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.

You're really Pisa-n me off. Sienna later.

The first part of the album is all about Florence, but if you skip ahead you'll see an iconic tower or two.

At the end of my last post I said we had polished off Florence in a day. This was an overstatement. We had one more museum that needed our attention and non-discounted ticket money: The Bargello Museum. The Museum houses sculpture from the Greeks through 1900. Nearly every significant sculpture was on loan. Donatello’s David was temporarily in Milan. Mercury was in Munich. But we still got to marvel over ivory sculpture and ceramic friezes until our museum-weary feet lead us back to the train station.

Pisa: The town is frozen in time. Well it’s eroding a bit, but it looks like people in tights and goofy hats should be strolling the streets still. In the 14th century it was a major trading center and political power. Then the money dried up and the city was preserved with winding medieval streets and a really famous tower that’s fighting a losing battle with physics. We wound through the city, past flea market booths and university students and suddenly saw an Italian icon peeking over a dilapidated church. We hurried to see the rest of it. Josh and I can confirm that it is, in fact, leaning. Like, leaning a bunch. At one point it was 15 feet out of true. This was calculated to surpass the critical point, so an army of engineers and hydraulic lifts were employed at the beginning of the millennium to set it at a more stable 11.5 feet off center. We can also confirm it’s beautiful. The lacy columns and Italian Gothic colored marble would make it notable, even if it were sitting squarely in the dirt (I think, anyway). The tower is actually the bell tower for the neighboring Basilica, so after sitting in the grass and doing our best to help keep the thing up, we wandered inside.

Modest dress is required, so no shorts and no shoulders. The Pisans provide fashionable ponchos for ignorant tourists though.


The lectionary in the cathedral consumed most of my time as the choir practiced in the background. I really have no idea how tough it is to shape a block of rock into a human figure, but I imagine it’s a pretty difficult undertaking. This lectionary was a master’s tour de force. Hundreds of faces and flowing folds were on display. The time and effort required to produce such a work is beyond my comprehension.

The other key artifact in the Cathedral is Galileo’s Lamp. The swinging oil lamp suspended over the pews inspired a young, bored Galileo to contemplate the movement of a pendulum, setting him on a scientific quest that knocked the Earth from the center of the universe. It was a pretty cool lamp.

And that’s about all there is to see in Pisa. You see the tower, and move on, so we did.


But not very far. We needed to transfer trains at Empoli, a town east of Pisa and west of Florence, somewhere in the neighborhood of Purgatory. Our train transfer to Sienna never came. We waited, and waited. No trains arrived. None were announced. No one moved. I have experienced two hours in a physical, spiritual, emotional no-man’s land. I would prefer to make this a one-time event. Pray for my soul. I don’t want to go back to Empoli.

Sienna: Sienna is an ancient city perched on a hill that once competed with Florence for Tuscan supremacy. The locals trace the foundations of the city to the son of Remus, someone who needed to leave Rome behind thanks to a fratricidal uncle.

When we first left the station we were at a loss for what to do next. There were no busses and no signs to the city center. Rick Steves assumed we had a car. We started walking up hill. It didn’t seem too far off. The city aged as we got closer to the center, finally giving way to narrow alleys connected by steep staircases.

I flashed back to Marburg and instantly felt comfortable. As we strolled past fashionable shops, following contradictory signs towards the cathedral and town hall, we heard the rolling of snare drums.

We turned a corner and were confronted by a battalion of flag-waving youths in red and green tights accompanied by a platoon of percussion. We ducked the swinging poles and creeped along the wall, searching for a safe vantage point. None existed. We attentively watched the parade, occasionally ducking a concussion-inducing dowel. These things don’t happen in Deutschland.

Apparently Sienna is divided into 15 neighborhoods that compete for civic bragging rights. The neighborhoods stage these parades in Renaissance gear to instill the next generation with a sense of pride in their district, and every summer the neighborhoods mount a horse race in the middle of town to figure out who’s really the coolest neighborhood in Sienna. I think we should adopt such a system in Cincinnati pitting Price Hill, Blue Ash, Colerain etc. against each other in some kind of sporting event…on second thought, high school football gets the same job done pretty well.

The heart of the city is the city hall where the municipal bell tower stands higher than any church steeple, revealing a city proud of its political distance from Rome in the 15th century. The piazza surrounding the hall is a sloped, brick amphitheater, perfect for those neighborhood horse races and demonstrations. It’s also rimmed by great cafés. We settled in to people-watch and ordered pasta with wild boar sauce and plenty of grease. Paninis, wine, and tomato salad also appeared. It was a full Italian spread.

