The Romantic Rhine (sans girlfriends)

The first part of this photo album has images from our day on the Rhine. Soon I'll let you in on our adventures in the Netherlands, but first Deutschland!

After a surprisingly restful night’s sleep on our upholstered barber’s chairs, we stepped off the train in Cologne ready to see a huge cathedral and a few castles. We had to hustle, though. It was 6AM, peak time for tourist traffic at the Dom.

But first, we had to stow our luggage. We wandered the Cologne station searching for the standard locker bays, but only found a short row of terminals fronted with mini-garage doors and the “locker” icon. We sized up the contraption, weighing the benefits of dropping our gear against an innate fear of new technology. Eventually we rounded up enough change to stuff our luggage in the garage door. After taking our money, the door closed and mechanized noises rattle from within. Then the door popped open again, ready for the next duffel bag. Apparently there’s a vast Swiss-bank-like network of storage containers under the Cologne train station with a giant claw hovering over your deposited luggage. I briefly considered investigating this novel world of infrastructure by climbing through the door, but decided I would rather see the Romantic Rhine.

The cathedral confronts you as soon as you exit the train station. It’s impressive every time.

We walked around the building and found out it was open for visitors and 7AM mass was about to get underway at the Marian Chapel. So, as the organist performed the opening hymn on a small, piano-sized organ, we squeezed into the pews of the chapel off to the side of the main alter.

The Marian Chapel is so named for the ornate altar that depicts the arrival of the magi (a popular theme in the cathedral that houses their relics) at Mary and Jesus’s feet. An art museum argued the altar was too delicate to remain in the cathedral. The church wanted to keep it to use for worship. The court decided to let the Dom hang onto the precious piece of art as long as the church actually put it to use. So now they are legally required to say Mass in front of it at least once a day.

Apparently they opt to use it for the early mass so only the truly dedicated (read “old”) can appreciate the masterpiece of the Late Medieval Kölner school. We raised a few skeptical eyebrows as we took our places near the front of the chapel. The Sign of Peace was not extended to these youthful intruders.

At 8AM we finished wandering the cathedral and were on our way south. We kept checking our watches to make sure it was really that early. No one can accuse of us wasting a moment on that useless enemy of active tourism: sleep.

We hopped off the train in the small town of Bacharach. On one side of the town is the noble Rhine River. On the other are the steep, slate slopes overgrown with vineyards. The town was first settled in Roman times and earned its name “Bacchus’s Altar” for its prolific wine production. Looming over the vines is the stately Stahleck castle whose foundations go back at least a millennium. I really don’t get tired of typing statements like that.

My ankle was feeling flexible, so we walked through the old Medieval gate in search of a path to the castle. It’s a pretty popular tourist stop, so we figured it would be well marked. As soon as we veered from the quaint fachwerk drag of town, we were rapidly in the burbs. We could still see the castle, but couldn’t figure out how to get up there without crossing through a few yards.

We started to follow a small sidewalk that crossed a stream that once washed all the town’s garbage out to the river and saw signs for a youth hostel that was also uphill. We followed the signs. After a couple switchbacks we had a commanding view of the valley and realized the youth hostel signs were leading us into the castle. We crossed a drawbridge and discovered we could have stayed in a turret for a few euros. I guess no self-respecting older guest would want to slog up a hill for their bed.

A small Medieval fair was underway and people in leather armor were sipping coffee and shooting arrows. Perfect. We explored the castle, including a great hall that was decorated with the coat-of-arms of just about every city on the Rhine. Bonn and Cologne made an appearance along with Bacharach and Boppard.

We crossed through the main gate and up to a defensive wall that gave us these views of the river:

It was worth the hike. Looking down at the river though, I had a desire to get to the shore and onto a boat.

As we climbed down from the castle’s perch we saw Werner’s chapel, a Gothic ruin of a church that was dedicated to St. Werner. According to a Medieval legend, a traveler found the butchered body of young Werner on his way to Bacharach. The body smelled of violets and was undisturbed by wild animals. The butchering was blamed on Jews and the sweet smell was chalked up to God.

