In my first two
posts, I managed to reach Marco Polo Airport and then Piazza San Marco. (I promise that the pace of the narrative arc
will soon improve, although not today.)
When the last post ended, I was about to embark on the first vaporetto
voyage of my trip. Now that I was on the
ground in Venice, I thought I was nearly home, but a few more missteps awaited
me.
Vaporetti:
A quick explanation on the vaporetti system.
A vaporetto is a water bus, with a capacity of more than a hundred
people. Other than walking, a vaporetto
is the only way around Venice for people who don’t own their own boats or don’t
want to spend 60 euros on a water taxi. The vaporetti are noisy and clumsy, cutting a
wide swath through the major waterways, but Venice can’t function without them.
There are
also gondolas in Venice, but they’re a clichéd tourist device. Gondolas are to Venetian transit what the
hansom cabs of Central Park are to New York City transit.
During my
time in Venice, I likely took more than a hundred vaporetto trips.
The 82 vaporetto
runs up and down the Grand Canal and is the backbone of the vaporetti
system. With two week’s worth of luggage
still slung over my shoulders, I found the stop for the 82, only a short
distance from Piazza San Marco.
The 82 soon
appeared and I climbed aboard, pleased to have found my way this far. The attendant asked for my ticket and I
proudly offered one of the Venice Cards.
He impatiently explained that I was supposed to have it time-stamped
before using it for the first time.
Oops. I’d missed that point, although
it was clearly stated.
The
attendant looked at my luggage, sighed deeply, and noted the time on the back
of the ticket. Oddly, during my two-week
stay, it was the only time I was asked for my card. My luggage must have made me look like a newbie.
Wayfinding:
I had no problem finding the right stop at which to leave the vaporetto, but stumbled
in my first effort at street navigation.
Most Venetian maps are quite good.
The problem is that minds trained in American wayfinding rebel against
some of the information. Secondo Calle
de Sangre Cristo can’t be a three-foot passage past the service door of a
restaurant, but it is. Plaza de Santa
Maria de Visitazione can’t be a ten-foot square of pavement on the bank of a
canal, but it is.
Once I
learned to take the map literally and to quit applying an American sense of
values to places and names, I was fine.
But that learning took several days.
For now, I was wandering with luggage on increasing weary shoulders
thinking that Calle dei Saoneri couldn’t possibly be that tight alley packed
with shoppers, but it was.
Making an
Introduction: Arriving finally at the front door of the building that
housed my apartment, having taken twenty minutes for a journey that I would
soon learn to do in five, I pressed the bell.
My landlord had told me that his 82-year-old mother would be waiting for
me in my apartment on the fourth floor.
(Quick note on counting floors: Venice is consistent with the European
convention that the first floor is the one above the ground floor. So, my fourth floor walkup apartment in
Venice would be a fifth floor walkup apartment in the U. S.)
No answer
came to the first press of the bell, so I pressed again, this time for both
Signora Manera’s apartment and my own.
Still nothing. I looked for a way
to squeeze myself into the doorway to avoid the growing crush of shoppers
around me. I also considered the
possibility that Signora Manera was away, forcing me to while away time on the
streets, luggage still in hand.
But then I
looked up. An elderly woman was looking down
from a window high up on the building. "Ah,
Signora Manera. My name is Dave Alden. I am renting the apartment from your son
Bruno.” No response. No shake of the head, no returning
questions. Nothing, but a look of total
indifference.
I tried
again, varying my text to include my few words of Italian. “Prego.” “Grazie.”
“Scusi.” Still nothing. Then I remembered that I was wearing a
ballcap. Being outside, it wasn’t
inappropriate, but perhaps I was dealing with a woman of old world
sensibilities, so I removed it. With a
curt nod, Signora Manera pulled her head in.
A moment later the buzzer sounded.
I met
Signora Manera at her third floor apartment.
We tried to exchange pleasantries, but found the language barrier insurmountable. Nonetheless, I clearly understood that she
wanted me to watch my head as we climbed to my apartment.
Settling
In and Stooping Over: The apartment
was a lovely space. Hardware
floors. Exposed beams that I later
learned were more than five centuries old, a fact that still astounds me. Modern and stylish Italian plumbing. Granite countertops and bathroom walls. Old world structural details. And plenty of room. For a family of midgets.
The
apartment exceeded a thousand square of floor space. Of which less than two hundred had headroom
of six feet or more. There was the
kitchen. There was a small area in the
bathroom, but not the tub. And there was
the dressing area of the bedroom.
Otherwise, I spent my apartment time scuttling like a crab.
I didn’t
always wear a ballcap when on the streets of Venice, but it is de rigueur
within the apartment. I found it easier
to pluck 500-year-old wood fibers from the cap than from my forehead. I removed the cap to sleep, but when I looked
at the beam only twelve inches above my head, I questioned even that decision.
Next time, I
finally begin exploring. And quickly
take my favorite photo of the trip.
As always,
your questions or comments will be appreciated.
Please comment below or email me.
And thanks for reading. - Dave Alden (davealden53@comcast.net)
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