Where the Streets Have No Name

Well, they didn't. Venice is a difficult city to navigate. The main roads are the canals, and I think they all have names, but not all those side streets with houses on them do. The Venetians don't, however, seem too concerned.

The Grand Canal, complete with vaporetto

Before I continue, let me specify that Venice is incredible. It is truly one-of-a-kind. I know of nowhere else in the world where the entire public transport system operates by boat (vaporetto). I can name nowhere else where a taxi in the water is both usual and useful. I doubt anywhere else has as many street-level entrances, at water-level. And hey, I kinda like rivers a lot. Highlight of my stay in Europe, assuredly. Right?

Gondolier, complete with Gondola

Wrong. Venice is overrated. Yeah, it's unique. But there really isn't much to do there. It was a really expensive place to have nothing to do. Sure, I could wander through the pedestrian-suffocated streets, ignoring the monotony of street vendors. Sure, I could marvel at the gelato stores that greeted us every five or so shops. Sure I could shower gondola drivers with money. Sure I could visit the sights, none of which measured up to the existence of the city itself. But, I'm obliged to admit that after the novelty wears off, Venice is not the top of the world.




On the other hand, each gelato tasted as wonderful as the last (the gelato store frequency is constant throughout tourist Italy).

Water-level door, complete with dock

Backtracking, we arrived in Venice on the morning of Friday, 20 April. Our bus from the airport pulled into a plaza in the northwest corner of the island, and from there we followed the directions, that I, in my infinite foresight, had brought with us, to our hostel. After checking in, we followed our receptionist's instructions to the Jewish quarter of town (at my behest). And we left without buying even a scrap of matzah, even though it was passover. I didn't want to carry a box around all day with me. During our as yet brief walk, we realized that Venice did not have a single car on its streets. Cars, trucks, motorcycles were all useless, all traffic was waterborne. At some point, we began wandering aimlessly through the (land) streets of the city, hoping to get lost.

Synagogue Door, complete with Hebrew

Mission accomplished. We continued our walk from canal to canal, and eventually we tumbled out onto a major pedestrian route, whereupon I recovered our bearings. At this point, we returned, albeit circuitously, to our hostel to complete check in and get our room. The only other thing we did after that was wander a bit more and eat dinner, before collapsing in sleep.

Saint Mark's Square, complete with slanted horizon

Day 2, we woke up bright (not dark this time) and early and took the vaporetto down to St. Mark's square in the Southeastern corner of Venice, where we got our sightseeing fix, seeing all the major tourist attractions (the square, the ducal palace, the church (Italian basilicas are a bit large)). Sometime after our surreal bus ride down the river (most expensive public transport ever, at 7.50 € a pop). But for a tourist boat

ride, it was well worth it.

View from Vaporetto, complete with stranger's head

Day 3, Sunday. Easter. Easter Sunday. In Italy. My visit was planned so as to be in Venice at this point, and not Rome. I can only imagine what throngs flooded the streets there. Before leaving for Florence, we headed back over to the Jewish Quarter to buy matzah. And everything was closed.
"It's a Sunday," explained Kim.
"That's a Christian thing."
"It's Easter Sunday."
"I don't care, I should be able to buy my matzah!"
Turned out they just didn't open until later in the day (ah, those relaxed Italian schedules). When I returned, I availed myself of some fine unleavened bread, the boarded our train to Firenze.

But one day, I would like to see Venice again.

Nighttime, complete with Venice

Street salesman rant: I've let this go unsaid far too long. Why do annoying vendors in Europe think they can sell things? I'm not talking about purses or sunglasses. I'm talking about the "whistlers" of Barcelona, who think the ability to sound like a demented dying dog merits marketing. I'm talking about the "splatters" of Italy, who think that a stress ball, thrown upon the ground, that recovers its original form is the pinnacle of human enterprise. I'm talking about those everywhere, (Barcelona, Bordeaux, Venice, Florence) who shoot little glowing helicopters into the sky throughout the night, ruining the ambiance of area, polluting the world with their mere presence. I have four choice words for them: The world hates you.

PS. On the note of matzah, I actually did obtain a piece in Aix, and have updated the blog "Aixample" to reflect this.