-house Italy/Tango expert, was a great help in getting us the information we needed about the tango scene in Venice and the surrounding cities. (By the way, you should read her other blog about Italy. It made me want to be an expat before I even got there!)

We were so excited to see that the first local milonga was literally down the street (canal) from us, on Sunday night. Perfect timing as we would have recovered from jet lag by then and would be raring to go. I think all of us had dreams that we would dance for hours and the best part would be that we only had a two-minute walk back to our apartment, so if our feet were killing us--hey, no problem! We're already home!

So close, yet so far. Both literally and figuratively. We actually got lost trying to find the place, which was incredible in that the address was so close to us. But Venice can be labyrinthian and its system of addressing buildings is a total mystery. The fact that people actually get mail delivered to them is somewhat miraculous. We stomped around, looking in vain for the address, saying "It's got to be around here somewhere!" and then finally stopping into a nearby restaurant where the only English-speaking employee gave us partial directions. Had she not been successful, we were on the verge of throwing in the towel and ordering some linguine. We were definitely all dressed up with no place to go.

But it turned out that we had passed the place (through no fault of our own, it was behind us and hidden around a corner) and when we saw the little paper sign that spelled "TANGO" pasted to the wall, our spirits revived. We got excited again. Our first milonga in VENICE!

And then our hopes were dashed. Again.

The "milonga" was in a small room, with maybe about 12-14 people in attendance. We looked worriedly at two of the men who were so inept as to be very likely sources of bodily harm to us. And they were the young ones. All of the other men there were in their late 50s, at least, with partners and attire to match. Picture the following: my little hottie Korean girlfriends, me in my new semi-Goth, semi-French Can Can poufy skirt, and all of us in our favorite Comme Il Fauts. We certainly did stick out like sore thumbs.

The people looked at us like we had come from another planet. Needless to say, out-of-towners do not visit this milonga, and really none of the people there spoke much English, so it was difficult to even explain why we were there. It kind of felt like we were crashing their little local party. I guess we were. I certainly got the impression that some of the women were not really too thrilled that we dropped by.

Ms. Tango Hours and Ms. Nuit weren't even taking off their coats--that's how on the fence they were about staying. But there was one guy dancing who looked okay. I watched him with his partner and it looked like he would work out. Then someone put on Caceres' Tango Negro, which for me is like giving catnip to a kitty, so out came my red shoes. I tried to cabaceo the guy, but he didn't get it. I didn't want to miss the whole damn song, so I figured Screw it, and went over and asked him to dance. He looked surprised, but at least he didn't say no. And we danced for most of the song, and it was fun.

Then they put on a regular tango. The guy, Franco, said to me, in slightly broken English, that he thought I was like a Ferrari, and that I should be gentle with him as he wasn't sure he could handle me. I had to laugh at that. Comparing me to a Ferrari--now that has to be the most Italian compliment of all! We danced for one more song and I realized then that not only did they not cabaceo (maybe there's no need when it's the same five women every week) but they also didn't have tandas and cortinas. You got one dance and then the guy moved on to someone else. Even at a tiny milonga there are more women than men! Gads. I had to hand it to the guys though. They stayed loyal to the local women, who were for the most part, really bad dancers.

Anyway, we stayed for a while, and the girls were good sports and felt a bit abused by one gent who insisted on correcting their form while dancing (their form is fine, trust me) instead of realizing that these cuties were gifts from the Almighty in their little tango world that night.

So we left after about 30 minutes, went back to the restaurant where the English-speaking waitress worked, and ordered some yummy seafood pasta. After the pasta, somehow I convinced the girls to go back to the dance, just for the last hour, and see if it had gotten better. My hope was that maybe someone better had turned up late. You never know, right? We had nothing to lose.

They looked like they were closing up shop. Most of the people had left. Franco was still there, and two of the other guys who weren't too bad, and they were really happy to see us. The one fellow who was putting on his coat to leave took it off again, and escorted us back into the room. And then it was the San Francisco/Venice milonga.

The guys took turns dj'ing and dancing with us. And for more than just one song. For lots of songs. At midnight, when the milonga was supposed to have ended at 11:30, someone played La Cumparsita, so I figured that was it, but then they kept playing more music. They really did not want us to leave. Finally we were the ones who had to put our coats on so the dance would stop.

One of the women there, the best dancer of the ladies, did not speak English but did speak French. She was highly complimentary to all of us and said we were beautiful dancers. She told us about a milonga the next night in San Marco that would be better for us. Better dancers, she explained. As we were leaving, one of the men repeatedly mentioned that there was another milonga coming up on that Wednesday, and to please come back.

