Venice, March 2003

032103
Okay, I've traveled for 28 hours WITHOUT STOPPING and now I'm
sitting down for the first time without motion beneath
me (1 car, 3 planes, 2 buses, 1 boat). I'm gonna fall
over in about 4 seconds. But I've had my first
fragolino at Marco's place and I actually saw the
produce man yell at a DIFFERENT person (and an Italian
at that!) for touching the fruit without asking (it's
not just me). It's full dark here now, almost 8pm. I
left at 7am Thursday and I just got in (it should be
11am Friday for you).

I'm home again. And it feels so good. And for those of
you that worry--don't. Apart from a lot of 'pace'
flags flying, there doesn't seem to be a difference.

More later about the time I spent zooming around
Zurich (oh, yeah, a round trip train ride today, too).
Now I'm going to wander back to the hotel (apartment
TOMORROW!!) and do nothing but sleep. Or else lie
there with my eyes wide open. Let's hope for sleep.

Pace,
Rachael.

032203
Okay. I've had the most wonderful day that I'm jealous
of myself. Really. I can't stand it.

Stayed last night at the hotel, which was great. After
I wrote that pitiful letter, I crawled my sorry ass
into bed and passed out. Everyone knows I have a hard
time sleeping, but not last night. I slept for TWELVE
hours, only waking up briefly twice. I was sooo happy
and comfortable. Woke to have breakfast in the
breakfast room--everything's the same, the thick
coffee with milk, the hard roll with creamy butter,
the maid who doubles as a waitress. She got her hair
cut, though. She liked it that I noticed.

Then out, for some out and about. I walked. I
meandered. I strolled. Just the way I like it. And I
answered the question that had been rolling around in
my head since the hideously long trip--was it worth
it? Yes, yes, yes! I'm home, and everything else is
swept away when I hang my head over the vaporetto
railing and see the canal rolling beneath me.

While on the boat enroute to Piazza San Marco for
coffee, we passed the Accademia. When I boarded the
boat, I heard the girl yell that the boat wouldn't
stop there--odd, I thought, but I didn't really think
about it. When we swept past it, I figured it out. In
the only display of violence I've seen, the police had
surrounded the British Embassy. Leftists were
attacking it, and the police were subduing them with
what looked like non-lethal beanbag pellets. All very
exciting to watch as we motored past. What was even
more interesting were the HORDES of people watching,
packed as tightly as they could pack themselves on the
bridge, running up the canal-ways to catch the view.
It didn't scare me. It actually made me feel safer.
Unless I attack an embassy, I should be all right.
Everyone else here is much too preoccupied with
shopping and drinking. It did take away my desire to
attend a protest, however.

So I left the sound of gunfire and sat in the square
at my beloved Gran Caffe. At least, it USED to be my
beloved cafe, where the piano player plays behind you,
the Grand Canal to your right, the Doge's Palace in
front of you, and the Basilica to your left, but now
that the dollar has been devalued so greatly, a coffee
there costs over ten dollars. !!! So I'll be grabbing
my coffee from smaller, less pretentious places where
it still costs a dollar or so. Oh, but I hate to give
it up. Today the piano player regaled me with the
Stones' "Angie" and the Beatles' "Blackbird," done
classically. I was dying.

From there, I walked some more. I found the perfect
little bookshop with all the right books, Donna Leon
(I got the last three, Mom) and her ilk, all the best
tour guides. Next time, this is the plan: I bring NO
books, just buy them here and leave them behind for
the next tourist, courtesy of Bookfinder.com. I
overhead a couple of women arguing about what to buy
and I pressed upon them _Miss Garnet's Angel_. They
had no choice--they HAD to buy it. They love Venice,
too, and we're meeting for coffee tomorrow. Kindred
spirits.

Then I picked up my luggage from the hotel, where they
had kindly let me leave it in the breakfast room, and
walked to meet Maurizio who is renting the apartment
to me. Gorgeous. Loved him. Sweet, funny, and not too
chatty. He took me to my apartment. Can I just tell
ya? I'm NEVER staying in a hotel again. It means I'll
always have to work harder to save my pennies, but I
now have a kitchen, good sized with all the fixings,
cutlery, plates, stove, dishwasher, and the topper, a
WASHING MACHINE! And I have: a lovely big bedroom
with a double bed and windows that fling open to the
rooftops; a living room with a telly and a desk facing
more flingable windows; a nice big bathroom with
plenty of towels and soap (and a hairdryer, whoo
hoo!); and a patio which must have the best view of
all of Italy. At least I think it is.