The locals built a soaring Gothic church over the spot and interred the body of the boy in its foundations. Eventually a bishop got word of Werner’s beautification and the pilgrims who were visiting his grave. This bishop thought the story of Werner’s “martyrdom” a little weird and stopped the beautification process. No more St. Werner and no more Gothic church. The ruin is picturesque though.

On our way through town we grabbed a bottle of Riesling made from the vineyards immediately behind us. The woman at the register of the small wine shop gave us a knowing nod when we asked her to pop the cork and lend us a few plastic cups. We then hustled to the kebab place across the street to grab some quick take-out food. The Döner is a Turkish/German mash-up that’s essentially a gyro with cabbage: lamb meat from a pole, tomatoes, a yogurt sauce, and slaw. Of course, we picked a place that bakes its own bread for your sandwich. This would normally be a welcome addition to the döner kebab, but we had a boat to catch. We anxiously watched the clock and scrutinized the bizarre pictures of giant grouses fighting in a stream, and a woman lassoing white horse - I can only assume these are idyllic images of Turkey - while our bread baked.

Finally, with only minuets to spare we bolted from the shop with our warm flatbread and wine and clamored aboard the H.M.S. Boppard. Our rail passes covered the ride, and we found a table near the front where we could see both castle-littered banks of the river. We toasted the river and set to our lunch.

In mid-bite I was interrupted by the a scowling waiter. Pointing at the bar on deck he declared. “No eating. This is a restaurant.” I thought about pointing out his obvious contradiction, then decided it probably wouldn't fulfill the Fulbright mission of extending positive impressions of Americans. We packed away our food and wine brought from outside and scurried to the other end of the boat, away from his disapproving glare. We didn’t want any of his overpriced food or beverages. We would wait to enjoy the rest of our lunch on shore. For the moment we would just enjoy the castles.

Periodically a series of timed, recorded announcements in German, French, English, Italian, Spanish, and Japanese would let us know what we were seeing on each bank. The announcement failed to point out the gathering grey clouds. Just as we neared the Lorelei, the narrowest section of the river that was said to be haunted by an alluring river spirit who would coax sailors to their death on the rocks, the heavens opened and we retreated to the sumptuous lower deck. There we watched the towns and castles from the comfort of a dry table. Coffee was deemed a necessary purchase even though the day was still young.

The rain petered out and I got to stand over the noble Rhine with the wind in my hair one more time before we disembarked in Boppard. As soon as our shoes hit shore, the deluge started all over again and we found shelter in a conveniently placed Carmelite church. As in Zurich, we evaluated the interior for exactly as long as the heavy rain lasted. Then it was back into the streets in search of the train station. Dripping red cabbage juice from our döner kebab sandwiches we could finally finish lunch as we waited for the train north. Mike is a fan of Beethoven, and there is one city every Beethoven fan should visit for roughly an hour: Bonn. I would briefly be home.

In the warm comfort of the train we could watch even more castles go by and Mike and Tim got to listen to my running commentary on the un-romantic Rhine that begins north of the city of Koblenz (the confluence of the Mosel and Rhine rivers). When we got to the former capital of Western Germany I lead Mike and Tim directly to the scowling centerpiece of the city: Beethoven’s statue. We also ducked into the Münsterbasilica (Münster means “Head” or “Chief” by the by) to see the ancient, chunky basilica - my home parish - then rolled on to Beethoven’s birthplace. We didn’t have time to actually take a tour though. I have yet to make this Bonner pilgrimage through the home of the Romantic composer. I keep waiting for a visitor who has the interest and time. Next weekend, maybe.

Humming the 9th, we turned and went back to the train station. We were really getting our money’s worth out of the rail passes. Unfortunately there was a stamping error on Mike’s and he had to get the mistake corrected at the customer service desk at the Bonn station. All wrongs were made right with three new stamps. It’s not official in Germany until at least two stamps have been applied, so we knew Mike’s pass was extra official with a third.

In Cologne we plugged in our code and our luggage miraculously appeared behind the garage door. Vowing I would find out more about this system, we turned to the tracks leading north. With a “Tschüss” to Germany, we set our sights on the Dutch. In three hours we would be in the international capital of tulips, pot-heads, and 'dam jokes: Amsterdam.

