VENICE

At the end of our stay in the wilds of Umbria, we took the train from Florence to Venice, not much enchanted by the views out the train window, and not impressed by pricey “First Class” seating we shelled out for.

But Venice! Ah, Venice! La Serenissima (the Most Serene)!

What can be said about Venice that hasn’t already been said?

Our hotel, down an alley not far from the church where Vivaldi did his stuff, was adequate, nothing to rave about. From our room, we could hear church bells ringing from all parts of the city.

We were surprised to learn that Venice is as much a city for walking as it is for getting around on the waterways. A maze of spooky, narrow alleys where—especially at night—you can easily imagine swarthy cutthroats lurking, ready to leap out from the shadows to slit your gullet.

The alleys lead to piazzas large and small, sidewalk restaurants, food shops and stores featuring masks, art glass, and fancy clothes.

We quickly learned to glance skyward for pigeons perching on ledges, and downward and for dog shit on the cobbles. No parks or lawns for dogs to crap on in Venice.

We bought three-day passes for the vaporetti, the ferries that carry people here and there around the city, picking up and disgorging passengers at stops along the Grand Canal, and taking people to the islands in the lagoon: Torcello, Murano, Burano.

But most of the time we hoofed it, worming our way through the alleys and the broader streets, scrambling over bridges, trying to cover as much of the place as we could in our few days there. I scurried, shooting everything in sight (including laundry strung over the canals between buildings), while John brought up the rear, map in hand, keeping us from getting lost, directing me where to go next.

Often on the bridges we met gondoliers barking for business: “Gondola gondola gondola!” We stopped to talk to a few of them, to take their portraits, to politely refuse their offers to charge us a fortune for a half hour’s ride on the canals which were often jammed up with several gondolas, sometimes a motorboat or two and even, once, a kayak added to the mix. Kayakers ourselves, we thought how swell it would be to paddle those canals, but figured the gondoliers would likely object to kayak rentals, which would cut into their business.

In one of our guidebooks, we read about, and then found, a raised, walled-in square with a sign saying, Campiello Nuovo o dei Morti. (New Little Field, or Little Field of the Dead). It was where they heaped plague victims, and then entombed them. You go up steps to get into the square, and on the other side is another set of steps. It’s a bit creepy, walking across the place, knowing that you are walking on a boneyard. You can see the sign, and a couple of photos of the place following the photo of the sign, in the Venice 8 photos.

One day, we took the vaporetto—larger than the ones that ply the waters of the Grand Canal—that made stops at Torcello, Murano, and Burano. Because our three-day vaporetto passes ran out that evening, we didn’t have time to go to all three islands. So we decided to hit Torcello, ignore Murano, where the throngs swarm to watch glass-blowing, and end up on Burano, island of brightly-colored houses.

On the ride out, we met an elderly, handsome, friendly Venetian couple. We chatted a bit, with us stumbling through our Italian and they their English. They cheerfully posed for photos, and when we got off at Torcello, waving them goodbye, they tossed us kisses.

On Torcello, we headed straight for the Basilica di Santa Maria Assunta (built in 639 with subsequent restorations and modifications in later centuries), on the way soaking up what lay around us, mindful that Torcello was the first settlement in the Venice lagoon. At its zenith in the 14th century, there were 20,000 inhabitants on the swampy mudflats, but they were all almost all wiped out by malaria.

Scattered here in there in back yards, or in scruffy bits of field, were ancient, crumbling statues. Not much cooking on Torcello, but the Basilica is worth a visit, especially for the dazzling blue and gold mosaic of the Madonna and child, dating from the 12th century, and for a juicy 11th and 12th century depiction of the Last Judgment, showing serpents worming though skulls. Alas, as in many Italian churches and museums, no photos are allowed. No matter; they sell nice postcards there.

Burano is the sort of place photographers drool for: colorful houses combining in interesting combinations, great light, back alleys with lots of laundry hanging everywhere, strung between buildings and on racks. At times you have to duck around clothes hanging at face level. People were not overly friendly; no wonder, tourists crawl all over the place, poking, as we did, into all the back streets, within spitting distance of their windows. Not only is there a lot of drying laundry in Burano, there are lots of brooms outside doors, and several times we saw women sweeping the pavement in front of their houses.

On our final day in Venice, we run around the city, through the alleys, over the bridges. Near day’s end, I was running out of steam, but still shooting. On yet one more bridge over a canal, I looked down between the bridge’s balusters for a place to anchor my foot, when I saw, right there, a dog shit. And it hit me: I’d seen that same dog shit, on that same bridge,in that same spot, on another day. That told me it was time to pack it in.

Arrivederci, La Serenissima!