I have keys! Real keys! When I go home tonight, I'll
unlock the bottom floor doors and then unlock my very
own door. There's just one other apartment in the
building, occupied by a nice looking lady.

Did I mention I have keys?

I know I'm going on and on, but I have to. Just a
little more.

I unpacked. And how! I'll leave something there, I
know I will, because I'm using every darn closet and
drawer there is. I only brought about seven things, so
that was hard to do, but I managed.

Then I walked to the music store that I love near the
Rialto bridge. The owner Vela wasn't there, but she
was due to arrive any minute, so I browsed. I was
devastated to find the CD (Luka Bloom) that I brought
her last time on the shelf. Damn, I thought. Here I am
bringing her a new CD, and she put the one I gave her
up for sale. Vela came in just as I was leaving. She
grabbed my hand and led me to the shelf. Vea! she
said. I said that I had already seen. Then she showed
me three other copies. She had liked Luka so much she
had ordered him for the store! When I left, the new
Dar Williams that I brought for her was playing in the
stereo that pipes out into the street. I walked up the
calle and had yet another caffelatte and a sandwich,
and when I came back around, I walked past the shop
with "The Beauty of the Rain" playing to the crowds
that swirl past the store. Heart-happy.

And then? Can you handle it? Are you ready?

I found a yarn shop.

There can't be a better day. Every email I send from
here on out will be shorter and boring in comparison.
Because today is the day you dream of having while on
vacation and seldom really get, but I did. And it's
only 7pm!

Too happy to keep typing, and the smoke is thick in
here, so to prevent a slip from happening, I'm off to
get a drink. A little prosecco, I think.....

love love and more love,
a very happy,
Rachael.

032303
This is the kind of thing my father writes on e-mail:
"Bit of excitement at 3 this morning, smoke alarm went off and we put out a
candle fire on the top of the piano. Flames about pumpkin size, no real
damage, extinguisher worked fine. Hard to get back to sleep with adrenelin
pumping."
My mother wrote:
"I'm glad your father told you about the fire, that way he keeps the reputation for scary messages. But I was the one who woke up first, and I was the one who discovered the top of the piano in flames (exaggeration - a flaming pumpkin) and of course I was the one who thought the candle was out but didn't make ABSOLUTELY sure. By the time Dad appeared I had grabbed the fire extinguisher - which I passed to him - and by the time Christy poked her head out it was all over. She said she heard "Beep - beep - beep - Oooohh - Swoosh!" Nothing but the candle burned - the piano isn't even scorched. Of course it, and the wall behind it, are plastered with a mixture of melted wax and fire retardant, but it's cleaning up okay."

032303
Wait a minute. Only getting (understandable) news on
Yahoo--lemme get this straight.... An American soldier
attacked other American soliders, killing one, and we
shot down a British plane? Lord. Unimaginable. Did I
mention the peace flags are rainbow colored in Europe?

My toes are tired. Apparently yesterday I rather
abused them right off. The moleskin has blisters. Oh,
well.

Today (because of this) I decided to take it easy. Not
a rambling day, rather a riding day. I've been using
the vaporetto, riding up and down the Grand Canal, and
it's been gorgeous. Mom gave me an illustrated book by
John Kent, and I hold it open on my lap while I steam
past--every facade is watercolored in the book with
small, often humorous, descriptions. I saw, for
example, the balcony where one of Byron's lovers
committed suicide. Okay. Not really humorous. But the
mind reels....

And I find I have no interest in leaving Venice. I
wanted to see at least Padua. Maybe Trieste. But....
How can my days be so full, without going anywhere?

This morning I met two women that I befriended in a
bookshop yesterday, Nancy and Susan. We sat in the sun
in Campo Santo Apostoli at a small table and
talked--it turned out (of course) that they're both
writers: Nancy's on the Board of Trustees for Naropa
University in Boulder, and Susan wrote a book on her
friendship of two decades with Ginsberg. Huh! I knew I
liked them. They were wonderful to spend time with--we
walked, and actually climbed the Scala del Bovolo, the
snail staircase that I had wanted to climb for so
long. They spoke my language. And I don't mean
English--there are hordes here who speak that, and
loudly.

