Venice 23rd May 2010
Well, we got here without too many problems. The Ryanair flight was only 3 hours late and they were almost apologetic about it.
Now ensconced in our self-catering apartment about five minute’s walk from San Marco. Last night, it was magic as gondoliers sailed past under our windows, serenading the punters who were paying an arm and a leg for what we were getting for free.
We have since discovered that we are on a little circuit where package tourists pay for a ‘gondola experience’ which lasts about 10 minutes. Flotillas of gondolas pass through every twenty minutes or so at peak times and the singing gondolier seems to be on a loop so far as I can hear. I reckon that, by Wednesday, I’ll be introducing him to the old Embra custom of ‘Gardy loo’ and chucking the contents of a slop bucket out of the window.
Today was interesting. Woken by the garbage barge going through about 8 am.
Our friends were due in to the railway station about 9 am, so we strolled to the vaporetto stop to get the Number 1 down to meet them. Not a waterbus in sight. Instead it looked as if desperate tourists were using any means of water transport they could find to get their fix of the Palazzo Ducale as quickly as possible..
Then found a notice that today was the day of the Vogalonga and that all the waterbus services were suspended. To quote from the website:-
‘The Vogalonga is an act of love for Venice and its waters……….
The Vogalonga is a celebration for the entire ‘people of the oar,’ and today, just as in the beginning, it is a peaceful testimony against the wave-motion, so dangerous for the city and the lago.’
All fair enough, but it’s also a right pain in the tonsils if you’re a tourist caught up in it. Off we set on foot to get to our friends at the station. Text message arrived to say that they were three hours late, due to the Italian railway online service managing to triple book the train. Mussolini was mentioned in a complimentary way – said friends have never been to Italy before and appeared to be regretting the whole idea.
Reasonably straightforward walk to begin with. We then started to meet a few determined and fit walkers striding purposefully in the opposite direction towards Piazza San Marco. For some reason, I was reminded of Janh1 and Pseu.
The trickle swelled to a raging tide. What had happened, of course, is that all the people who had chosen to come to Venice today had found out that the only way to get to the Piazza was to hoof it all the way. Quite a few hardy souls do this anyway but this was a torrent of humanity and we were having to thread our way through it in the opposite direction. I felt like a lemming who had remembered that they might have left the gas on in their burrow and was just nipping back to check.
The flow started to ease off as the back markers came through. Octogenarians with sticks and zimmers gamely struggling on to their goal. If Leni Riefenstahl had still been around, she would have been able to film a sequel to ‘The Triumph of the Will’. Magnificent in their obsession, they battled on, forgetting that it was Naples that you were supposed to see and then die.
We, on the other hand, gave up and stopped to watch the Vogalonga from the bridge at the Accademia. More material for a modern day Leni as dragon boats, coxed eights, canoeists and any other form of oared vessel that you can think of, short of a trireme, came up the Grand Canal
Eventually we met up with our friends, and travelled down the Grand Canal on the resumed waterbus service so they could have that unique experience of coming round the bend at Fondaco dei Tedeschi and seeing the Rialto Bridge in the flesh for the first time. They have now forgiven the Italians for the various transport disasters they have inflicted on us and accept that il Duce was probably, on the whole, a ‘bad thing’, even if he did make the trains run efficiently.
Our first night ended in a superb restaurant in Campo Santa Stefano. The starter for four was
Aye, all in all, Venice is, in my considered opinion, no’ hauf bad.
Except for that bloody gondolier who has gone past three times while I have beeen writing this. I’m getting sick fed up of ‘Santa Lucia’ Where’s that slop bucket?
Boadicea's Chariot 
JM, your ‘fruits de mer’ starter looks marvellous. I’ve hear of the vulgar boatmen but now you’ve had first hand experience!
Interesting insight John, very good. The last image shows what looks like raw kidney’s sitting in the foreground of the shell, please confirm they’re not raw kidney’s 🙂
Val, I reckon they’re olives.
Hi Val, Janus is right. The two items in front of the octopus were indeed very large olives.
Gee wizz, they are big olives, I bet they taste good. I’m hungry now.
and there was me thinking they large octopus gonards. 🙂
Nice post JM. Have fun.
We used to drive down from Germany and park the caravan at one of the Cavallino sites 10 miles outside Venice, crossing to the city by ferry. An absolute must for a European holiday – along with Vienna.
Ahhh, Venice.
I nearly managed to get there on my 40th birthday, but we ended up in Paris instead. Don’t get me wrong, I had a great time, but I’ve always wanted to got to Venice.
Maybe for my 50th?
You have to do it Pseu. THE most magical, amazing, historic, romantic place on the planet – and I’m including Wales in that 😀 Though, I admit, I’m not much travelled.
What a fabulous seafood platter, Giovanni!!
That singing gondolier…not Marco by any chance is it? He was a very pleasant cove but he was persuaded to regale us with history instead of singing. How fab. To canoe down the Grand Canal as part of the Vogalonga. I wonder if they let anyone take part?
