burano with a b

The island of Burano is a vaporetto ride from Venice and is not to be confused with Murano, the island whose name is synonymous with glassblowing. Burano - with a B - is the farther out island of the two and is known for its lace making and the vivid hues of its homes. It's also the island to visit when Venice seems a little more crowded than usual, or when you'd like to see just how big Italian mosquitoes can get.



Now, don't get me wrong, there are certainly tourists in Burano - and souvenir shops as well - but there are fewer of both out here. Instead, Burano's crowds are of the brick and mortar variety. They don't surge and they don't run you ragged; they simply stand still and simmer in the sun. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder these buildings are slathered in the red of cherries, the green of avocado skins, and the pink of Pepto-Bismal. They are the colors that buildings never are.

We wandered the pedestrian ways along the canals and tucked into stone backyards where laundry hung. We ran from the mosquitoes, marveled at a tipping tower, and started running again. We drank caffé made by a barista who ran the New York marathon in almost half the time I did and we took scads of photos in front of walls of every color.



Buildings may not usually be these colors, but after an afternoon in Burano you'll finally ask "why not?"

all together now

Sometimes we worry that the uniquely vivid slacks so beloved by Italian males are going unnoticed since we've left Italy. So during our recent wander across northern Italy we made up for lost time... In Treviso. In Venezia and Burano. In Milano and Alba and Bassano del Grappa. The uomini of Italy didn't let us down and even made sure to hang out in pairs so that they would be easier to spot in a crowd. And for their efforts, we say: "Grazie mille. Our trip wouldn't have been the same without you."

Oh, and one more thing: "Punch pants!"

since we're in the neighborhood

Venice has spoiled us. It has taken us into its thin crooked pathways and dumped us out into its cramped piazzas. It has then shoved us - stumbling - back into tiny paths and towards the next open space.

We've been the rat squeezing through the python and have always used a fluttering gut sense to navigate the tight corridors of this city. And it's been incredible. Our one true secret to Venice is staying, for the most part, away from everybody else.

It's impossible to escape tourism and tourists in Venice - and who are we kidding, we're tourists with a capital "T." And the Venice of postcards and guidebooks, the Venice that captures the imagination of popular touristic culture, might be found out front of St. Mark's. That's certainly the place where you can find yourself covered in pigeons, and easily pay €25 for a bellini - but that's not the Venice we've come to see.



Our sights, rather, are set on other places. Like Campo Santa Margherita and its central tree casting veins of shadow on the cobblestones. It's there that we follow poodles chasing poodles: a brown one chasing a black one chasing a grey one. You've never seen poodles so happy to be alive.

Olivia, too, was molto felice. Not only did she have the chance to chase a pigeon out of a café but the 4 month old cocker spaniel also had a pretty good vantage for the morning's brioche crumbs sprinkled on the floor. We had our cappucci next to Olivia's owner (who we'd already met outside) and then walked out to the Christmas market to drink mulled wine. Surrounded by all that water you can't help but keep drinking.

Unfortunately, eating in Venice is sometimes less ideal. The restaurants are not known as the finest in Italy, as they usually rely on a more tolerant touristic palate rather than the demands of local clientele. While this may or may not have influenced our decision not to eat dinner the night we arrived (we, instead, stayed in our room and enjoying the glories of a rare splurge on a rather nice hotel located on a rather grand canal) we do know of a place where the food is indeed fit for the locals that fill the bar.



It's the same place we go every time. We stand along the water, our plate of stuzzichetti set on the canal wall and our bright orange spritzes - with hunks of fragrant lemon hide - giving us yet another drink in this town threaded with liquid. We eat hunks of bread topped with miraculous things. Cloud-light ricotta with gobs of squash puree; tuna crisscrossed by thin wisps of leek. There are far too many combinations to choose from.

Another love of ours are 50 cent traghetto rides across the grand canal. For less than the cost of a caffe you get a gondola ride replete with drama and boat rocking. Not only does your gondola have to cross Venice's main throughway and its many threads of nautical traffic but you also have to enter and exit the gondola without falling out. The gondoliers make it look easy but I've never felt more uncoordinated than when trying to gracefully extricate myself from an undulating gondola.