Last night, after I sent my happy happy happy message,
I just knew that I had to be extremely careful. After
sending a missive titled "The BEST day," I was sure I
was destined to trip and either break a leg on a
marble staircase or fall right into the canal. But
neither happened--I went out looking for a restaurant
I had passed earlier in the day (this was after I sat
in my little living room knitting, watching the
Americans bomb Iraq, trying without much success to
understand the rapid TVspeak). I found the
restaurant--closed. So I wandered half-tipsy (with a
kitchen comes the requisite Chianti, come on, wouldn't
you?) into another one that looked good. Only locals,
only Italian spoken, only Venetian cooking. I lost my
MIND for a minute apparently, and ordered sepia alla
venezia con polenta. I don't like polenta. And I
forgot that cuttlefish is squid, cooked in its own
dark oily ink. And get this: it was the best thing I
ever had. Something about that chewy, squishy, just
right texture married with the fragility of the
buttery polenta, next to the arugala (and nothing
else) salad I ordered. Of course, the half-litre of
wine I managed to finish by myself added to my vast
appreciation.

But I managed to remain upright on the way home
(exaggerating, lest you worry). And my happy day was
complete.

But this is weird: I couldn't sleep this morning. I
got up at 5am, showered, dressed, got ready for an
early ramble, made myself a KICKASS cup of espresso
con latte, drank it watching the sun rise over the
rooftops, the Sunday bells pealing. I then promptly
got back into bed and slept till nine. I don't get it.

But I get it. You know?

I ramble in these letters like I ramble the streets.
Sorry.

There's an American girl talking on the phone next to
me to her boyfriend in the States. SHE'S THE MOST
ANNOYING PERSON EVER. So I have to sign off.

More walking (limping) to do, slowly, piano,
Rachael.

032403
Ciao, ciao!

I can't quite believe I was worried about coming here.
I can't imagine not being exactly where I am. I was
napping on my bed earlier, the six o'clock bells
ringing, the children below kicking a soccer ball, the
radiator kicking on and off, and I couldn't grasp the
fact that I DON'T live here, that I actually live in
Oakland with two cats, good friends and dear sisters
near.

Today I took a lovely long ramble with a man called
Mr. Links. Well, actually, since he's dead, it was
with the book he wrote, _Venice for Pleasure._ But if
he WAS alive, I would have to track him down and make
him walk with me. He's so perfectly suited to the way
I travel. This is what he says about the Tintorettos
that hang in Scuola S. Rocco. "We may well be asked on
our return what we thought of those Tintorettos and it
would be unthinkable to visit Venice without seeing
them. Never let it be said I suggested such a thing. I
only point out that the stairs are steep, the
pictures, though wonderful, profuse and that they will
still be there tomorrow, and, indeed, on our next
visit to Venice." He then directs me to sit at a cafe
just around the corner. In fact, the whole book is
varying walks arranged around food and cafe stops.
Occasionally a little art, but only the kind that
doesn't upset your very full and happy tummy.

He led me from S. Marco across the Accademia bridge,
where, instead of entering the museum, he turned me
left to the cafe that's right next to the Grand Canal.
It was so warm I took my jacket off and sat in the
sun, watching the water spark into thousands of bright
fragments while I drank prosecco and chatted with the
British couple next to me. I told them they had missed
all the excitement of the weekend, when the leftists
threw paint on the British Embassy just next to us
(and unfortunately hit all the proximate dwellings,
too, thus the still-heavy polizia presence). They were
glad to have missed it. I said, "I apologize for that,
by the way." "What?" they asked. "That war. And for
The Idiot." They grimaced and he said, "Well, he's
backed by OUR idiot, so I suppose we're even." Then we
drank some more wine and watched the gondolas slip by.

Mr. Links then accompanied me to the Zattere, Venice's
long sunny sheltered promenade. I always find the same
two things on the Zattere, construction and old women
in fur coats, no matter the heat of the sun. I walked,
happily, until he led me inland, and from a
twenty-year old book, he told me to stop for lunch at
Locanda Montin, which I did. I wasn't surprised to
find it was still there, but I was astonished at how
PERFECT it was. I ate in the back garden, as had been
suggested. Long columns of tables ran under the grape
arbor, a large stone planter next to a red wall at the
end, sun dappling everything. My waiter served me what
was easily my best lunch ever, gnochetti (teeny little
gnocchis, whee!) with, get this: shrimp and asparagus.
Can life get any better? Yes, it can, with the help of
a salad that saved me from scurvy (a LOT of bread and
cheese lately) and a half-litre of wine. Again.

I vowed that drinking would take the place of smoking
on this trip, and by god, I'm doing it up right. A
half-litre of wine in the afternoon is WAY more fun
that one at night, I found, as Mr. Links extracted me
from the doe-eyes of the waiter whose only English was
"so beautiful, you" (over and over) and plenty of
Italian which, unfortunately, I understood. I walked
on, and finished MOST of the walk, with a few more
stops for rasberry gelato.