***

The next night, we got all dressed up again for the milonga we had heard about from the French-speaking Italian woman. It was really more of a practica than a milonga. Franco was there. This time he was different. And better.

He cabaceoed me from across the room. When I met him in the middle of the floor, he gave me a hug. "Just like in Buenos Aires, right?" he said. I asked him if he had ever been to BsAs, and he said, Oh no. No no no.

We danced a number of tandas that night, and each one was better than the one before it. At the end of the last song, he gave me such a squeeze and kissed my cheek hard, a big smooch. I could feel how happy he was, like giddy happy. He said, "I love you! I would dance with you forever!"

And that's when I knew I had been a Tango Angel.

Ciao, Franco.

The Floodgates Open, Slowly

I can already feel the effects of Venice wearing off, sadly. Or perhaps it's that I'm just not silly with sleepiness right at this moment.

But the visuals and descriptions of Venice are starting to flow through my mind now, so I'm going to try to recapture as much as I can before the workaday world starts again tomorrow, and I lose more of that Venice state of mind, bit by bit.

Instead of a blow-by-blow diary of each day's events, I've decided to re-explore my trip categorically, experientially. It's my hope, through this exercise, to capture as much of the detail as I experienced it.

It's also my hope that this writing will inspire memories in you for those of you who have visited and loved this city, and perhaps you'll share your recollections with me, too. It can be a second trip for both of us.

PS. This painting of the Grand Canal and the Salute, by Claude Monet, captures a view that I enjoyed almost daily by strolling over the wooden arch of the Accademia Bridge into San Marco. This painting was created in 1908 and now resides here in a museum in San Francisco. How lucky! I can see Monet and Venice here in my hometown!

Terra Firma

We just had a little earthquake a while ago.

I was sitting at my favorite sushi bar, happily popping tiny, salty bubbles of tobiko between my teeth. I was reading my new favorite book, Venice, by Jan Morris, when the earth rolled in slow waves for quite a few seconds.

I happened to be reading the chapter about the geological conditions and other factors that are causing Venice to slowly sink into the waters of the Adriatic, when the ground beneath us started to shudder. Everyone in the restaurant quieted for a moment, but no one stopped eating their sushi (it's that good at Ebisu).

The lanterns above the sushi bar swayed softly for at least a minute before settling back into equilibrium. Their gentle rocking motion reminded me of the floating gondolas of Venice.

PS. Wow, just looked up the little temblor on the USGS website. Apparently it was a 5.6 based near San Jose. Must have felt a wee bit stronger in the sushi bars down there.

One Year Ago Today

"I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; A palace and a prison on each hand; I saw from out the wave of her structure's rise As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand: A thousand years their cloudy wings expand Around me, and a dying Glory smiles O'er the far times, when many a subject land Look'd to the winged Lion's marble pines, Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles." ~ Lord Byron

***

One year ago today, when I woke up in the morning, when I opened my eyes... I was in Venice.
Nowhere near the Bridge of Sighs, but that was okay. I loved my little apartment in the Dorsoduro.


Oh, to have had the camera or the eye that I have now, what photos I would have captured!
(I guess I'll just have to go back.)

big big big big BIG *sigh*

***

And now I'm going to have my crazy wanderlust all day.

This song makes it better and worse at the same time.



Or at least I should get a copy of The Darjeeling Limited. I can't believe I don't own this movie yet.

Daily Venice!

I know I'm supposed to be working right now, but I couldn't help myself.

Here's a link to daily photos taken in Venice.

Now I'll get back to my piles of paper. (Yeah, right!)

Making My Mark

"Handwriting is autobiography." ~ Carrie Latet

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A little while back, my buddy Julochka tagged me for her handwriting meme.

Julochka, thank you for being patient. I had to get some other things taken care of posthaste. And, funny enough, I had to first find a sample of my handwriting, not an easy task.

Obviously, the meme is to share what your handwriting looks like, and in searching for evidence that I can indeed read and write, I was finding it hard to prove that supposition.

I type. I type a lot, as this blog and my emails are a testament to that fact. But apparently I do not write things down much anymore.

Realizing that I am not leaving my mark on the world came as a wierd little surprise to me.

I remember being in elementary school and loving to write with fountain pens. I even liked when they leaked and the ink oozed out and stained my fingers. I remember how fun it was to take out the old ink cartridges and snap in the new ones, pushing those new cartridges and realizing that a tiny puncture would now let the ink flow into the nib of the pen.

I loved the feel and sound of the scratch of the nib on the paper. Later, I moved on to crow quill pens and bottled ink (though not for school, just for fun). And I was never without those felt-tip chiseled calligraphy pens in different colors and tip sizes.