Until then enjoy the first part of this album!

Soggy Switzerland

The photo album again. By tomorrow you'll know all the stories that go with all the images. Your excitement is palpable.

Up with the dawn. This would become a theme. We were also up with the rainclouds. The steady drizzle accompanied us to the Munich underground and wouldn't really stop until after dinner that evening. There’s nothing like a sunny June in Europe.

With our rail passes bearing a sufficient number of German stamps we climbed aboard our first long distance train of the trip. Riding southwest across the country, Tim and Michael discovered the beautiful relaxation of the rails. We wrote in our journals, snacked, chatted, and snoozed.

Unfortunately they also learned a few of the stressors of the rails as we caught connections that zigzagged over the border. Our passes only covered Germany, Switzerland, and Benelux (a contraction of Belgium, The Netherlands, and Luxembourg) so we had to avoid dipping into the Austrian pan-handle, making for a lot of up, down, and transfers (though we did get a passing glimpse of the Rhine Falls, the Niagara Falls of the German World thanks to our goofy path). The whole time we prayed for sunny skies. They were not heard.

Luzern is the capital of the canton of Luzern (go figure) and is a touristic hub of the country because it sits right in the center of the Switzerland. Theoretically the town is overshadowed by the imposing Mt. Pilatus, but the cloud banks and drizzle prevented us from getting much of a view. Instead, we had plenty of time to size up the man-made attractions of the city.

The city rests on the banks of the Reuss River which dumps into Lake Luzern. There was a lot of river traffic in the area and a lot of people wanted the city for their own, so the citizens built the Wasserturm (Water Tower) and Kapellbrücke (Chapel Bridge) over the river to help defend the town. Now, lined with flower boxes and decorated with images of Luzern’s past, the combo of the bridge and tower make an iconic image.

The bridge (superlative alert) is the oldest wooden bridge in Europe, but in 1993 a fire nearly burned the whole structure to the level of the river. It was quickly rebuilt and new sprinklers installed to prevent the icon from going up ever again.

On the other side of the bridge we followed the recommendations of several guidebooks to a microbrewery on the banks of the river. Despite grey skies and overpriced pretzel sandwiches (but what isn’t overpriced in Switzerland) we enjoyed the experience of sipping cold beer under a stone balcony with a view of the medieval bridge and Baroque churches (if not mountains).

We crossed back over the river and popped into the Jesuitenkirche (Jesuit Church) so we could check out the ornate, Rococo interior and dry out a bit. The church was dedicated to St Francis Xavier, one of the great badass missionaries of the early Jesuits (and patron of my high school). He ventured across Asia, particularly focusing on Japan, Indonesia, and India. His dream was to proselytize in China, but he died on a Chinese island, waiting for a ship to the mainland.

The church was dedicated by the Pope in 1574 as a bastion against the rising Protestantism of Switzerland. In 1666 it was dedicated to Xavier. The ceiling of the interior is decorated with images from Xavier’s life and travels including his ride to heaven in a chariot pulled by an elephant, a camel, and a leopard as symbols of his missions. Somehow I don’t think such a chariot would get very far, but I guess when you’re on your way to heaven the animals can learn to play nice. The rest of the interor showcased the pyrotechnics of the counter-reformation where ornate marble (it’s fake) and gold leaf (real) were meant to inspire awe in all who entered.

Out into the weather and over another wooden bridge. This one has mill wheels attached to the base and the paintings feature the Dance of Death. Nuns, farmers, mayors, brides, and merchants are dogged by the leering skeletal face of Death. Cheery imagery for our tour of Luzern.

We started to wander through the shopping district, but changed our course when we saw signs for the city walls and defense towers. We weren’t in Amsterdam yet, but we wanted to get high. Up the steeply sloping streets, and up a narrow flight of stairs. We had an impressive view of the city and lake, obstructed only by wide chicken wire. When smoking was made illegal in town a couple centuries ago, the soldiers would hide in the towers to get their nicotine fix.