When I ordered the tomatoes, I was envisioning a tomato, mozzarella, and a little basil. I got a bowl of fresh tomatoes. They were delicious (especially with a little balsamic vinegar and olive oil) but it was an interesting moment to imagine Italy without tomatoes. The vegetable (or fruit, depending on your favorite definition of fiberous, savory foods) was introduced from the New World. Before 1493, there were no tomato sauces, no tomato and mozzarella salads, and no V8. This is not an Italy I would want to visit. I enjoyed my slices and felt satisfied my continent produced such great food.

It was time to leave. The last train was arriving in half-an-hour, requiring a quick peak at Sienna’s cathedral that is apparently breathtaking. The door was locked, and we needed our breath to hustle down the mountain to the station and our beds in Florence. With that, we closed our first week in Italy feeling like we had been in each city long enough to see its famous sights and eat its famous foods without becoming bored. The adrenaline-rush of confronting history and beauty all-day, every-day fueled our feet (limited bouts of sleep certainly didn’t get that job done). It was time for a brief, well-earned trip to the beach…

Ciao!

The album for those who like to delay this link.

Florence Ya'll

Note: In case you aren't a resident of Cincinnati, Ohio or the greater tri-state area, the title of this post is a reference to a water tower over Florence, Kentucky, a town just across the Ohio River. It once read "Florence Mall" but you're not allowed to advertise on water towers so they changed it to everyone's favorite southern contraction.

Photos of Tuscany in all her Renaissance and terracotta glory. They're also at the end for your viewing pleasure.

Florence. The city of the Medicis. The place that gave birth to re-birth. Home to Michelangelo, Machiavelli, DaVinci, Donatello, Giotto, and Botticelli. We had a lot to see, and our feet were starting to rebel against our perpetual walking. They would just have to deal.

Florence was our first real “Italian” big city. Milan felt slightly German. Verona is pretty small, and Venice is in a class of its own. Being in an Italian city means there’s a constant feeling of being near a boiling point. At any moment the chaos of traffic and shouting might reach a critical point of no return. No one knows what happens when it all boils over, but it could at any moment. This would reach its apogee in Naples, but Florence was a good primer as we hiked with our loaded packs along the narrow sidewalks towards our hostel.
Small knots of Florentines in hip-hugger pants walked ahead, stopping to glance in store windows, blocking the pavement and pedestrian traffic flow. We would dodge around, almost get run down by a Vespa then hop back onto the pavement ahead of the gaggle. Then we would be confronted with a pair of Italians walking next to each other. Josh and I would fall into file on the right. They wouldn’t, leaving an awkward squeeze past each other. Such is Italy.

After finally finding out hostel on the outskirts of town (it came equipped with a pool we never used) we dove into town for dinner. I lead a wandering hike through the old part of town where street names mysteriously changed, and street signs even more mysteriously disappeared. Our destination, a homey Tuscan café, was closed, geschlossen. Remember, this is how I roll in Europe. We were getting desperate for sustenance when a piazza opened in front of us with a brick oven pizza place with really cheap house wine. Exactly what we needed.

The next morning we dove into the art. First the Uffizi Gallery, the home of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus, some Giotto, the only surviving easel painting by Michelangelo, and an unfinished Visitation of the Magi by DaVinci (he really liked leaving his art half-finished). Venus was surprisingly expressive in person. The Angry Young Man in me tends to be skeptical of “Masterpieces” but often, without knowing the historical importance of a work, I find myself drawn to the works singled out by people more qualified than I am to judge such things. So maybe they really do speak to some universal definition of beauty. Or maybe I have very average taste.

The museum also had an extensive display of Greek and Roman sculpture that goes largely ignored as the modern public hops from gallery to gallery checking off names like Dürer and Lippi (who’s faces draw you into the action). But these sculptures tipped off the Renaissance. Artists in the early 15th century looked at the realistic muscles and said, “Ya know I could do that,” and saved art from centuries of dour Christs and Madonnas.

After watching the Renaissance blossom in front of us, we needed a snack then moved to the Academia or “The Temple of David.” Apparently in July and August, the entrance lines for the Academia and Uffuzi can stretch for hours because the museum’s capacity is tightly regulated. This is not the case in Early May. After our guide books had warned we would need patience and stamina to finally see Michelangelo’s early masterpiece, we thought we had done something wrong when we strolled up to the security gate. We paid our entry fee (Un-Fun Fact about Italy: There are no discounts for non-EU students. Museums are usually engaging, cheap entertainment, but this price-hike makes Italy a significantly more expensive place to wander.) and there he was.

At the end of a long hall lined by Michelangelo’s Prisoners, the unfinished statues intended for the tomb of Pope Julius II, stood one of the icons of Western Art. He is stunning. First of all, he’s huge. At 17 feet he’s boosted by a pedestal that places him on an epic scale. It’s key to note he was originally going to be stuck on the Florentine Cathedral. Thankfully they decided to keep him on ground level. David is relaxed, gripping a stone and sling. Apparently there’s some debate about the scene with some people arguing Michelangelo captured David immediately after killing Goliath. These people have never looked into his eyes.