I used to steal ballpoint pens from restaurants and hotels and dry cleaners when I found ones that wrote in a smooth manner, dispensing just the perfect amount of ink onto the page. I had collections of calligraphy sets and took calligraphy classes.

So how did this turn into a dissertation on pens instead of handwriting? Because somewhere along the line, I think I found I could express myself more effectively through the keyboard than the pen and page. Perhaps because my fingers fly faster on keys than can push a pen across the page, and in my world of fleeting thoughts, I need to net them as quickly as I can, like butterflies on a summer day.

Or perhaps it's because I can perfect my words with the touch of a delete key without messy scratches and scribbles. I dislike evidence of my imperfection.

***

I finally did find some proof of my ability to write with a pen. These are samples from two postcards I sent to The Boy last year, from Venice. One postcard I wrote from Harry's Bar, where I was treated like a queen by the handsome waiters, drinking the requisite Bellini and crying silently as I wrote out my postcard, not from sadness, but from the overwhelming beauty that was all around me. I remember the tears sliding down the side of my nose and dropping onto the postcard, like tiny raindrops. (Perhaps the cute, dark-haired waiter comped my delicious croque monsieur because he thought I was going to throw myself into the Grand Canal later that day.)

The other postcard I wrote under the awning of a caffe in the Campo Santa Margherita, nursing a cappucino and eating yummy shrimp and egg salad sandwiches, watching people walk by. This time I did not cry, but it did rain. The air was chilly, and I was bundled up in coat and scarf, taking off my gloves to write my postcard.

What I realized in looking at these two images is how my writing contains and expresses my joy, in my somewhat sloppy letters because everything was so gorgeous and exciting and I couldn't write fast enough. And that is something that a computer keyboard will never be able to capture.

Perhaps perfection is a little overrated.

Julochka, in honor of the beautiful moleskine and journal you sent me, I am going to find a worthy pen, maybe one that stains my fingers occasionally but who cares, and write some words. Make some scratches.

Maybe even make some mistakes.

Thank you for the reminder. And the excuse to reminisce about things I love.

***

ps. One thing about Venice is that it is full of little shops full of gorgeous handmade papers and pens. For the writing enthusiast, it's a little over the top, like Disneyland. This was a shop in San Marco where I bought some goodies.

pps. I found this interesting online book about the history of pens.

ppss. Whoever would like to be tagged for this meme, consider yourself so. Just leave me a note in the comments so I can visit you and see your post!

Boo!

One of the wonderfully sweet things about The Boy is that he is always coming up with little fun surprise-y things to do. He also does my laundry and makes my bed. Yes, I am totally spoiled. I know it.

When I came back from Venice, he had arranged three little purple orchids on my night table. And had made my bed with freshly laundered sheets.

He also told me that he got us tickets to Teatro ZinZombie, a special Halloween production of Teatro ZinZanni, one of our favorite things to see in SF when we're feeling flush.

Teatro ZinZanni is one part dinner, one part cabaret show and one part Cirque de Soleil. You have a great meal while watching a wildly creative musical circus show with world-class acrobats, jugglers and people who do crazy things on trapezes and ropes right above your head while you're eating dinner. It's really hard to describe how cool it is. All the action takes place in an antique circus tent from the 1800s.

This troupe also features a couple called Vertical Tango, which performs the most amazing tango-inspired acrobatic routine on a vertical pole in the middle of the tent. For all you tango fans, this will be the highlight of your experience at Teatro ZinZanni.

When I was in Venice, I ended up buying a gorgeous Harlequin mask covered in multi-colored velvet, the eyes lined with golden sequins and sporting a sumptuous periwinkle-blue flower made of feathers on the side. I wasn't going to buy the mask, and it was really too expensive, but Nuit already had one picked out for herself and the excitement was too contagious in the little shop. Plus, the mask was so perfect for me that I had to get it. But I still had a little buyer's remorse, until today.

.

Now I have a great place to wear the mask on Halloween! Maybe I'll win the costume contest...hmm...

Floating on a Gondola

I'm just playing around with FinalCut Express for the first time while finishing up with jet lag recovery. *sigh*

Watch this little assortment of clips while I try to think of something to say. My brain and fingers are bottlenecked as I sort out what to write first. I'm still overwhelmed by Venice.

So nothing is getting written at all.

(This footage was taken on my last day in Venice with the last remaining dregs of my camera battery. Just me, my gondolier Giovanni and the silent canals. Sono triste.)

Backtrack: a story of meetings

I'm going back to last Free Friday, to a group of photos I took. A late afternoon, in the Tenderloin, downtown.