We took care in the mirror shop, too, having a pretty good idea of what a shop full of mirrors can do to your luck if you're not careful. And these were special mirrors - convex and able to capture the entire room with their fish eye optics. We were surrounded by tens of images of ourselves, and of the mirrors, and of the couple who arrived there before us and wouldn't stop chatting with the owner. But we'd had an eye on these mirrors since several visits past and weren't to be easily dissuaded. We waited our turn, no mirrors were broken, and we made it out with one new mirror and only the bad luck with which we'd entered.

Weaving through Venice on our way back to the train station we walked into a one-man marionette performance that had quickly captured the attention of a piazza's worth of kids and adults. We also happened to find a very fine cup of hot chocolate. Not only was the hot chocolate capped with a decadent mass of whipped cream but we had a small pastry filled with zabaglione on the side. Cold weather warrants such things.



Some people want something else from Venice. They want pigeons instead of poodles. Gondola rides for thirty minutes instead of three. Guided tours instead of hypnotic wanderings. But for us, Venice will always be that strange combination of random elements along random paths. And if it wasn't, then we wouldn't love Venice the way we do.

'tis the season

I'd never seen a gondolier float past my bedroom window. But in Venice, if you check into your room and there's mysterious live music in the distance take a glance out the window. The source of the tune may be gliding past in his striped t-shirt, piloting a gondola full of tourists.

It could be a romantic moment.... what with the dreamy Italian love songs, the weepy accordion, the canal waters undulating past. Unless, of course, you're sharing a room with beloved relatives and between the 3 of you there's not a mattress in the room that doesn't sink sadly to the floor in response to any weight set upon it. And let's refrain from discussing the décor.



For decoration less an affront to the senses there was a unique marble staircase spiraling its way up the courtyard outside of our lodging. We hadn't known of its existence but apparently other tourists come looking for it. And you do need to hunt. It's in a place where once you feel like maybe you shouldn't be wandering around those parts, you know you've landed in just the right spot.

Returning to the matter of the hotel room, it was a lesson in the differences between Italian and American views on air conditioning. In our experience we've learned that many Italians prefer searing heat to the cool draft of air conditioning. We've been on summer trains, sweating, while Italians talked among themselves about their fear of freezing to death - and then piled on the sweaters to prove it.



Our trip to Venice was two weekends ago and when I asked the proprietress of our quarters to furnish us with the air conditioner's remote control so that we could cool the room, she informed me - as if I were an innocent and wayward child - that my poor dear girl, air conditioning season is over.

And that's where we encountered a substantial difference in opinion. I could get over the lack of shampoo in the room. And the saggy sad mattresses. And maybe even the ludicrous bedding combinations. (Have I started talking about the décor?) But I would not be convinced that air conditioning season was done and gone.



As an American I have been trained to think that it is always air conditioning season. Because although I may choose not to use it, I can't help but feel that air conditioning should most always be available. Especially in rooms along slow-moving canals that harbor, without a doubt, mosquitoes the size of hummingbirds.

The lady and I chatted and although she insisted that Italians are done with air conditioning for the year, I convinced her that we Americans were not. Happily, the air conditioner's remote control magically appeared in our room later that afternoon.



That morning we'd made sure to visit our favorite Venetian bar (as in espresso). It's a small place and you end up tripping over locals to enter. But it's wonderful because with the exception of us, nearly every person who enters is greeted by name. It's like Cheers except that instead of "Norm" they're belting out "Mario!" In a city where you are always surrounded by tourists, and you never feel like anything but, it's nice to sneak into a place where you're the only folks from out of town.

We also stopped by our favorite place for snacks. There you have to elbow your way up to the guy dishing-out plates of miniature antipasti from a crowded display window. And once you point at enough of the tiny delicacies to fill a plate, you get a few glasses of wine and make your way out to the canal to eat alongside its waters. The regulars seem to keep to the far end of the bar, drinking wine and talking shop.