Today tourists heave themselves up the ladder-like stairs to leave graffiti mementos then contemplate the treacherous walk back down.

From the old wall we had to figure out the most efficient route to Luzern’s most popular attraction: the Lion of Luzern.

The monument is carved directly into the rock and shows a dying lion with a spear point sticking out of his side, tears on his anguished face, and his head resting on a French shield. Just because the Swiss don’t get involved in wars as a nation, doesn’t mean their citizens don’t like to fight. Swiss mercenaries were the best soldiers money could buy. They were the guards of Europe’s emperors, kings, and pope. In 1792, a mob of French Revolutionaries charged the royal palace in Paris, massacring hundreds of mercenaries who ran low on ammunition and just couldn’t deal with the massive hoards. After surrendering the palace, hundreds died in prison or were slaughtered during the September Massacres when the mobs of Paris killed half the prison population of the city. Not a great moment in history, so the lion is understandably tragic.

Michael reflected that it was hard to see the memorial as completely noble. These were mercenaries. They sold their loyalty and died defending a foreign king against his citizens for no reason beyond the cash in their pockets. I don’t know if that’s completely fair. The Swiss Guard had been employed in France since the 16th century. Many of the soldiers were arguably more French then Swiss by the 18th. They were fighting for their king just as the Vatican’s Swiss Guard takes their loyalty to the Pope as seriously as the Secret Service takes their defense of the U.S. President.

With the rain steadily falling we had a quiet moment to spend with the dying lion before retreating to the Hofkirche. Again, the façade was impressive, but we just needed a place to dry for a bit. As the main church of the city it was once the home of the Papal Nuncio. Now it’s decorated with all the filigree and wrought iron that you might expect in an important church with a more reserved Swiss attitude towards decoration.

Back to the station and a short ride to Bern, the capital of Switzerland. I visited on a much sunnier day back in April so I was able to confidently lead us to our first hostel, the clean and quiet Hotel Glocke. We dropped our bags, shook off the wet, then went into the streets for a brief walk around the Old Town and a hunt for food. My first destination was the bear pits. The bears are the symbol of the city (Bern=bear) and a pit stop is essential. We crossed the soaring stone bridge over the Aar River and were confronted with this sign:

It reads “Pedro is dead.” The old bear who was donated by the city of Barcelona (thus the Iberian name) died April 30th after his arthritis, which they had been treating for two years, became unbearable (pun un-intended). Poor Pedro.

Back over the bridge and past the Münster (Cathedral) that was gutted by zealous iconoclasts during the Swiss Reformation...

and on to the Parliament building where the fountain ignored the fact it was raining. Kids with umbrellas and too much time dodged through the water, gasping in shock when the erupting jets caught the inside of the umbrella and drenched them.

Near parliament was a street festival that required some kind of cover charge. As we walked by we could hear a classic rock cover band blasting from the stage with only two people on the ground watching. A tragic image, but we couldn’t beef the numbers. We needed food and an early night so we could get up at the crack of dawn to climb a mountain the next morning. We walked by an Italian place and sized up the menu. The Swiss prices pushed us on. Slowly we realized we would find nothing cheaper or drier so we sheepishly went back to the restaurant and were lead to a seat in the middle of the dining room.

We ordered pizza (always the cheapest option) and Tim and Michael learned the muscular art of eating a crisp pizza crust with a fork and knife. By the end Michael was complaining of tennis elbow from all the sawing. When it was time to pay we looked for our Italian? Russian? waiter who had seemed overwhelmed by our bad pronunciation and drink orders (is “Bier, bitte” really that hard to sort out?). He was nowhere to be found. Ah, there he is, “Enschul…” Nothing. Every time he swept by, we fought for his attention. We sat and waved for the better part of a half-hour. We started pooling our pennies (or Franks) to just leave on the table in frustration when if finally dragged himself to our table to collect our patronage. I’ll admit that I’m looking forward to attentive service on the other side of the pond.

Finally we were free to go, gawk at a fountain I had somehow missed in April that features a giant devouring naked children, and call it a night. We needed our rest. We had a mountain waiting for us.