PS Don’t think for one second that I missed that crack, by the way. One doesn’t stride around Venice. One drifts romantically. At least, that’s what one imagines which is just as well considering I had Mrs Blobby-sized mosquito bites on my legs at the time. 😀
PPS I’m *very* jealous and waiting for Part Due..
Hello JM
Pleased that you’re enjoying yourself, not for me however, don’t think that I’d be able to cope
Lovely time you’re having there. John. Thank you for the postcard, and I’m almost convinced that this furrin’ travel lark, may well be worth it.
I’m a bit off this flying business, having suffered enough in the past, but I ‘spose I could get back into the whole thing again.
Oh I love Venice.
I was determined to love it, even before I went a few years ago.
Ok, the food was vastly overpriced, the queues in St Mark’s horrendous and the black squid was…um, black squid.
But there is something so magical about the whole place. Walking by the canals in the medieval half light, imagining the masquerading faces of the carnival in times gone by, listening to mysterious singing emanating from the tiny churches. Knowing you’ve probably missed the last train back to Murano… 😉
Missing the last train back to Murano? Wow, there’s a feat!
Yes, we managed it, as I recall!
We found this very exclusive looking shop, tucked away near one of the main bridges, where they with loads of exquisite looking masks and costumes for the carnival. They had a film crew in there when we went in; the snooty looking manageress said they’d been commissioned for films like Marie Antoinette – although how true that was I’ll never know!
oops, that was meant to be ‘where they made’
Totally agree with the magical thing Claire. Just as I thought I’d got to grips with the geography, we took a wrong turn after a boozy dinner one night and got completely lost in silent streets leading to lonely stretches of black canal at 1 am! Spooky and terrifically atmospheric. Only found our way back to something recognisable by asking one lone guy – probably a waiter – who was on his way home.
Claire, Murano is an island in the lagoon. The last time I was in Venice they hadn’t laid a railway line on water. That’s why “missing the last train” would be so difficult.
We were counting our pennies and so had a cheapo dinner with loads of chips for 15 euros one evening. It was pouring with rain and my jeans were soaking wet – but the whole thing was still incredibly magical!
Oh blimey Sheona, maybe I got my place names mixed up.
We stopped in some place which was about a three quarter of an hour train journey to Venice as I recall, because we couldn’t afford to stay in Venice itself. It began with an M, how scatty am I for not being able to put finger on it exactly!
I will have to google it to see.
Oops think it might have been Mestre, actually. All that magic obviously went to my head!
Although even my other half can’t remember the name of the place.
Was it Mestre, though that’s not three quarters of an hour away?
Oh blimey Sheona.
Would you like to check my bank details and my passport while you’re at it?
Hi zen
That’s what we did the first time. Drove all the way from Embra in a green Ford Escort (HSL 347N). Girlfriend (later Mrs M), girlfriend’s girlfriend, girlfriend’s girlfriend’s tent and me.
The last minute scratching by girlfriend’s girlfriend’s boyfriend meant that said girlfriend’s girlfriend was in a fragile emotional state throughout the entire trip and that girlfriend was in total sympathy and prepared to believe that all men were bastards at the drop of a single unwashed dish. Walked on eggshells the whole time.
We got to Jesolo and it was full to overflowing with Germans. Eventually found a campsite in Sottomarina at the other end of the lagoon and we did the ferry bit that time. Still totally magic.
What do your bank details and passport have to do with your error, claire?
Hi, Claire. It was probably Mestre indeed. Don’t quite see why Sheona has to make such an issue about your mismemory. As you say, the place is magic and there is no need, in my opinion, to apply rigorous scientific analysis to any memories of La Serenissima, however factually inaccurate they might be. We should just be glad we have them.
Sheona, this seems uncharacteristically unJockish of you. Claire was clearly attempting the fine old Scottish tradition of joshing when she replied to your second correction of her in re the distance between Mestre and Venice.
Why not just share your own memories of Venice with us instead of picking holes in hers?
We used an Austrian run site, Stella Maris, the clientelle of which seemed to be pan-European. As well as the usual contingent of the Master race, we had Scandinavians, French, and even some Italians! The Norwegians were great fun, the Danes quiet, and the Swedes scrounging and obnoxious. The French shaved their legs and rode their bicycles, when not taking the p..s out of the Swede’s mistress. All great fun!
Zen. Our campsite had lots of Herrenvolk and Italians and a smattering of Belgians and French. We were the only Brits on site.
Major diplomatic coup for me. The girls had retired early after a hard day’s Venicing and I went off to the campsite bar. The final of ‘Jeux Sans Frontieres’ was on. About 20 Germans roaring on their representative and swilling back German beer. About the same number of Italians. I ordered a beer and was offered a German one. I refused it, explaining loudly in carefully pre-rehearsed Italian that I much preferred ‘birra nazionale’. Then proceeded to root extremely loudly for Ely.
Once it became clear that the Italians were out of it, they all came over to my side and we cheered Ely to a narrow victory over whatever the German town was, whilst quaffing prodigious amounts of Perroni. Happy days.
Amazing, the universal popularity of the Squareheads!