After appetizers we took a walk to our favorite pizza place - passing a boat laden with colorful produce along the way. When we got there we ordered giant slices of pizza and parked ourselves on a bench. Our view was that of the closing fish market in one direction, and the world's most amorous teenage couple in the other. It was a toss-up over which induced a stronger bout of nausea. Fish scales and tails, or teenage make-out session on nearby bench? Believe me, it was a close call.

We also had a chance to take a great tour of the Palazzo Ducale. Called the Secret Itineraries Tour a guidebook might describe it as an enjoyable romp through prison cells and private passageways. And they'd be right - it's great. Although our visit was plagued by the background noise of Lega Nord supporters shouting into megaphones at a large rally outside. (Lega Nord is a political party that wants Northern Italy to secede from the South. Will my sarcasm show if I say they're "quite charming"?)



It's true that Venice is always full of wanderers, and pausers, and random lingerers. Sometimes you'll be stuck behind an unknown wanderer and be tempted to nudge them along to hurry them through Venice's skinny and crowded passageways. But at other times you'll become the wanderer and stop crowds behind you as you pause to explore some random crack and cranny. But that's the joy of Venice: cracks and crannies.

And gondoliers floating past.

Biennale di Venezia

What draws someone through heavy black curtains into a tiny dark room to watch black and white video of people crawling through forest snow? Or better yet, looping footage of a naked woman perched in a tree mimicking the squawking of nearby birds? (Believe me, the initial intrigue of her nudity is quickly overwhelmed by the exuberance of her squawking.) I've seen these videos and I can tell you that the one thing they've taught me is that if I ever knew the value of video art, I've long since forgotten.

The convenient benefit to my (and our) lack of appreciation for this art medium is that it makes the Venice Biennale easier to attend. Once you realize you don't care about what's behind the curtains, you stop having to look behind them. This may sound like the lack of an open mind, but in reality when you have an already limited amount of time to focus on art, this technique gives you more time to focus on the art you just might like.

Easily the coolest and most economical attraction in Venice these days, the Venice Biennale is a sprawling showcase of contemporary art that's really amazing. There is just so - much - art. The exposition is organized in two major zones of Venice: the Giardini della Biennale and the Arsenale; and both are interesting places in their own right.



The Giardini della Biennale is basically the grounds for a World's Fair. Gravel paths and promenades arrive at diverse buildings in every style, each built by a specific country and housing that country's official art exhibit. For example, the United States' building is straight off the grounds of Thomas Jefferson's Monticello and features the art of Felix Gonzalez-Toress. What's most compelling about this work is it's interactivity; one piece is a carpet of black candies that is replenished daily, replacing the pieces removed by the passing audience.



The Arsenale is a colossal shipyard in the midst of Venice's sprawling waterside. The building you walk through never seems to end and the art is everywhere. This part of the exhibition is as intriguing for its structure as for the art on display -- rails from the previous transport systems and cisterns once filled with flammable liquids share the space with contemporary arts biggest names. For a split second on entering the Chinese pavilion, you don't know what is art and what is structure. I'm hardly the person to ask about what this means to contemporary art.

We took in the exhibition over a weekend - one day devoted to the Giardini and another to the Arsenale. At 15 euro for admission to both I'd say this ticket is one of the best buys in Venice, if not all of Italy. The Biennale closes on November 21 and if I had the time I'd truly consider going back for more.



Most Powerful Moment: Eric Duyckaerts, Belgium
(AKA: Most Likely To Injure Small Children)

The most compelling moment of the entire exposition was one split-second in the Belgian exhibit. We were inside the curving confusion of a glass and mirror maze. Each turn you took confused your position not only by simple geography but because the mirrors and glass created virtual copies of you and everyone else in the room.

It was very difficult to know where anyone was, and where the glass stopped and real space began. This confusion is best enjoyed at a slow, wandering pace. The only person who didn't know this was the very small boy who became so excited by the reflections and light that he ran straight for the exhibit - and straight into a glass wall. You heard the contact before you saw him standing there, confused and in pain. His joy and excitement had been crushed in one upsetting instant and in that moment every piece of lofty art fell right back down to what human feeling really means.