I hope your barbecues, block parties, and fireworks were a literal blast, and stay tuned for the continuing adventures of the Blazing Buckeyes!

Tschuss!

The pictures.

Cinque Terre: A Beach Vacation Borths Brother Style

We left Florence in the breaking dawn, carefully packing in the dark. I continue to travel as “that guy,” the one who comes in late and wakes up before anyone else. My consolation is I think I’m pretty quiet about it. Josh is also the master of the early exit (as long as you can get his feet on the ground after he wakes up). With a wave at the former cultural capital of Europe, we started our ride west. If Italy is a giant boot, the “Five Lands” are at on the upper-most thigh.

We rode from Florence to La Spezia in a cabin that slowly filled, finally joined by two Montanans who commented on Josh’s Michigan Music T-shirt. They were traveling with an adult Italian-language class. He was a well-informed good ol’ boy who wanted to talk football. I don’t know my western conferences very well (except that I should loath USC), but I provided a few vague comments. This is why a working knowledge of athletics is key for wandering the world. It’s always a safe topic and everyone can bond quickly.

We also found out they knew a curator at the Musuem of the Rockies and referred to Dr. Jack Horner as “Jack.” There aren’t many laymen who would know that was a big deal, Montanans know their fossils. They also knew the area we were headed to and raved about the beautiful cliff towns that perch over the Mediterranean Sea, waiting for vigorous tourists to explore the protected coast and stop in for a glass of wine or some indigenous pesto. We were getting pretty excited pretty quickly.

They helped us find the correct regional train to Cinque Terre and we piled off onto a narrow sidewalk of the platform. Directly below us was the crashing Mediterranean. Josh took in the folded cliffs and quaint pastel homes while I distractedly searched for a sign telling us if we were in the right town. I could finally enjoy the moment after I found the sign proclaiming we had arrived in “Riomaggiore.”

Through a tunnel below one of the twisted mountains then up a steep street lined with fruit stands and cafés. This was Mediterranean life, Italian style. We found our hostel’s address and were told to wait for the owner outside the establishment. With stilted English he demanded we pay then, with our cash in hand, he disappeared into the laundry room. We waited on the street, confused by the process, wondering where we would sleep and if we were getting ripped off. We had nothing to worry about.

He led us down slope to a narrow hallway of an alley. Unlocking an ancient, peeling door, he revealed a large room with laundry facilities, a small kitchen, a bunked bed and a queen sized bed, all gilded with golden duvets. Hostel luxury. But we couldn’t enjoy the swinging green shutters or the shampoo that exploded all over my backpack for too long. We had hiking to do.

We quickly arrived in Manarolo from Riomaggione and grabbed lunch at a focaccia and pizzaria. We were giddy over the prices. We may not be the most economical travelers to hit Italy, but we know how to get excited about a deal. This was vacation. We ate our pesto calzones on a rocky outcrop by the port surrounded by snoozing sunbathers.

With more pictures and sighs of contentment we carried on past a massive assemblage of locks (you write your lovers name on the lock then throw away the key) and a profile of a smooching couple. I missed Carolyn even though I forgot to bring a lock along.

We turned a corner along the cliff and found a footpath leading to a rocky beach and a quiet cove. A solitary rock sat about 40 feet out with the waves crashing over. “I want to swim to that rock.” I didn’t expect Josh to make such a suggestion. “Then let’s swim to that rock!” We clamored down to interrupted two women sunbathing on a boulder. We changed, discrete exhibitionists, and waded into the frigid waves. The first few steps were breathtaking, literally. I reached the end of the rock, braced myself for the shock, and dove under the waves. Glorious.

The water was perfectly clear and incredibly deep. Fish and crustaceans were discernable through 25 feet of water. We explored the coast, climbing onto the rock in the center of the cove that Josh had first targeted and dove off after schools of anchovies. My first real swim in the storied Mediterranean (without a wetsuit). It was first definition awesome. We even found a secluded coastal cave to explore. I climbed back to our bags along the narrow lip of rock that forced me to cling to the folded face. Even though I was surrounded by a tourist Mecca, I found a moment of personal adventure.


