Venice at Last!

You may have noticed a slight mishap in the last postings: a reversing of order. There is no excuse. Your trampess was removed from any connection to the ether and, in an effort not to lose the plot completely, wrote but did not post multiple chapters. This method has not normally resulted in an apparently erratic return to the north from the south or vice versa, but this time it did. Let’s just say my German organisational override was overridden by my Italian dolce far niente location and the inevitable happened.

The tramp, in his infinite wisdom, and trust me it often seems to at least approach infinite as a limit, decided that the WLW would not return to the amazing campsite it had called home when we went to La Fenice in the spring. The trip from the Jesolo was a long one and the fall weather, while bright and sunny, no longer made the lido such an enticing location (though personally, the trampess has spent many happy hours walking on frozen beaches; another time perhaps). It was thought that we should widen our horizons and try one of the campsites on the Mestre nearer Venice. The address of the first choice (open all year, internet connection, reasonable star rating on the hygiene and amenity factors) was entered into the SatNav system and fingers were duly crossed. As they needed to be: every now and then, the voice loses any connection to the brain that drives her and keeps sending us in circles. Not good. This was one of those times. Of course, as we overrode the commands and zeroed in on the site (thanks to reverting to old fashioned map reading), one could see some of her frustration (roads closed off, building works and countless other minor obstacles). The tramp persevered though drew the line at entering the campsite until he could see the way out again (some campsites are like lobster traps to the WLW – he feared this was one of them). It was possible to turn around (and indeed we did) but decided not to stay as the “open all year” really meant (in true Italian style) “unless we want to close for the winter – which we do – tomorrow!”. We could have stayed one night but the hassle of getting set up and then moving the next day was hardly worth it despite our lack of stomach for trying a new address and the fact that it was getting later.
Not to be deterred, the next Mestre address was entered into the SatNav. The site, while having a less impressive array of stars and a location which didn’t automatically recommend itself (the neighbourhood was more factories than families), proved to be much more salubrious. Quite spectacular in fact. It does call into question the star ratings in our campsite guide book. The tramp drove through the pine trees to the end of the site and parked parallel to the water and only a few feet away from it. The view? Not apparent as it was a bit foggy the evening we arrived, but dear reader when we woke to a clear morning, the campanile of St Mark’s was centred in our living room window. Not as close, you understand, as it is from the Cipriani, but the Giudecca (or anywhere else on the islands of Venice proper for that matter) does not allow WLWs – not even one’s as elegant as the tramps’. Our view was not just Venice in the distance with the sun rising behind her in the morning and her lights sparkling across the water in the evening, but the passage of all manner of ships (from every country in the world) from early morning til late at night: majestic cruise ships and workaday container vessels, ferry boats, smaller fishing boats, tug boats fore and aft of the cruise ships (even those which didn’t need them – as was evident from the slack lines between them – or in some cases lack of connection altogether - all part of keeping the locals employed!). While Venice was some distance away, these boats were not: their horns often made me feel they intended to stop in for breakfast or supper!

The amenities of the campsite were almost as good as the view: excellent showers; Maytags in the laundry room; washing up facilities; a small supermarket; a London bus which doubled as an internet café, a caffe (two ff’s in Italy) and restaurant. Of course, after one week, the supermarket closed (not enough business in the winter), the restaurant closed and the internet bus was never open, having shut for the winter before we arrived. But the upside was a five minute walk to the boat which only took 15 minutes to reach Venice – 20 minutes on a choppy day. The boats started at 8am (very good news) but the last boat left Venice at 6:30pm (not very good news) – though one can return by a combination of train and bus (this looks like the Venetian equivalent of a slow boat to China – one can only imagine a 2 hour journey replacing a15 minute one). On the other hand, the reason for staying later is to have dinner (no museums are open late) and since the tramps have their proper meal at pranzo and the Italians do not know the meaning of a light supper, the reason for staying late combined with the inconvenience associated with it began to evaporate.


