Venice seems to me, a city of contrasts. A fabulously old place that the sea is fighting to reclaim and Venetians are refusing to let sink. How could they? There is so much invested. I overheard a young person say that it reminds her of Las Vegas, in a foreign language. Except that this is the real thing. The city holds you and releases you as it pleases. We were constantly and happily lost but always found our way out of the maze, never using a map. The waterbuses move you through the canals, once you are walking in the narrow passageways, you become part of the moving sea of people, all capturing images of mostly each other as they walk or ride gondolas. I long for a Venice without the people.
I wake at 4:33 am hoping for a different experience. I catch the first Vaporetto (water buses are for the masses, the chic use only water taxis) to discover a damp, dark, sleepy city. Boats are piled high with bales of newspapers, water rats cleaning the streets, and workers are preparing to feed, house, and transport the waking masses.
Waterborne transportation issues are causing deep divides in the narrow canals. No Grande Navi is a fight to ban the cruise ships from the Lagoon. The argument is tonnage has no place in Venice. Imagine a Godzilla sized ship surrounded by gondolas that are barely two feet out of the water. It is a David & Goliath story. The cruise ships stir up the mud, deepen the lagoon, which loosens the very foundations that these ancient buildings need to keep them from crumbling into the Canals. They say “we have enough tourists in Venice. We don’t need more” (especially since the cruise taxes are sent to Rome) For hundreds of years the Venetians have wanted to be their own city-state. More than the Adriatic separate these two cities. Venice precious and precarious.
Venice Italy September 23rd 2014
Off to the winery that Silvia Bonomo, Julie’s friend, whom we met in SB, recommended. GPS says 45 min. Leaving ourselves one hour, we have plenty of time, but as we get closer the time is getting a little tight. We turn on a marked road to the town but GPS says “make a U-turn when possible”. A few hundred yards down the road we leave the pavement behind. We are on a white road. Now I know that these are shown on the map as white because they are limestone gravel and very narrow single-car sized. According to the third voice in the car (GPS, Jill), we are going to be late anyway. What the heck, let’s be late AND dusty. Vicki asks what if there is a car coming the other way? I say, what if there’s not? 6k later we have one of the prettiest country drives so far, past small stone farmhouses, a road crew in a Big Truck, and views better than the brochure. We arrive at the winery 21 minutes late. It’s okay though, we know how wine is made and it is fine with the guide. The property is also a bed and breakfast for the rich & famous. The only other couple on the tour were German Rockstars. Sorry, forgot their names.
We decided to wash down the wine tasting with lunch on the property. Imagine small tables for two with white linen under a big tree, 100-mile view of the Tuscan countryside, behind a low stone wall and two hawks doing a mating flight dance above.
half photo, half painting of those who have made the wine implying that there is a bit of old world paint and new world technology that goes into the winemaking process. No better way to distill a sense of pride in a bottle.
In the last couple of days, we have been tourists in the Parmesan, Balsamic, and Ferrari attractions. In each of the presentations we have heard that “it is a passion, not a business”, must be in the DNA of the appellation, or is a bit of Italian marketing-wink. It’s worked for Ferrari, let’s try it with the cheese. The balsamic producer, hotel owner, Agriturismo participant makes fabulously expensive vinegar meant to be consumed in drops. The subtle aroma permeates the property and the food that is served. He accuses Americans of drinking industrial grade vinegar… Maybe he needs a better marketing plan and international distribution.
Arrived in Lucca with some help from the GPS, mostly dead reckoning and a little luck. Entrance to Fabbrica Di San Martino looks a little bigger than a forest dirt path with a small sign and chain across the road. Imagine a tree-shrouded rainforest with failing light in the middle of the day. Up a hill on a road that you might imagine only bike riders and young people with well-traveled backpacks would be on. Thank goodness it wasn’t nighttime. We would never have found the Villa. I’m looking out a 17th-century window at a 21st-century Tuscan landscape. The longer you look, the clearer the details become. There are church spires and town towers that distinguish themselves, like putting on reading glasses and seeing more detail on the page. ” I am old, wise, and significant” is the message. The deafening quiet is interrupted only by the occasional sound of the wine harvesting equipment doing work that will eventually become part of celebrations, toasts, and pairings. Yes, there is bottle cooling as I write.
The breakfast was set in the large entryway of the Villa, an enchanting spot centered on the distant mist-shrouded mountains. The terrace smelled of damp herbs and freshly baked croissants. Our table was next to Christophe & Kirsten, Belgians from Ganst who we ended up spending an evening with swatting some bugs, trading travel stories, and drinking profuse amounts of wine and limoncello that tasted a bit like lemon pledge. The night ended with promises to visit each other’s towns.
The best part of today was after sunset when we Yelped for a good restaurant after busing/walking Florence all day.
The ancient beauty and antiquities of the city are the palette for affordable kitsch. The marbleized paper maker is lost in his own town, his artisan neighbors have been replaced by bazaar types that import product to sell to the masses. But conversely, that’s what makes the artisan so valued. The search for the real thing is just a little more challenging. And when you find it buy it because when you return it may be only a memory.