His face is calculating, calm, but a little worried. He’s doubting his power, but hasn’t lost faith in himself or God. It’s just a healthy fear on his face. He’s not a god himself and divine intervention might be nice. But he’s also poised for action. Just deciding how to win while searching for confidence. The anatomy of the sculpture is perfect (as far as I can tell). No. It’s beautiful. Josh and I must have stood in awe for forty-five minutes walking around the sculpture trying to ignore the constant “No Photo!” from the guards reprimanding unobservant tourists.

After David, it’s hard to look at anything else with much enthusiasm. It’s unequalled. The other Michelangelo sculptures were powerful as the figures struggled to free themselves from the rock. A massive Pieta (unfinished) and a sculpture of St. Matthew (unclear how we know it’s Matt) were mixed in for some variety. The rest of the museum, an extension of a venerable art school (thus the name Academia) featured some medieval triptychs and a room of plaster models and casts that sculptors use as guides when working in marble and molds when working in bronze. Again, sleeping putti and heroic busts really weren’t doing much for us after David.

More sites. I should note that the museums are not the full or half-day investments of other great museums like the Louvre or the Prado. There was still plenty of time left in the day. So we went to the Cathedral. As in Milan, the exterior was much more engaging than the interior. White, green, and pink marble band the outside and the bell tower which is called Giotto’s tower after the proto-Renaissance artist/architect who dreamed it up.

The most important feature of the cathedral is its dome, the first massive dome constructed in over 1000 years. It inspired every dome since, from St. Peters in Rome to the Capital building in the U.S. (the Florentine dome was in turn inspired by the Pantheon in Rome, so you could argue the Pantheon inspired everything else. Except, no one is really sure how the Romans pulled off the Pantheon, so the well documented assembly of the Florentine dome at least gave technical confidence to all the imitators.)

The underside of the dome features a painting of the Last Judgment that you can’t really see unless you climb the dome.

Josh and I opted to save our pennies for the museum. The Cathedral Museum was a very quite place, but featured some pretty impressive stuff, including the first sculpture we had seen by Donatello (our missing turtle). His crazed Habakkuk raised a ruckus when it was unveiled.

Same goes for his desperate Magdalene.

Michelangelo’s nearly complete Pieta, which he intended for his own funerary monument (unclear why it isn’t over his body now), had its own room where you could approach the figures, looking into Michelangelo’s self-portrait as Joseph of Arimathea.

We still didn’t think we had overdosed on Renaissance art, so we walked over to the massive, octagonal baptistery to see the door that kicked off the Renaissance.

Donatello’s teacher won a public competition for the right to cast the doors which depict realistic figures in balanced ensembles with perspective. It’s hard to imagine how revolutionary these techniques must have been to early Renaissance eyes. We assume all these elements are essential. But these viewers were content to let bodies warp into icons and horizons to be none existent. That ‘s not to say the Gothic work isn’t beautiful. Inside the Baptistry, the ceiling was covered with hundreds of figures illustrated with Byzantine mosaic tiles. We sat in a pew and craned our necks to identify the stores of Joseph (thank you musical theater), John the Baptist, and the different choirs of angels.

And the art went on. We needed to wander to Donatello’s outdoor masterpieces and his contemporary sculptors who were self-confident artists rather than diligent craftsmen. His St. George stands in an alcove, shield in front, hand poised to draw his sword. Looking into George’s eyes you know he’s sizing up his adversary confident he can take the monster, but not quite sure how to do it. Michelangelo grew up with George watching over Florence and David inherited some of George’s poise and expression. Josh and I noticed this. Rick Steves pointed it out, too. We felt ready to teach a seminar on Renaissance art.

Finally we wandered to the old town hall where David once towered over the Florentine councilmen. Now a replica stands in the original spot. Since we couldn’t take a picture with David in the Academia, we wanted to get one on the square with the replica. We carefully selected our photographer. She was carefully framing her own shot, dancing around the square for the perfect David shot in a large floppy pink hat, a kind neighborhood cat-lady on vacation. We asked if she could take our photo. She rattled of a few sentences in French. We nodded and smiled and pointed at the shutter button. She flitted a way, her hat settling into the bounce of her step. The camera turned itself off after a few seconds. She was confused and gesticulated widely. Josh got it started up again. She then took our picture. And another one, chatting the whole time, maybe narrating her adventures. Or cursing out names.

Finally we found food, a massive baked pasta dish at “Yellow Bar,” and a cheap liter of wine to split. After a stop at an Irish Pub where we continued our conversation about art, life, history, and dogs we returned to the hostel, the last ones in after tackling the historical scope of Florence in a single day. We would be the first ones up, too. A leaning tower was waiting for us…

The photo album for your viewing pleasure. Sorry there aren't any pictures of the art, but I understand the need to preserve the works and cash in on post card revenue.

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.