Once we dried off, we started up the slope, swinging by a rope to make it up the first step, and continued to Corniglia. The next town sits high above the coast. After a steep climb we wove past quaint cafés and shops, grabbing a gelato as we climbed past the town church to a prominence capped by a brick-walled fortress that was maybe erected to defend the town or maybe constructed to defend the citizens from the sheer cliffs below. We licked our ice cream and basked in the Mediterranean sun.

On to Vernazza. The trail became more rugged and the flowers more abundant. The trail opened into orchards and vineyards with stray cats and lizards crossing the path or watching us cautiously (the only way cats and lizards can watch). It wasn’t a strenuous hike, but it worked up a bit of a deserved sweat. The day continued with perfection as we crossed rock bridges and passed pairs of other contented hiking couples.


The trail wove into town, culminating at a castle tower that sits on the peninsula. We sat by the small public beach at a café with the breeze, a castle, and the ferry boats (the way to get around if you can't hoof it and want something a little more exotic than a train). We drank wine (and some requisite water) and didn’t think about much (including our guide. We abandoned Rick Steves at the café and didn’t realize it until we were in the final town). As we left town, we walked through a small church with a domed tower. Stained glass was unnecessary with a view of the cliffs and bay from the pews.

The trail continued through the orchards of lemons and flowers. It had the feel of a wild garden rather than a protected National Park.

At Montarossa we found the largest beach yet. We were glad to have stopped earlier at the rugged, more secluded rock beach, though the water was still shockingly clear and blue at Montarossa’s tourist haven. We were hoping to rent a kayak or canoe, but the boats are only rented on weekend or by appointment. In other words, geschlossen. I was too relaxed to really be disappointed. Into the water we went, finding a sharp-faced rock to try to climb with the assistance of the thundering waves.

After much deliberation we ate dinner at a restaurant by the beach. We were hoping to avoid the touristy (i.e. more expensive) front but only discovered bars further from the water. Dinner was wine, lemon anchovies, and pesto lasagna. Excellent foods that I want to try making on my own at some point in the near future, but they will never taste as good as they did after a day of hiking along the Mediterranean.

Content, per the orders of the day, we went back to Vernozza by train to recover our book, but the restaurant had closed for the night. Rick would just have to guide other travelers. We were a little apprehensive about getting through Naples and Pompeii without him (he basically allows us to save our pennies by not getting audioguids), but we didn’t worry about it for too long. There was a moon over the sea and subdued-but-warm bars to enjoy We ordered lemon cello, a specialty of the region, and toasted Cinque Terre. When we arrived in Riomaggiore we found another bar with a happy hour and more relaxed tourists. We went to bed, tucked in to our gold duvets with images of sunset over the Mediterranean drifting through inebriated brains. We would need to store this relaxed state in our memories if we wanted to make it through the craziness of Naples.

Life in Venice

Really you need to see Venice. I wouldn't mind if you read about it too...

The train to Venice didn’t offer much in the way of scenery except for the promise of distant mountains and the occasional placid lake. Suddenly the landscape vanished. We were hurtling across the turquoise Mediterranean, sharing the road with barges and fishing vessels. We cut our speed and glided into a non-descript train station. We went to the tourist information office and figured out where our hostel was located. The testy Venetian woman pointed at a long island across from the main square of Venice. She then offered to sell us ferry tickets.

Guide books informed me the public ferries were the busses of Venice, only much more expensive. As an expense and a bus, the vaporettos dually repelled me. We would walk. We squeezed out of the phone booth they call tourist information and stepped outside. And there it was. Venice.
A wide canal flowed by the front steps of the train station with boats puttering along the dilapidated, pastel buildings. We followed foot traffic and the detailed map into the maze of the city. I was lost immediately. Streets changed names every block and never met at right angles. Canals sliced across the street requiring side trips to small bridges. The way to navigate Venice is to follow occasional street signs pointing in the direction of major landmarks. You ignore the street names. So do the locals. There is no set system for numbering buildings. Instead you just pick a number when you build (though there haven’t been many new buildings in Venice in quite a while, giving the mail people plenty of time to study-up).