Last night, I was a little.... What? I'm not sure. I
wrote about it in my journal, trying to find the words
for what I was feeling. I'm still not sure what it
was, but I think it was something related to
accountability. It wasn't loneliness, it didn't feel
as empty as that. It wastn't melancholy, not that
bitter. It had more to do with the fact no one knew
me. I engage in lots of small, brief encounters, good
exchanges with people I'll never see again. If I don't
speak, no one knows where I'm from. I wear all black,
and hide my guidebook and camera in my deep pockets.
I'm approached by all for directions, from Italians to
(today) Japanese, in their own languages. And if I
don't speak, no one knows I've even been there. So I
went back out, last night, and deliberatly found a
small enoteca near my apartment. I bought dinner from
the owner, and smiled at the waitress, and said good
night to the regulars. I'll be back again tonight, and
then again tomorrow. Eventually, before I leave in a
week, they'll know me, and they'll smile to see me
coming. I think that's all I needed last night. A
smile, not from politeness, but from recognition,
however shallow that need is.

And by the way, I'm not smoking. By the smallest
margin, I'm not smoking. It's ever harder than I ever
thought it would be. A dear friend of mine gave me his
nine-year AA chip on a chain, and I brought it with
me. It's always near me. I haven't had to wear it,
though, for over seven months. I had to put it on
today, and when the feeling is strongest, I tap it.
It's saved me.

Off to the enoteca now, for a little pannini before
sleep. The Italians aren't afraid of mayo and white
bread, slathered with ham and eggs. A perfect
sandwich. I'm serious, it's fabulous.

all love and willpower, and sun on the water,
Rachael.
032503
Buena sera,

This won't be long.... I'm tired today, and a tiny,
teeny bit out of sorts, although I really hate to
admit that when I'm so far from home. Actually, I hate
to admit that anytime. This ain't no different.

Not sure why I'm out of it, think I might be fighting
off a touch of something. Either that or I got
sunburned today--my cheeks have been flaming red since
about 4pm, but I don't feel hot. (No, it's not the
wine today!) Just off. Sigh. I always get a little
cold while I'm travelling. I think it's from doing too
much.... And you wouldn't think I would do that,
wouldja? I mean, I'm here alone, no one to drive me to
get up early and keep on the move all day, but I'm
jolted out of bed each morning before nine, and hit
the ground running like I have something to prove.
Well! That's all over! (I said that last night, and I
walked my little howling feet over most of the city
anyway....)

No, tomorrow, I'm not taking Mr. Links and his
wonderful advice with me, because he's made me walk
way too far in the last two days. But I have seen
little things that most people never get to see.....
Things like a canal running UNDER a church, seen from
the back. A doorjamb made of wood and silver. A
miniscule church where only nuns used to pray. He's
wonderful, sweet. I might be in love. But tomorrow, I
leave him behind, and I swear I'm not doing anything
but sitting on boats and in cafes and reading my
fiction books. Not non-fiction, not learning any more
about the doges' history and who fought and won (or
stole) what. I've learned too much already, and I'll
learn more the day after tomorrow. But tomorrow is for
nothing but sluggishness in the sun. Or if it rains (I
heard it might), in the cafes.

I have to tell you one horrifying thing I just saw on
my way here. I'm standing in the front of the boat; I
only have to go six or seven stops to go from my
apartment to this square where I write email. The
ENTIRE time, fifteen minutes of so, there's a guy
standing next to me wearing a racing baseball cap and
a Yellowstone tee-shirt, talking to his buddy. Their
wives are in the front of the boat, videotaping. Every
once in a while, they yell, "You getting it all, hon?"
And then they go back (I'm not exaggerating) to
reading the map, trying to figure out where the
bus-boat will stop next, and how they should try to
find an express boat for the ride back. They looked up
exactly once while I stood next to them to confirm
that yes, we were pulling up at Rialto. They were
leaning on the railing! On a boat, passing the most
beautiful, moving, romantic and painfully glorious
architecture in the world, and they weren't looking!
Of course, they'd have the video later. I wanted to
rip the maps out of their hands and toss them in the
canal. The dispatcher-controlling part of me wanted to
tell them where to get off (yep) and which boat to
find to get them outta town quickly. But I kept my
mouth shut and my withering stare fixed on the sunset.

This is when I knew I wasn't feeling totally all the
way well.....

But even off, I want to be here. I want to wander back
home now and ease my shoes off and knit a little while
watching Italian MTV and then get in bed and read read
read till my eyes drop heavy.