Reason To Start A Fanclub: Sophie Calle, France

Forget croissants and the Eiffel tower and head straight for Sophie Calle. This French artist caught us both by surprise and we couldn't help gravitating to the witty and smart simplicity of what she's up to. Her showcase piece, entitled "Take Care of Yourself," was a sprawling examination of a break-up email she'd received from a lover. But - and here's where she trumps the expected alone-in-this-world artist pathos - this exhibit showcases the perspectives of 100+ women who she asked for their own analysis of the message. Each woman responded in her own way; one grammatically diagrammed the sentences, another turned it into textured Braille, while still another responded with a comic monologue delivered while chopping onions. This is multi-media at its best and sheds so much light on the email that in the end it matters far less than the conversations about it. We bought it hook, line and sinker. And we also bought the book.



Best Left For The Experts: Various Video Artists

As previously mentioned. Even if you call your video piece "Fun Palace" we're not going in. I promise.



Strongest Motivation To Move Quickly: Nordic countries (Finland, Norway, Sweden)

A long tall wall in this exhibit is blanketed with never-ending yellow and black dart boards. Like a stationary storm of bumble bees the wall seems to pulsate and throb. And every few seconds a dart pierces the surface. And then another. And another. Until the dart-thrower has no darts left in hand.

At this point the individual must decide to brave the firing wall, and quickly get close enough to retrieve a handful of darts. Except that the darts are hard to find in the excess of pattern and this is not the place to dawdle while other dazed art-lovers, wanting to be a part of this great moment in the history of art, hurl more darts at the wall.

So run, quick to the dartboard wall. Notice that there are a great many darts resting high on the boards, where they aren't easily reached. Decide that you can reach them if you just jump high enough. Jump. Reach. Grab one. Jump. Reach. Again. Then quick, run back to where it's safe. Where the hipsters in all black and designer tennis shoes can't take out their espresso-fueled angst on you by missing the wall of dartboards, and instead, lodging a dart in you.



Lose Your Husband Here: Padiglione Italia

The Italian pavilion is a very large space. By function, it has to be. It has to provide enough emptiness and open space to display a great many pieces of wild and wooly art without having the pieces turn on each other. Yes, yes, I know; the art needs to breath, the open areas need to mirror the energetic ones. Ok, great. But wouldn't the appreciation of the art be increased if people didn't lose the folks they came with? Or better yet, shouldn't the folks we came with not wander off? Any ideas there, Stefano? In the meantime I guess I can just hang out with the Italian hipsters... Maybe they know what I should like about video art.



Best Coffee Break Background: Paula Trope (BRA)

Think of that one crazy neighbor in town who has a backyard filled with an obsessive collection of some single object. There are piles of this object colonizing and suffocating every available space with pockets of brave weeds and grass growing up through the voids. Now imagine if those piles were of bricks and concrete blocks painted to look like the vivid buildings of a sprawling Latin American city. Drop these piles into the center of the Giardini della Biennale and put some chairs and tables nearby. This, my friends, is the best place in all of Venice for an espresso. (And far easier than climbing over the crazy neighbor's fence.)

quiet night

This was our first overnight trip to Venice and so was also our first time wandering its honeycombs after dark. I say "honeycombs" because for me Venice is a city built of miniature quadrants and pathways.

Petite canals turning around corners, isolating buildings and pathways. Diminutive bridges connecting one cube of land to the next. An ingenious webbing of tiny plots that as a whole becomes Venice.

And at night, the cracks and corners are illuminated. Hidden light crosses the canals and skitters across the surface. Boat traffic slows and the waters still. Windows at water's edge spill a mystery glow into the night.



All the while your footfalls bounce off of surrounding walls and thin corridors spill you into dark piazzas with long-quiet wells closed with heavy iron lids. The canals, now quiet murky mirrors, stay still and silent.