No mountains to climb, no Manhattan gym to be found (the fitness room at the campsite was also closed for the season – do I begin to see a pattern here??), how would the tramps occupy their time and stay fit? Staying occupied is no problem. Venice bewitches – even Napoleon was enthralled by Piazza San Marco and while it is the most glorious square in the world, it would be wrong to spend the rest of one’s life sitting in the sun, enjoying the view, drinking a perfect cappuccino, and letting the water rise under one’s feet. Water in St Mark’s Square? Perhaps you have not had the experience of aqua alta in Venice. The Venetians, who take everything in stride, and have seen it all before are prepared in various ways for the seasonal rising of the water. For stranieri it is an amazing phenomenon. First of all, there is the problem of turning down an alleyway and coming to a passage submerged in water (I don’t mean a puddle I mean water several inches deep – shoe ruining, trouser wetting deep) with no way out. Or finding that the fondamenta on both sides of the canal one has reached are impassable. Ok , turn back, consult the map and try again. Interesting: whole areas under water. The locals of course are all wearing their wellies – or funny galoshes that tie over their shoes (glorified plastic bags, but fitted and strong). Alternatively, some shop keepers, not wishing to lose custom, put paving stones (usually odd shaped, not flat, and not terribly secure) in the water in the general area in front of their shops. Some put bags of sand. Pedestrians pick their way across the stones like children trying to cross a stream. Sometimes the stones were too far apart and only the tramp with his advantageously long legs could bridge the distance. Your trampess, feeling that stilettos are really not appropriate in Venice (too much walking not to mention cobblestones made of volcanic rock not offering the stability one looks for in the pavement beneath a well constructed but none the less fragile heel of a Manolo – evidently this is a view shared by even the most fashionable of Italian retailers in Venice – none of the shoes in the windows had high heels – bella figura gives way to the Darwinian survival instinct yet again) wore her trusty Christopher Brasher walking shoes (the acceptable face of the hiking boot of the same name) which are, of course, fully waterproof. So the occasional, deliberate step into the water between stepping stones was not the disaster it might have been (or for the tramp would have been). As aqua alta is governed by the tides, it is, if one knows when the tides are, and which parts of Venice are most effected, an entirely predictable, and therefore, to a certain extent, avoidable phenomenon. But no area is immune, though some are more prepared than others. Indeed, like clockwork, the tables in Piazza San Marco, which are stacked up in readiness, are positioned into a long connected line by the locals in time to provide a bridge around the square just as the water is rising. Occasionally, this being Italy, albeit northern Italy, the local police force had to direct the foot traffic on the tables in front of St Mark’s to ensure that it kept moving. It did make having a coffee in the square at times remarkable resistible. It also meant that while the water was high when we entered the one wi fi point we found (remarkably also free!), by the time we left (much longer than it took to drink the cappuccini we ordered to legitimise our presence) the water had receded.

Aqua alta made our walks more adventurous but never impeded our intent to conquer Venice: historically and topographically. The Italians being Italians, it didn’t even impede our acceptability at the most elegant restaurants: my elegant jeans, rolled up took on an edgy chic which together with an extremely simple, not obviously branded, Hermes belt more than made up for the practical shoes and the outrageously practical, plastic ponchos that protected us from the occasional, unpredictable downpour. One dares not mention the state of the coiffeur! Of course, the Venetians have always been traders and therefore take the strange ways of stanieri in their stride, but we managed to penetrate the inner circle and wound up at the best tables in our favourite restaurants. It has always been the trampess’s confirmed conviction that restaurants that really care about food, prefer clientele who really care about food. It is intuitively obvious to the casual observer, and Italian maitre d’ are certainly more than casual observers, that the tramps do care about food.

Many days your tramps set out with the day planned: which museums to visit, which churches to visit, where to have lunch (or at least where to look for lunch) but often their plans were overcome by opportunity. Today, for example, we completely changed our plans — we were strolling near the Rialto, with the idea of heading toward a museum we hadn’t yet made it to, when the fish market beckoned. The fish market near the Rialto is quite amazing – not only are there millions of different fish and near fish (octopus, squid, shell fish), they are all labelled – not in the normal way with name and price, though that is part of the labelling – but also as to whether they are elevata (farmed), or al pescatori (line fished by real fishermen), and from what waters (Italian, Greek, north Atlantic etc). The fish looked so good, and the locals were buying. Who were we not to follow suit: your trampess bought a particularly plump and fresh, Italian Orata caught by a fisherman. Of course having the perfect fish meant finding some perfect vegetables and fruit to complete the meal. This required stopping by the vegetable market we had discovered in piazza Margherita (a charming square almost undiscovered by non-Italians, where a morning cappuccino commands a local price and not a special, high price devised for tourists, including Italian tourists). Of course with such a meal the trampess needed to lay in a little wine and happily discovered a charming hole in the wall with an impressive catalogue of local wines and a tasting counter where wine and bruschetta – made before your eyes by the patroness – were available. In fact, it seemed to be a local favourite for a light lunch – it was hard to actually just buy a bottle (or two – though it should be said the patron was quite happy when I did!). Before you knew it we were back on the boat to the WLW and soon your trampess was gutting and scaling the fish. The tramp proclaimed that he had not eaten better in Venice (the trampess was not sure that her gutting capability was quite as good as do Forni’s – lessons at le Manoir not withstanding, and of course there was the need to remove the garbage post haste – fish innards not being the ambient aroma one wants in the WLW- particularly with the proximity of all rooms to the kitchen! – incense has its place!) And so daily life overcame art – at least for one day.