And more of less tomorrow.

amore,
Rachael.

032603
Buena sera mi amici,

I just took a picture of this place, 'cause you've
gotta see it. I'm seated next to some little boys, no
more than twelve at the most. They're wearing headsets
to play their war games on-line, and all are very busy
answering their non-stop cell phone calls. "Pronto! Di
me!"

Okay, that was funny, one just said, "Spettati,
spetTAti...." I'm waiting, I'm WAITing.... He was so
irritated with his little partners that he almost let
go of the leash of his silly-looking white dog who
desperately wants to be petted by someone, anyone.

Now. To matters at hand. I did it! I managed to
totally waste a day here and it was everything I
wanted it to be.

I woke. I made coffee in the little silver press with
the Doge's coffee I bought on the Rialto bridge. I ate
a pastry that I had bought the night before. Usually I
buy little bread-y things and hope they're okay.
They're either good or not good, I eat them with the
creamy coffee and I'm all right. This one set me on
the floor. I truly sat there, trying to think how to
get them home. I can't, so I'll just describe. Deep
fried, yet light and crispy, like a donut but hard on
the outside and covered with powdered sugar and almond
slivers, and inside is a paste of raisins and
chocolate and what seems to be a ripple of brown sugar
and more chocolate. Maybe a touch of apple and
cinnamon. I got it ALL over me, and then I went down
the calle to the same shop and bought three more. I
ate one for lunch and got a tummy-ache. Worth it.

So anyway, breakfast. Then a boat ride, and shopping
on the Rialto bridge. I saw my friends at the music
shop, and I made new ones at an AMAZING paper shop--he
makes the books himself, upstairs, and his wife sews
them together (of course). I went to the local version
of Mervyns and bought towels. I know. But it was so
FUN!

Then I went home. Such an energy expenditure
(especially that last gelato) required a serious nap.
I opened the windows wide and let the wind blow over
me. That was damn cold. So I burrowed under the
covers, but I left the windows open.

I'll bring home hundreds (literally) of pictures, and
tons of little stories. I can even take brief videos
on my camera. The one thing I can't bring is the sound
of Venice. I wish you could hear it. Without any
motors except those of the boats, sound carries
farther and sweeter than you can imagine. Lying in bed
I heard: Women wheeling children in prams, men
whistling, men laughing and talking, a child crying, a
soccer ball being kicked against a wall, a dog being
chastised, a vaporetto backing up at the boat stop,
another man whistling a tiny tune, his heels clicking
on the cobblestones. I wish I could bottle this and
bring it home.

What I can't figure out, though, is where the cats
are! I know that about five years ago all the feral
cats were bundled off and "placed on a nearby island
to live out their natural lives in peace." This
probably means euthanised. But I get it. What I don't
get is that in this entire time I've seen exactly
three cats. Two, with collars, running swiftly
hopefully toward home. The other was in a windowsill
and we made very good friends. No others. Where are
they? Dogs are everywhere, running down every calle
and in every campo. No cats. The only thing that
really makes me wonder is the grocery stores. In the
shops there are little displays for the dog food,
normal height and size, placed on aisles that are
accessible but not in poor taste. But the cat displays
are the first thing in the stores! Not only are they
the first, but they're the biggest and they go on for
miles. Cats live somewhere, secretly, and I mean to
find them.

Ah, the boys next to me are really getting riled now.
Apparently an unknown player in Spain is knocking them
out of--let me look over a shoulder--it looks like
"Doom" but do they really play that anymore?

Not related, but a side note: if anyone that YOU know
is hurt that he or she isn't on my silly email list,
it's only because I've never got an email from them.
Can you tell them that? I'd hate to slight anyone.

I must go eat. I've had two (or was it three?)
proseccos (after my nap) on the canal under the
Accademia Bridge, and then another in the Campo San
Stefano. I've been doing just what I planned, reading
and looking, and I'm perfectly perfectly at home.

Sigh. Ahhhhh. All'ora.
Amore,
Rachael.

032703
ciao ciao ciao,

I SWEAR this one will be short. It's already past
eleven at night, and while there's nothing like
wandering at night, that's way past my Italian
bedtime. At least, it was. I may go out tomorrow
night, haven't decided yet. I always mean to go party
in Padua, and then I never do. I've told myself
tomorrow.....