After discovering we were going east when I thought we were going west, I swallowed my navigational pride (with my brother’s enthusiastic support) and went back to the central station. We would ride a bus. With a youth card acquired at the TI, we bought a three day pass for the vaporettos. This turned out to be a great move since our hostel could only be reached by vaporetto. I guess we could have tried to swim, but our passports might have gotten soggy.

We threw our bags in the middle of the deck and motored into the harbor, past cruise ships and barges. Yellow DHL delivery boats were loading up at the warehouse, and construction rafts floated concrete trucks over the waves. Venice is a surreal city of water. When I went to Copenhagen, I was told it was the “Venice of the North.” When I when to Hamburg, I was also told this was the “Venice of the North.” Bruges and Amsterdam vie for the title in their chunk of the North. But none of these places are Venice. There are no cars in Venice. There are no bikes. Their absence isn’t driven by draconian city planning, but by practicality. The canals are the streets and narrow alleys give way to steep, stepped bridges that make bikes a silly investment. It is a flooded city. A city that isn’t just financially supported by water, but physically supported. Back off Northern Venices. Ya got nothin’.

Our hostel was a no-frills barracks with a couple of steel bunk beds punctuated by an occasional communal bathroom. But out our window was the clear Mediterranean. We could see St. Mark’s Cathedral and the lighthouses, bell towers, and domes of the drowning city. I would have paid for the view, but I got a bed to go along with it.
It was time to explore that view. First we hopped onto a vaporetto to the mouth of the Grand Canal and the spiritual center of Venice at St. Mark’s Square. The wide piazza is surrounded by expensive cafés that feature live string quartets that have entertained everyone from Napoleon to Twain.

But the cafés don’t hold your attention. That goes to the Cathedral.

From the 12th to 16th centuries, Venice was the wealthiest city in Europe. It was an economic empire that mediated trade between Europe and Asia. They had a lot of cash flowing in and they wanted to show it. So they built a Cathedral. The place was inspired by Byzantine architecture with domes popping up across the roof. Spires topped by saints reveal a little Gothic influence. The interior is literally covered in mosaic. Every corner of the ceiling, and every inch of wall is blanketed with tiny tiles of glass and ceramic. The heavenly backdrop is luminous gold. The designers had so much space that they broke out the more obscure biblical stories and holy people to cover the interior. Walking into the nave and craning our necks, we could only gasp, “Wow.”

We toured the interior, admiring the intricate floor tiles and the golden alter with hundreds of tiny portraits of Christ and the Apostles, all in the stern, Eastern iconic style. Apparently no one smiled for the camera in Byzantium.

Then we went up a narrow staircase that would never pass code in the U.S. to admire four bronze horses, symbols of Venice’s former power. The horses were cast in the 5th century B.C. in Greece. Then Constantine carried them off to Constantinople. The Venetian Crusaders brought them home for the cathedral. Then Napoleon carted them to Paris. The French finally returned them in the 19th century, and now they are sheltered from acid rain while copies take the brunt of industrial offense. The horses chomp their bits and they muscles tense in mid step. I am continually amazed at the anatomical detail the Greeks worked into their art. Over the next couple of days, this admiration would only increase.

On to the Domo’s palace. At the peak of her power, Venice was ruled by a Domo, or Duke. He was elected by a grand council that included prominent businessmen and important families (crazy how those go together). He wasn’t a tyrant. Just an executive with constitutional duties to councils and legislatures that governed different aspects of municipal affairs. The palace was both the Duke’s home and the primary governmental meeting place. It’s also bathed in art. Maps of the world from the 1700s and portraits by Old Masters like Titian and Tintoretto are literally on every wall. It was exhausting moving through each chamber, trying to put together the complicated network of Venetian politics and history while keeping an eye out for important artists.

Our final stop was the jail which lead directly to the court of justice. Byron called the bridge between the jail and the court the Bridge of Sighs, imagining the incarcerated taking in his final view of the harbor before being condemned. Romantic, it’s true, but a little less so now while construction swathes the palace and provides ample advertising space.