It's both easy and hard at the end of the day -- easy in that I just lose myself in my photos and it's like I never went to the office (I just forget everything, even what time it is), and hard, in that I'm tired because it's been a long day -- but I have to go through the images, and even if it's just to find a few that make me happy. And then I can stop and go to bed.

***

I realized the photos I like best tell stories. So here are three.

Part I: The violinist

It's quite common to hear a variety of music being performed in the metro stations. Ordinarily, I don't stop to listen because I've yet to hear music that's worth stopping for. In my humble opinion, that is.

I understand (and you do, too, I'm sure) what it's like to enjoy something so much that you have to close your eyes to experience it. I did not have my eyes closed, but the slight, long-haired man, dressed all in black and playing the violin... his eyes were closed.

He played that violin like nothing else in the world existed except for him, and the violin, and the music.

The music was etheral, and haunting, and I couldn't quite place what I was hearing and for once, I didn't want to leave the station immediately. I remembered a recent story I had heard about virtuoso Joshua Bell playing his violin in a DC Metro station (imagine that!) and how barely anyone even noticed. If you haven't read this story, you should.

When the musician stopped playing, we talked for a few minutes. The piece I was playing he had improvised (that amazed me just in itself, what a concept) and that he was visiting from Atlanta, before going on to LA. I was already sad to know that he wasn't a local and I wouldn't see him in the metro station again.

We talked about his violins and his CDs, and a little bit about Venice. I remembered the violin museum I had gone to in San Marco, a place he would have loved more than any normal person. He's never been to Venice. I hope he gets there someday, for that city and violins are good friends.

***

Part II: The man on the street

Coming up to the street, I saw the Truth Building again. I know it's a repeat from a previous post, but it's a photo I really love.

The sun was hanging lower in the sky, drifting into late afternoon.

The man gently helping the little boy on his bike, with training wheels, made me smile. Against the hard backdrop of this gritty part of town, you realize that kids still need to learn to ride their bikes.

Near the Hibernia Bank, at the corner of Jones and McAllister, the clouds were filling the sky with an end-of-day fullness.

Even the neon lights had something to say.

***

he says: hey lady, take my picture.

then he starts goofing off, wiggling around and striking crazy poses. which of course makes for a terrible photo.

i say: stand still and just act normal. otherwise i can't take your picture!

he says: act normal? i haven't done that in my whole life!

he laughs. and stands still.

and then i take his picture.

i tell him he has nice eyes. he does.

and then he can't help it... boys will be boys.

***

These old buildings must have so many stories to tell. I guess I'm not too sure how many of them I'd really want to know without them weighing down on my heart. But even in their present state, I find these places quite beautiful in their way.

The light is starting to fade to night. And my lens isn't wide enough to take it all in.

Contrasts appeal to me. I love finding unique juxtapositions ... and seem to notice more of them when I'm toting a camera around. Next to this men's club (and what Obama has to do with the club, I have no idea) is a rescue mission. Both the gentleman's club and the rescue mission were locked tight. No escape and no solace to be found in either place.

I wonder what this mural is really trying to tell the people that see it. I'd like to think that it's something like: there are more good people than bad people, and not this, which is seems pretty vague and not very inspiring. People living in this neighborhood need a little bit more than ambiguity.

***

Part III: The artist

Here I am, sitting and waiting for a new friend who, when I meet her, feels like an old soul. The air in the restaurant is thick with rich, delicious smoke from the tandoori oven, and I feel like I'm at an Indian barbeque. I've come in off the street to wait for her, since standing outside the restaurant was starting to get me admirers I didn't want.

I wish I could be in this neighborhood, invisible, to observe and take photos, but I can't. Standing outside waiting, a man who looked very much like the one I took photos of earlier, lurches towards me, an open beer can barely concealed inside a brown paper bag.

He smiles at me and says, you're so pretty. You're like an angel. Before I know it, he's reached out to push some hair away from my face. I wish I was braver. All I could say was thank you and then turn inside to the safety of the restaurant.

Indoors, away from the dark and the street, my new friend and I talk and plan. We talk about Cairo, where she was born, and the Mission, where she lives now. We talk about veils and makeup and photography and paintings and dance.

Three meetings. One afternoon.

***

While I was working on these images, I was listening to Paul's music, so I made a slideshow to share with you. The track is from his album, Ghosts, and the piece is called "Under The Direction Of St. Teresa VI."



You can learn more about Paul Mercer, listen to his music or order CDs on his myspace page.... http://profile.myspace.com/paulmercer

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ps.: you can see this set of photos on flickr and leave comments here, too.