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lizwilliamsAnd now we are back from Venice. Photos will follow at some point.
Friday: made the check-in with minutes to spare, due to unforeseen circumstances on the part of one of us. Much wailing and gnashing of teeth, since EasyJet won't hold planes for late passengers. Still, we actually got on the right plane, then the right bus, and then the right boat, and found our little hotel with minimal difficulty. Joanna's huge suitcase was carried across Accademia Bridge (by a Brit - there's a pleasant surprise). We even got dinner - a rather excellent fish supper at a restaurant across the square.
Saturday: spent the day wandering about the city. I spent most of the morning in Florian's, which is the old coffee place (1720) on St Mark's Square, writing a story. Good enough for Byron, good enough for me. Joanna and I spent some time speculating on what the original Florian must have been like. Somehow, we picture him with Prince Valiant hair.
We had lunch in a little restaurant near San Stefano: this is a place I went to last time, when I was on my own, and made a note of. Some intriguing turn-of-the-century photos of the city. Joanna ordered something that was not on the menu, and got it. I had wholewheat pasta with onion and anchovy sauce: a local thing.
Then we went and bought some masks, because we felt underdressed by that point, and went back to Florian's wearing them. By this time, St Mark's was a seething throng and we had to queue to get into the cafe: some of the more costumed women got stuck in the door, like an 18th century version of Laurel and Hardy. Since Joanna and I found ourselves wedged between two young men in powdered wigs and velvet, both about 6 foot 2, we nobly endured our ordeal.
In the evening, we went back to the same place for dinner. I had cod with polenta, which was not as good as it might have been, but never mind. Then we went over the bridge to Dorsoduro, hung out in a bar for a bit talking to a caveman (I mean literally: the club, the skins) and then went to the hotel where our friends were staying. Ten minutes later, they showed up, and we went to dinner with them and had coffee.
Sunday: more wandering about, this time up to the Rialto. Venice was freezing - clear pale skies, but arctic weather. It's a wonderfully sinister, decaying city, though, and great for getting lost in.
Jo and I went into a rather classy restaurant for lunch, which was a mistake: it took ages for us to be seated and some local tosser in a white polo neck and suede shoes (think 70s porn star) was seated before us. So we walked out and found a family run taverna where the waiters smiled.
In the evening, we had drinks at our friends' hotel, which was nicer than our own: it used to be the Russian Embassy, overlooks the Grand Canal and is filled with marble and chandeliers, plus a wood-burning fire. I'm staying there next time: to add insult to injury, it was slightly cheaper than our place. It's called the Hotel Accademia, if anyone's interested (about E150 for a double room).
We had a lot of trouble finding anywhere to eat (I like to book, but this didn't happen) and ended up at another taverna, which was cheap and actually a lot of fun. Here, all the waiters were in drag...some more successfully than others. I had calves' liver and polenta.
Jo and I, on returning to our hotel, then discovered that we were locked out. Venetian hotels have a night concierge, and don't issue you with a key. We rang the bell to no avail, enlisted the help of a passer-by to get the number of the local phone enquiry line, failed, considered lobbing a half-brick through the window but couldn't find one.
So we went back to the Accademia and enrolled the help of their night concierge, who made numerous phone calls and, when that failed, offered us a room at a vastly reduced rate. Just as my credit card was being swiped, our hotel finally replied. A long Italian conversation took place.
"What's the problem?" I said.
The concierge gave a heartfelt sigh at the inherent frailty of human nature and said "He was sleeping."
Then he gave us both a chocolate to celebrate, and we went back over the bridge. 1 a.m. at this point, and bloody cold. At the hotel, a lank and mortified youth offered numerous apologies. Joanna, who had 5 minutes before bared her teeth at an over-familiar passer-by, started to cry. I was very impressed. The lank youth stopped being mortified and became abject. When we finally got into our room, Joanna's tears magically ceased. God, she's good.
Monday: we shopped. Venice is a paradise if you like hand-made stationary. Then we had a nice lunch in a nice restaurant on a canal, took lots of photos of spectacular people, had a farewell lavendar tea in Florian's, admired the basilica in the sunshine and caught a boat back up the Grand Canal to the bus station and thence the airport.
This time, we were way early for the check-in, but found that EasyJet had rescheduled its flight to leave 20 minutes before time. We were still last on the plane, however, as my anti-allergy adrenaline pen caused huge consternation at security and they had to phone the pilot to ask him if I could be allowed onto the flight.
"What do they think you're going to do?" Joanna asked, but sotto voce. "Stab another passenger and give him the collywobbles?"
Well, who can say? Anyway, finally Dangerous Williams was permitted through and we found a busload of a hundred or so people waiting for us on the freezing tarmac. Oh dear. Considered putting my mask back on.
I got back home an hour after the plane landed, which is pretty good going. Bit knackered now, but it was worth it.
Friday: made the check-in with minutes to spare, due to unforeseen circumstances on the part of one of us. Much wailing and gnashing of teeth, since EasyJet won't hold planes for late passengers. Still, we actually got on the right plane, then the right bus, and then the right boat, and found our little hotel with minimal difficulty. Joanna's huge suitcase was carried across Accademia Bridge (by a Brit - there's a pleasant surprise). We even got dinner - a rather excellent fish supper at a restaurant across the square.
