With our house on our back, there is practically nowhere we can’t go, and with an open mind and an almost equally open diary, there is almost no place we won’t go. Having received an irresistible invitation to Tosca at La Fenice at the end of May, the tramp saw no reason at all that we couldn’t accept. While one would have no difficulty at all deciding which of the wonderful hotels to choose from were one staying in a hotel, the choice of campsite was a little more challenging – for the simple and obvious reason that there are no cars in Venice, let alone oversized ones. Luckily, our Italian connections stretched as far as La Serenissima, and after some pondering over the map we decided on the 5 star Camping Marina Venezia (not in Venice of course but on the Jesolo, part of the mainland hooking around on the east – with a large beach and closer to Venice proper than Torcello). Not only five star but run in a remarkably un-Italian way: well organised, disciplined (no cars, no noise between 1 and 3pm to insure a peaceful siesta) with unbelievable shops (delicious fruit, vegetables and salad), a swimming pool with so many slides and toys that any child would be happy there for days, life guards on the beach and guards checking your pass to and from the entry points to the beach (no room for gate crashers), and wonderful, wonderful showers.
The tramp placed the WLW in a spot most distant from the entry to the site but right next to the entry to the beach. Placing the Smart required a little help – your trampess was struggling to push it into its home next to the WLW so enlisted the support of a very large Dutchman in the adjacent stellplatz. In the end it took the addition of a Norwegian and two Germans to roll the little beast into her home (its amazing how a slight incline can make one feel her full 800kg!). After a light lunch, we decided to go to into Venice.
In theory we could take a bus to Punta Sabbioni from where we could catch a vaporetto to St Mark’s via the Lido. We had just missed the bus so decided to walk the 3.5 km from the campsite to the point. As we made a small wrong turn on leaving the campsite, we walked along the beach to the harbour – only a few extra kms. As the tramp saw the boat coming in, he suggested to the trampess that perhaps, what with her marathon legs still running, that she might like to sprint ahead and make sure we didn’t miss the boat! This would not be the last time the tramp made such a suggestion and I can only say that it is no doubt one of the reasons why, even with outrageous indulgence in all the temptations Venice has to offer (beginning with Bellini’s), the trampess failed to gain weight. The boat having been caught, the tramp and trampess walked around the old familiar places – checked out the restaurant booked for dinner the next night and then walked to an old haunt. This turned out to be critical: the trampess had booked the Monaco terrace for dinner the following night, but as we passed it, two things became obvious: it had changed, and not for the better, and secondly the view of the Dogana and Santa Maria della Salute were ruined by the fact that both were under scaffolding. Not the romantic setting for dinner I had planned (our hosts for Tosca had said that they had never really eaten well in Venice and as old Venice hands we had to meet this challenge). On to Do Forni – down back allies and around corners. Many wonderful evenings over many years had been spent there both alone and with the children (they were thrilled that one of the waiters was called Donatello – not because they were enamoured of Renaissance sculpture but because, at the time, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles was the rage – his status went up of course, being a tv star). Sadly Donatello was no longer there but many of the faces were still recognisable to us. Dinner was delicious so the tramp persuaded me to chat up the waiter for a table the next night. Of course, the tramp did not want any table. There was only one table that would do in the small room that was almost always inhabited by locals. I won’t mention that I was not dressed in a way that would have made me feel comfortable with this task (a cute Gap t-shirt dress and Nike plus running shoes are not the normal uniform for convincing Italians of any rank that one merits the best table in the restaurant) but your trampess conjured up memories and mentioned Donatello, all in Italian of course (it is no good trying to do this sort of magic in English) and lo and behold she was promised the table. The next day, better dressed and better coiffed, she re-confirmed the booking. The table was ours. Dinner was excellent and our guests claimed they had never eaten so well in Venice. (I am happy to report that a cri de coeur that went to a friend, with a Venetian fixer, confirmed the choice by email when we returned after dinner the first night).
The next day it was decided that we could not possibly go into Venice in the morning dressed for the opera. So, your trampess’s new evening dress was rolled up and put in her bag along with the stilettos that certainly would not make the country lane walk to Punta Sabbioni (especially since, as was the case the first day and every subsequent day, the bus never came). The tramp also refused to wear his evening shoes and suit the whole day: everything was put into a suit bag. So in the famous Gap dress and with the tramp in shorts, we arrived, as one does, at the Gritti terrace where we had booked lunch. Despite our outrageous attire, we were greeted with all the charm that Italians can muster; the tramp’s suit was hung up and a delicious lunch was produced. The day was perfect and nothing but nothing could have been more enjoyable than sitting in decadent splendour, eating perfectly cooked fish and enjoying a splendid afternoon. Even the view was less miserable than expected: the scaffolding on Santa Maria della Salute was somehow less offensive and the palazzo opposite which was being restored was nearly finished and could provide the Gritti with some serious competition. Venice is one of the cities in the world where it is important never to stint on luxury. Second best in Venice is almost always extremely bad value: better to bite the bullet and at least be totally, but totally satisfied. After a stroll around town and a visit to St Mark’s we returned to change in the Critti washrooms. The staff swooned when we emerged (well, trust me it was a transformation). We strode off to La Fenice where our friends were waiting.
Obligatory photos in front of the opera, a glass of champagne and then into the newly restored jewel box of a theatre. None of the singers was world famous but all were accomplished and the performance was totally enchanting. We slipped out to the waiting Cipriani launch and returned with our friends to a lovely dinner on the terrace with the most splendid view of St Mark’s. It is hard to imagine a more perfect day. A taxi boat picked us up at midnight and we raced back to the Jesolo (typically, the driver had his girl friend with him, and he clearly was in a rush to get us home – we made it in Ferrari time). We arrived at Punta Sabbioni, the trampess slipped off her stilettos and slipped on her flatties and we walked the 45 minutes back to the WLW. The indulgence of pudding having been removed by the post-prandial exercise. Venice has a way of forgiving all sin.
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