Today: Today was a Danielli day. I KNOW! One of the
oldest and certainly the most prestigious hotel in
Europe and I dined there twice today. Oy vey! Once
with Victor, for lunch. Gorgeous food, great alcohol,
huge price tag. Omygod. But the view! Practically
worth it. This afternoon I spent on the 82-line
vaporetto, letting the wind blow the cobwebs out of my
mind, got off at San Giorgio Maggiore island--why
haven't I ever done that before? Not only is the
legend of St.George and his little dragon one of my
all-time favorites, but there's a campanile with an
elevator operated by an old monk in the BEST grey
watchcap you ever saw. We hit it right off. I love
that man. If I were to marry someone, I'd want to
marry that little monk. I asked him if he was cold, he
said, "no more than anyone would be, and that's not
much." (He had a thick fisherman's sweater on, too. A
knitter's monk.) We talked about our favorite churches
in Venice. All this on a ride up and down. But a long,
perfect elevator ride with a man with grey eyes and an
elegant heart.

But I digress. While waiting for the boat OFF
S.Giorgio Maggiore island, I asked a snappy woman
dressed in tan leather pants and an orange sweater to
take my picture with S.Marco in the background. I
struck up a conversation with her and her companion
(both retired Viennese) that lasted until just a few
minutes ago. We had coffee and cake at the Danieli (I
offered to treat. Do not do this at the Danieli. The
cake was spur of the moment, and they wanted to pick
that part up, but their pensioners' eyes almost fell
out of their heads at the cost of the cake: $55 just
for the three pieces. I am not kidding. Very GOOD
cake, but they weren't lying when they called it
millefiori. The coffee was only $16. I picked up the
check and called it my donation for the month.... to
the "should be" gods, I suppose. This paid off at
dinner, which we had at a perfect place just off S.
Marco, where we had shrimp and spaghetti and
bruschetta and caprese and wine and digestifs, and we
also had a beautiful time--talking about politics and
opera and food and men.... My ands go on and on, but
Venice is an 'and' kind of place. Thus I close the
parenthesis.)

Okay. All things must end, and I just realized Whitney
Houston is playing on the stereo. So my time here is
ended, more tomorrow (if I don't go play in Padua)....

Only this thought: Gondoliers have a certain call when
trying to get you in their boat--let me desribe it.
It's "Gondola, gondola?" Pronounced GO-n-doe-lahhh,
and it's always repeated twice. Only once would be
like saying "Here, kitty!" It has to be "here, kitty
kitty!" "Gondola, gondolaaaah?"

Oh, and also: I was described by some brick-layers
today as a "boxy Ferarri." I don't know if I'm
insulted or not, but I'm enjoying trying to decide.

love and piacere,
Rachele

032803
Buena notte,

Today I went to Padova because I thought it would rain
and because I wanted desperately to see the Giotto
frescoes.

It was sunny. The frescoes required reservations.

Damn damn damn. I realized that when I travel with
someone, I'm the cheerleader. "This can't get us down,
let's go get coffee and see what else we can do! Come
on!"

Alone, I wandered into the gardens near the Giotto
Chapel and had a little cry.

Then I picked myself up firmly and marched myself to a
cafe where I had a strong coffee and a sandwich with
lots of mayo and egg and resolved to train the hour
back to Venice, where I should have stayed. I just
decided to turn one last corner....

and found the flea market to end all swap meets! Whoo
hoo! Cheap clothes, cashmere, silly sweaters, and
jeans that no one in their right minds would wear. And
around the corner, miles of fruit and what appeared to
be a farmer's market--honey and nuts and handmade
risotto. I didn't buy a thing but gelato--I was
totally overwhelmed. And happy. I watched a very
strange group of students who appeared to be hazing
each other.... Graduation? Dunno, but they wore silver
pants and garlands of flowers and dashed under their
peers' joined arms to songs and random blows. Padova
went from "ugly little city with great art" as one of
my books said to nice little town with happy people
notwithstanding lack of Giotto. Good gelato.

Then back, so happily, to Venice. I'll never leave
again (till Tuesday, sigh....) A nap in the sun,
couldn't quite sleep for the sounds of the children
playing and the gulls wheeling over the rooftops. It's
a strange day when seagulls become elegant in
comparison to their ever-present cousins, the rat-like
pigeons.

At the seagulls' advent, I knew the storm was coming,
so I got up from my nap and headed for my favorite
Accademia cafe with the waiter with the sweetest
expression you can imagine and the hot chocolate that
I'm convinced is just melted chocolate bars. The rain
held off, but the wind started up, so I sat inside at
canal level, watching the gondolas sweep by on their
way to battening down.