You know you will find your hotel - know that it must be out there somewhere - but it still feels as if Venice might just have swallowed it whole. And now waits quietly for you to discover its mischief.

wandering venice

Wandering around the streets of Venice last weekend was not only an exercise in not getting lost, but also in costume admiration. Peppered into the crowd of regularly-dressed people were those in full costume. These costumed moving targets render all of Venice into an obstacle course of sorts because as they make their way through any crowd, inevitably the crowd will stop. It will part. It will reassemble in an unpredictable way with camera-wielding individuals moving at the costumed revelers and all others moving away. Now this scenario is easy to picture on a large throughway, even an average Milano sidewalk. But in Venice where you're navigating tiny spaces and out of the way bridges, this is a challenge. Enjoyable, yes. But a challenge.



The quest through Carnevale in itself is also somewhat exhausting. It warrants quiet time here and there. A rest. A break. Some people are able to recharge in the sunshine on a bench. Others, like us, go to the Guggenheim or the Palazzo Grassi to view modern and contemporary art. Nothing like a steer suspended in formaldehyde to get those energy levels back up!



For some reason, children in costume never seem to tire. They are always able to dig into their bag of confetti to hurl that one last fistful at an unsuspecting adult. Going over one of the main bridges we were ideally placed behind a 10-year old cowboy-hat-wearing cowgirl who just couldn't resist throwing confetti at everyone. And for some reason, probably because we were all packed so close together on the bridge, none of the adults saw it coming. Not a one. Each recoiled as the colorful paper bits hit them in the face. And then they would look around to find the assailant as if that mattered. By the time they caught a glimpse of her she was on to her next target.



There seemed to be a few regulars wandering around town. Older folks with dogs. With newspapers. With a walk that said they knew exactly where they were. Though they were the rarity it was nice to see them there, to know that not everyone was just passing through.



To live in Venice can't be easy. The gondola traffic alone has got to drive you mad. All of the striped gondoliers shuttling couples past romantic vistas. It's a real world vision of Disney World's "It's a Small World" ride. And then there are the couples drinking wine along the canals, eating plates of the wonderful little tapas so popular in Venice.



Wait a minute... that was us. A wine glass perched at the canal's edge. Watching passers-by make their way up and over the bridge. Wondering why we'd never had an anchovy on top of a pearl onion before. And wondering if we should go back into the bar and get another.

We didn't. But only because there was a gelato shop next door. So we went in there instead.

Carnevale a Venezia

Carnevale in Venezia is well-attended and well worth the effort. The city may be packed with tourists, and you may need to flee to the modern art museums during the day for breathing space (as we did), but Carnevale in Venice is too grand an event not to warrant a visit.



What exactly is Carnevale, you ask? I'm not sure. By the looks of it, Carnevale involves wandering the city dressed head-to-toe in elaborate costume and occasionally lifting your mask a bit to enjoy a 10:00am glass of wine at the coffee bar. If you're a child it's your opportunity to unabashedly launch handfuls of confetti at all passers-by while if you're a young adult your aim is to launch, instead, bottles of wine down your throat.



For all of the Bacchanalean behavior, it's a somewhat organized affair. You wind your way down to the Piazza San Marco -- the Piazza of postcards and pigeons fame -- and either strut around showing yourself off, or stand around watching the others strut. There are also performances scheduled throughout the day and night; the most enthralling involving either rock music or fire. (It's hard not to be impressed by a 15 foot flaming stick figure. I should also mention that the early 90's dance music leading up to the performance was top rate. I don't know when I last heard Rhythm is a Dancer, Mr. Vain, and Show Me Love in one continuous set. We weren't ashamed to shake a tail feather in the Piazza.)



You can watch giant men, in giant ball gowns with hoop skirts underneath, work their way through the crowds. You can watch tiny, adorable Winnie the Poohs charm everyone in their path. (We couldn't get a good shot of Pooh because everywhere he went the crowd converged around him. Even drunken teens were enamoured and would stop dancing to crouch down and give him a tap on the head or take his picture.) And you can watch Little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf take a load off and rest a while.