Saturday: spent the day wandering about the city. I spent most of the morning in Florian's, which is the old coffee place (1720) on St Mark's Square, writing a story. Good enough for Byron, good enough for me. Joanna and I spent some time speculating on what the original Florian must have been like. Somehow, we picture him with Prince Valiant hair.
We had lunch in a little restaurant near San Stefano: this is a place I went to last time, when I was on my own, and made a note of. Some intriguing turn-of-the-century photos of the city. Joanna ordered something that was not on the menu, and got it. I had wholewheat pasta with onion and anchovy sauce: a local thing.
Then we went and bought some masks, because we felt underdressed by that point, and went back to Florian's wearing them. By this time, St Mark's was a seething throng and we had to queue to get into the cafe: some of the more costumed women got stuck in the door, like an 18th century version of Laurel and Hardy. Since Joanna and I found ourselves wedged between two young men in powdered wigs and velvet, both about 6 foot 2, we nobly endured our ordeal.
In the evening, we went back to the same place for dinner. I had cod with polenta, which was not as good as it might have been, but never mind. Then we went over the bridge to Dorsoduro, hung out in a bar for a bit talking to a caveman (I mean literally: the club, the skins) and then went to the hotel where our friends were staying. Ten minutes later, they showed up, and we went to dinner with them and had coffee.
Sunday: more wandering about, this time up to the Rialto. Venice was freezing - clear pale skies, but arctic weather. It's a wonderfully sinister, decaying city, though, and great for getting lost in.
Jo and I went into a rather classy restaurant for lunch, which was a mistake: it took ages for us to be seated and some local tosser in a white polo neck and suede shoes (think 70s porn star) was seated before us. So we walked out and found a family run taverna where the waiters smiled.
In the evening, we had drinks at our friends' hotel, which was nicer than our own: it used to be the Russian Embassy, overlooks the Grand Canal and is filled with marble and chandeliers, plus a wood-burning fire. I'm staying there next time: to add insult to injury, it was slightly cheaper than our place. It's called the Hotel Accademia, if anyone's interested (about E150 for a double room).
We had a lot of trouble finding anywhere to eat (I like to book, but this didn't happen) and ended up at another taverna, which was cheap and actually a lot of fun. Here, all the waiters were in drag...some more successfully than others. I had calves' liver and polenta.
Jo and I, on returning to our hotel, then discovered that we were locked out. Venetian hotels have a night concierge, and don't issue you with a key. We rang the bell to no avail, enlisted the help of a passer-by to get the number of the local phone enquiry line, failed, considered lobbing a half-brick through the window but couldn't find one.
So we went back to the Accademia and enrolled the help of their night concierge, who made numerous phone calls and, when that failed, offered us a room at a vastly reduced rate. Just as my credit card was being swiped, our hotel finally replied. A long Italian conversation took place.
"What's the problem?" I said.
The concierge gave a heartfelt sigh at the inherent frailty of human nature and said "He was sleeping."
Then he gave us both a chocolate to celebrate, and we went back over the bridge. 1 a.m. at this point, and bloody cold. At the hotel, a lank and mortified youth offered numerous apologies. Joanna, who had 5 minutes before bared her teeth at an over-familiar passer-by, started to cry. I was very impressed. The lank youth stopped being mortified and became abject. When we finally got into our room, Joanna's tears magically ceased. God, she's good.
Monday: we shopped. Venice is a paradise if you like hand-made stationary. Then we had a nice lunch in a nice restaurant on a canal, took lots of photos of spectacular people, had a farewell lavendar tea in Florian's, admired the basilica in the sunshine and caught a boat back up the Grand Canal to the bus station and thence the airport.
This time, we were way early for the check-in, but found that EasyJet had rescheduled its flight to leave 20 minutes before time. We were still last on the plane, however, as my anti-allergy adrenaline pen caused huge consternation at security and they had to phone the pilot to ask him if I could be allowed onto the flight.
"What do they think you're going to do?" Joanna asked, but sotto voce. "Stab another passenger and give him the collywobbles?"
Well, who can say? Anyway, finally Dangerous Williams was permitted through and we found a busload of a hundred or so people waiting for us on the freezing tarmac. Oh dear. Considered putting my mask back on.
I got back home an hour after the plane landed, which is pretty good going. Bit knackered now, but it was worth it.
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no subject
Date: 2005-02-08 06:08 am (UTC)Yes, that is you!
Don't let them make you feel bad about your anti-allergy measures, I don't know how many times I've told wait-staff "If this has onions in it, I'll be taken out of here in an ambulance, probably die and my estate will sue this establishment and everyone that works here, are you sure there's not any onions in it?" only to end up popping a double dose of benedryl after the first bite.
I should probably get an adrenaline kit, but so far I've been lucky, and my phobic reaction to needles means that I could never use it, hell I don't think I could force myself to even carry it!
Glad your home safe, I'll be looking for the photos!
no subject
Date: 2005-02-08 06:27 am (UTC)The onion thing must be infuriating - I know of people who have nearly died because their nearest and dearest assume (despite being told ad nauseam) that they just don't like onions, and sneak them into food.