No rain yet, so I sat outside at Conco d'Oro, a
restaurant near S. Marco with a harried sweet waitress
who brings me more wine without asking first. They
have heaters outside, so I sat and watched the crowds
walk past and read my new Donna Leon. Listened to the
loud Irish and tried unsuccessfully to eavesdrop on
the silent Australians. Met some Scots in the
Piazza--took their picture under the Basilica, and
they were thrilled when I said I would email them the
picture. I don't think they believed me. But they'll
get the picture, and they'll remember.

No more for now. I'm tired, and my feet hurt again.
Too much walking, too much dry land. Tomorrow, rain
and, as Rat would say, "messing about on boats."

ciao mi amice e amore,
Rachael.

032903
Oh my GOD! I just had the whole letter written and I
somehow lost it. Damn! I was tired when I FIRST
started writing it..... And I HAVE to tell you the two
Very Cool Things that happened today.

Shoot.

Here goes (again):

First: I decided to release the Venetian mystery I had
been reading, a la bookcrossing.com, at Harry's Bar. I
had never been there, except for popping my head in
once or twice, and I wanted a Bellini. I happened to
arrive when it wasn't that busy, so I ordered a
Bellini and a small sandwich. What was that? Oh,
that'll be fine. Whoops. What I got was a
mayo/egg/anchovy sandwich. I ate it, though.

And I released the book, even though the very
attentive maitre'd chased me out, "Prego, signorina!"
Oh, that's not mine, but thank you! And I ran.

I stopped to breathe my anchovy
breath at a motor launch. I noticed it was the launch
for the Hotel Cipiriani, the exclusive resort across
the lagoon. This is when I got the idea.

I thought for a while. Then.

I walked out on the dock and used the phone that was
thoughtfully connected there to order the boat. Yep.
Wah!

When the gleaming boat arrived, driven by the gleaming
Lovely Man, I had my Italian all planned out. "What
time is it? Have you seen my friend? Small, beautiful?
We were supposed to meet an hour ago at the
restaurant."

Number one: I didn't know if the hotel even HAD a
restaurant, but I figured it was a good guess.

Number two: The driver had no English, and my Italian
varies, and today was an off day. I might have
actually been saying, "What time is it? Have you seen
my pickle? Beer, green? We were supposed to marry
yesterday on a ski."

But he seemed to understand, no, he had not seen my
friend dee ann, and he held his hand out to help me in
the boat. Which he then drove across the lagoon, ME
HIS ONLY PASSENGER. Me, in this limo of a boat. I sat
inside. I stood in the back. I stood in the middle. I
finally stood in the front with the Lovely Man who
obligingly stopped in the middle of the choppy water,
in the sun, to take a picture of me. Grinning me. I
was giddy.

Once he helped me out of the boat, I kinda had to keep
up the ruse, since he just sat in the boat and watched
me inside. I swept in, "Is my friend dee ann here? I'm
late, and she had to leave for Greece...." As far as I
know, dee ann is either in San Diego or headed up the
coast in a fast car, but she ain't in Italy (more's
the pity). But Perfectly Groomed Eyebrows merely
smiled, "We haven't seen your friend, madame. Did she
have a reservation?"

For it was a room about the size of my living room,
full of RICH Italians wearing fur and dripping
diamonds.

"Reservations? No, we don't do reservations. I'll just
wait here, if I might? A Bellini?" I don't know where
the words came from, I swear.

"Sadly, we only use fresh juice here, madame. Would
you like fresh-squeezed raspberry juice and prosecco
instead, while you wait?"

Oh, I guessed that would be all right. By the time I
drank my drink (you DON'T want to know what that one
cost) and thanked my genial host and washed my hands
in the gorgeous bathroom (and stole some of the teeny
guest soaps shaped like hearts, don't tell), I was
genuinely getting miffed that dee ann hadn't arrived.

I scare myself sometimes. Right now Mom is saying,
"Cheeky girl." But she would have been the first on
the boat, don't let her fool you.

I left the Cip, as we regulars call it, and headed for
the Lido. The sun had triumphed again and I had never
to been to the fashionable beach that hosts the Venice
Film Festival, so I thought it would be a good
afternoon to visit. I was right,

'cause I joined in the Peace March! Wah!!

I just watched, at first, still a little alarmed at
the demonstration I had seen last week with the paint
bombs and tear gas (I later learned that in this
beauty-conscious city, the paint bombs were actually
water-based colors carefully placed into eggshells.
Biodegradable and non-permanent. Love it).

It was a rather nice sized group of people of all
ages, babies to the very old, and it wasn't really a
march at all. Everyone had brought their Pace flags,
and they arranged themselves with a speaker's help
into the letters P A C E. When cued, they held their
flags up to spell the word for the cameras and small
planes overhead. I approached a woman and asked if I
could walk, too. I was welcomed.