Piazza San Marco was covered in confetti and crammed with people. The mood was joyful and the folks in costume would pause to let everyone else take their photos. There was impromptu singing and long conga lines of young people swirling through the crowds -- the line getting longer and longer with each spiral around the square. Vendors with carts covered in masks lurked at the edges while husbands balanced cameras on their wive's heads in order to steady the nighttime shots.



What a wonderful place to be. With art and illustrations projected on these historic buildings and the bell tower. With live music and dance. With wine and fire and confetti fluttering in the air. The nights were crisp and clear and Stefano and I stood in the midst of it all, soaking it in.



And after the concert the crowds filtered out into the maze of tiny Venetian streets. Costumes drifting over the pavement, the canals reflecting color and light. Is there a better place for Carnevale to unfold?

buffalo soldier

I had first been to Venezia (aka Venice) a decade ago with my sister. We were backpacking through Europe and the strongest memory I have, aside from the striking scenery, was that my sister hated Venice. Maybe it was getting lost in the tiny twisty corridors. Maybe it was the heavy backpacks and summer temperatures. More likely still, it was because when she tried to run away from me in Paris I chased after her and made her continue our trip.

Returning to Venice after ten years, this time with my parents and Stefano, I hoped my sister's distaste for this strange city would not be shared by the rest of my family. I shouldn't have worried. Immediately after descending from the train station, there was a continual thread of ooh's and aah's that continued right up until our frenzied last minute run to the train station.

What you've heard about Venice and water is true. It flows through Venice, crisscrossing the neighborhoods like monsooned circuit boards. The waterways are gorgeous and strange, lapping at mossy boat landings and tall wooden poles that serve as handles back onto land.



There are no cars in Venice. The streets are water and when you can't find a bridge to cross the water, you must find a boat. Large boats, low and wide, travel the main canals as buses pace through regular cities. There are also gondolas that cross the width of the Grand Canal in a few short minutes. For the low cost of 50 euro cents you're entitled to the wobbly freedom of sitting on the tiny boat's side, watching the gondolier dig deep into the canal, turn the boat around, and deliver you to the canal's other edge.

Not all canals are grand enough to warrant public transport - many are small thoroughfares that curl and dig into the residential spaces. Small bridges cross these waterways and families park their boats along their edges. These small canals trace their way through Venice's innards.



Along with the veining of water there are the myriad passages and pathways for pedestrians - far more so than the watery spaces. The passages are thin and mysterious, with character laden buildings rising tall at every side. Think of an English garden's botanical maze of 10 foot hedges spiraling inward. This is Venice but in Venice you can't peek through the shrubbery to cheat a glance. You must simply turn down the next corridor and see where it brings you.



Venice's pedestrian corridors are telescopes stretching into dark shadow. A simple look down a walkway promises a fleeting story; a wedge of light, a couple in arms, a dog trotting just out of view. Venice is a city of knots and gnarls with soft touches of life and history at its ends.

Light becomes a treasure, something that burrows in from above and buries itself deep in the dark spaces. It catches the lace on curtains drifting out of apartments and rests on laundry lines darting past bricks and stone. Light is always around the next corner, promising that out of the current shade and mystery, you will pass into certainty and shine.



We had pizza slices on a piazza that burned white with sun. It was in the Dorsoduro area of Venice, away from the tourist throngs and pigeons of St. Mark's. There were a few trees, a few benches, and only a few people who looked like out-of-towners.

As we stood under the pizza shop's awning, watching dogs come to lap at the water fountain in the center of the piazza and a little boy ride his miniature motor scooter alongside his Grandmother, we could see that real people lived in Venice. Real people who work at cheap pizza places and play Bob Marley CDs to make the work day go by.

It helps to see that this place is not a Disney World where the employees turn off the lights at night and go home. It's a strange city filled with strange sights; where history climbs up out of the water and makes you wander its paths. But it's also where people listen to reggae CDs that skip. This city's veins may be filled with water but it's alive all the same.

So little sister, you going to give it another chance?