As the sun prepared to set we hopped onto a Vapparetto down the Grand Canal. With a Rick Steves audiotour in our ears we puttered through centuries of opulence followed by evidence of slow decline. We saw the Rialto Bridge, and the Jewish Quarter (thank you Billy Shakes for giving me some context), then on past palaces and markets.

Every guidebook comments on Venice as the dying city. It’s no longer a world power, and the inconvenience of living there is driving people to the mainland, but it didin’t seem overly seedy. It may be shrinking, as it should. It doesn’t need to be as large or powerful as it once was. Now it is a kind of historical Disneyland, a retreat from the way you expect life to function.

There is not motor traffic except the chopping of rotor blades. Gondoliers row relaxed, loving couples (and Japanese tourists) along narrow by waters lined with ferns and petunias. Ever city should be afforded the opportunity to age with such grace.


As the sun set over the bay, we dove into the city, vaguely hoping to find a place for dinner, but not rushing ourselves. There was a city to take in. We finally settled down for some pasta and calamari, eavesdropped on some Irishmen, and moved to a Jazz Bar. There wasn’t any live music, but there was a lively atmosphere and more affordable beverages than we found in Milan. This seemed counterintuitive since we were on a series of islands where everything is supposed to be more expensive than the mainland, but we didn’t want to ask any questions.

Then into the night. The moon was shining through a thin veil of clouds, illuminating the quiet canals. We stopped on a dock jutting into the Grand Canal. A lone gondolier slowly navigated his craft out of a small channel and into the main stream. The only sound was his oar slicing the current. We watched in silence, then turned from the surreal scene of Renaissance palaces and watercraft without comment.

As we crossed the city towards the hostel, we found an isolated tributary that wound past buildings that have been floating in the bay for centuries. We listened to the water lapping the deck and watched the moon reflected in the water. If there was a time to have Carolyn by my side, that was it (no offense Josh). We poked our toes into the water. I’m not sure either of us can articulate why we needed to do that, but it felt like the right thing to do. We then began our happy, slightly wet march back to St. Mark’s Square and our bunk beds with a view.

The next morning we returned to St. Mark’s with plans to leave our luggage at the free baggage check by the Cathedral. The attendants weren’t happy with our clever, time-saving plan and told us the bags could only sit there for an hour. Damn. Back to the hostel to leave our stuff in five Euro locker. With some Tetris-like shoving we crammed both our packs into one locker and went in search of some art.

The Academia in Venice is the best place in the world to enjoy the work of the Venetian Renaissance (go figure). We did our duty admiring Titian, especially his depictions of the story of St. Mark, the patron saint of Venice. The winged lion with the gospel, the symbol of Mark, is literally everywhere in the city. I wonder if there are any citys with St. Matthew’s winged human (not an angel) festooned on every bell tower and boat? This is what the internet is for…

Before leaving town, we needed to hear if there was any news on the Rialto. The Rialto Bridge is a Renaissance edifice that arches over the Grand Canal. It’s also the center of tourism and souvenir stands. Josh collects masks, and Venice is famous for its Carnival masks. While I considered a hand-made journal, he evaluated masks. Most were cheap souvenirs. Then we found a small shop with pictures of Tom Cruise in a golden mask declaring, “Featured in Eyes Wide Shut.” This might be authentic.

The proprietor was at work painting a Harlequin mask when we stepped in. At first he seemed skeptical that these two American tourists would stay for more than thirty seconds. As Josh examined his options (and wallet), I earned us some credibility points by asking about Stanley Kubrick and the artist’s work for the San Francisco Shakespeare company. When we left, everyone was satisfied. Josh had a very authentic addition to his growing collection, and I got to chat with a Venetian.

We grabbed massive sandwiches from a street vendor and settled down on an empty dock to watch the boats go by on the canal. Venice seemed to invest us with a desire to dreamily watch the city move by. It was a breathing movie set, a fantasy. It was all it was cracked up to be. But we couldn’t sit dreamily all afternoon. It was time to spend some time in the golden light of Tuscany….
More photos of Borths Boy wandering.