So then we walked. For about a block. Just my speed, I
tell ya. We then stood in silence for three minutes,
people watching on the sidewalks, the police near but
not in the way. Then everyone sang a peace song that I
didn't know and they folded up their flags and walked
away with their families. It was moving, and strong,
and I was so glad to be part of it.

And now, after this day, I'm exhausted and I'm off for
bed. I actually used the washing machine in the
apartment tonight, and I'm drying clothes now on the
radiators. The bar here is full of kids cheering a
soccer match that sounds very exciting, but I must
sleep.

Ahhhhhh.
love,
Rachael.

033003
Sleepy and getting too maudlin to spend much time
typing in here, where a bunch of drunk Russians are
singing to "Walking in Memphis," clinging to each
other and crying. They aren't lifting my spirits.

I sat in S. Marco today. I watched, listened, felt.
Tried to think how to explain it all. Then I decided I
couldn't--that it wouldn't be fair, anyway. You just
have to come and feel it yourself, for the first time
or the fiftieth. After dinner, I went back to the
square. Earlier I had listened to the band play at the
Florian and watched the couples dance and had been
fiercely jealous. I wanted to be alone--but I wanted
to dance, too. So when I went back, to the silence and
the dark, the lights running around the far wide
edges, I danced, my arms outspread to the sky. Only a
little, not enough for people to have time to get
their cameras. But I danced.

No adventures today. Only a peace march in Venice that
I wasn't allowed to join, since they were in BOATS!
How cool was that?

Now (it's a music video bar) they're playing this
Arabic rap song that I've heard all over town. I first
heard it being blasted from a boat driven by some
kids. The police boat passed them, they turned it
down, the police got further away, and the music went
back up. Just like home. And I have the feeling that
they're not playing that song at home, huh?

Oh, and I saw it. I've been looking for it. When I
arrived, the Pace flags were just going up, one by
one. Then I saw them being sold. Then I saw stickers.
I counted the days till I saw the first tee shirt, and
I saw it two days ago. Ten days after the war started.
I had given it eight, so I was way off. But still.

I'm getting sad.... Tomorrow is my last day. How can
that be?

I'm walking home slowly,
love,
Rachele

033103
Ahhhh,

I walked here tonight--often I take the boat, as it's
about a half-hour walk from my apartment, but I wanted
to be in the air. For the very first time, it began to
spit against my face--you can't even call them
raindrops, more like the thoughts rain has before it
makes up its mind.

After another dinner of sepia in its ink, I passed
tonight a real estate office. Prices are surprisingly
comparable to Oakland for apartments. They ranged
between two and four hundred thousand. So: the goal
becomes, buy property in the States only to sell it
someday....

Spent today leisurely (after a visit to the Doge's
Palace--finally looked at some art--still love Tiepolo
and the surprising Bosch the best--I know Bosch isn't
Venetian (German?) but those crafty, selfish Venetian
judges just loved him, as do I: all those slinky
shapes and people being gored by small rodents and
insects), hopping on and off boats, from one cafe to
another. Had lunch at the Accademia bar again, sitting
next to the water, served by the waiter with the
sweetest, purest smile I've ever seen in my whole
life. And he knows how sweet he is, and he's
embarrassed by it, and that makes it even better. I
sat there and read and ate and drank and finished off
with a hot chocolate because I just could not bear to
leave.

I've spent most of today like that. Not bearing the
leaving. Went to see my friend Santina at the
hotel--we drank the young Venetian drink of choice: un
spritz, orange, bitter and fun, and we talked of
everything and nothing and Venice and the heart. I
missed her before I waved goodbye.

You know?

Venice is the loveliest. It's not the wine or the
people or the tolling bells speaking, it's the (my)
truth. I belong nowhere more strongly.

So I leave. I can't believe it's almost ten and I
haven't started packing. I have to be up by four am
and on the boat by four-thirty. Sigh....

And my words just aren't good enough to close with. I
close with the incomparable Jan Morris:

"When at last you leave these waters... and swing out
to sea, all the old dazzle of Venice will linger in
your mind; and her smell of mud, incense, fish, age,
filth and velvet will hang around your nostrils; and
the soft lap of her back canals will echo in your
ears; and wherever you go in life you will feel
somewhere over your shoulder, a pink, castellated,
shimmering presence, the domes and riggings and
crooked pinnacles of the Serenissima."

Ciao, grazie, ciao ciao,
Rachael.