The Great Gigolo Hunt of 2007, Part 3B

Day Three (Afternoon/Night Three, actually)—October 2, 2007

Venice is actually made up of several small islands huddled closely together. The Venetian Lagoon receives some of its water from the Adriatic Sea, but it also receives a lot of other things, since basically its an open sewer, and has been for hundreds and hundreds of years. Evidently there have been recent efforts to clean up the lagoon, since it really didn’t smell as bad as I thought it would. It’s probably no dirtier than any other recreational lake in these here United States, but it certainly has a more exotic pedigree, what with being associated with Venice and all.

It was mid to late afternoon by the time we got to the docks for our Authentic Venetian Gondola Ride. But not just an Authentic Venetian Gondola Ride, a Serenaded Authentic Venetian Gondola Ride.

Yes, “Volare” was played again.

Now, a part of my past that I’m not too proud of includes working for a number of years at Disneyland, and it has changed me in…certain ways. Some scars just don’t heal, after all, and the more touristy something is the more it tends to make my soul twitch.

So, we are talking about not only a touristy gondola ride, but a super-touristy serenaded gondola ride.

My Mom was tickled pink by the whole idea.

Each gondola could hold 6 passengers, plus the gondolier, and we ended up in the first gondola. The singing gondolier and accordion player ended up in either the second or third gondola. The gondolas were spaced apart far enough that we couldn’t hear the music all the time, but those snippets of “Volare” came through loud and clear.

Before climbing into the gondola, cameras were passed around because, you know, gondolas! This was a pure tourist moment, so a picture naturally must be taken. My idea was to take a picture of the woman taking the picture of me and my Mom as she was taking our picture, but everybody was aghast at the very thought. I thought it would have made for an interesting picture, but since I don’t have Mr. Fantastic’s rubber arms I couldn’t take the kind of picture I wanted myself…pah.

Now, as mentioned above, I have a bit of a Disneyland past, and that’s kind of what the gondola ride reminded me of; kind of a bit like the Pirates of the Caribbean, except, you know, without the pirates and stuff. What I mean is the vibe I got was of the kind of craftsmanship Disneyland would have put into a gondola ride if they had a gondola ride. The ride did bring back a bit of that old sense of wonder I had before Disneyland tore it out of me, but at the back of my mind I couldn’t help myself and it was all I could do to keep from saying something about how you couldn’t even feel the underwater track the gondola was riding along.

While riding along, you could see how the Venetians who actually live in Venice pretty much have to move around (personal little power boats). As it was late afternoon, Venetians were probably going home for the night, so this was probably the equivalent of rush hour. So, gondolas aren’t the only watercraft in Venice’s smaller canals, and we learned firsthand just how tricky it could be to squeeze past some of these other boats in the smaller canals. At one point there was a boat tied off, blocking more than half of the canal we were in. Words were passed between our gondolier and some of the guys on that boat, but they couldn’t move it and we couldn't back up. So, our gondolier had no choice but to slooooooowly squeeeeeeeeeze past the boat…he did an admirable job of it, too. Once we made it past this bottleneck, we were pretty much on our way into the Grand Canal. This portion of the Grand Canal looked about as wide as the portion of the Ohio River I can see from outside my office.

We ended our gondola ride at a small pier, and the look of glowing happiness on my Mom’s face as she finally got her gondola ride…man, I should’ve taken a picture. And the fact that we didn’t fall into the Venetian Lagoon…well, that brought a look of glowing happiness to my face.

Now, I have short little arms to compliment my short little legs, and some of the alleyways we walked down on our way to St. Mark’s Square were really no wider than my arm span. I know spaces seem a lot smaller in the Old Country...no, scratch that. Spaces are a lot smaller there, since a lot more has to be fit in.

During our mini-walking tour to St. Mark’s Square, we got a chance to see the outside of La Fenice opera house as well as one of Venice’s four or so leaning towers (they don’t lean as badly as Pisa’s…I think Pisa’s leans over about 5 meters whereas Venice’s lean over 2 to 3 meters). While we didn’t get a chance to go inside La Fenice, you could hear a soprano and tenor practicing…quite nice.

But, finally, we ended up in the deep black tourist heart of Venice known as St. Mark’s Square.

One word: Pigeons.

Another word: Whoa.

St. Mark’s Square was fairly empty when we saw it (it was late afternoon/early evening by this time…not far off from twilight), but you could still see the sun shining on St. Mark’s Basilica, the Byzantine behemoth of Venice. As I didn’t have my handy dandy compass with me, I can only say that St. Mark’s Basilica was directly in front of me; the Campanile was just to the left and in front of St. Mark’s Basilica; and the Doge’s Palace was just to the left of St. Mark’s Basilica, with the Venetian Lagoon off to the far right of everything. (Yes, I know that doesn’t paint a very clear geographic picture, but I was still twitterpated from jetlag and a touch of a hangover.)

Battling our way through the pigeon horde, we ended up at an open air café facing the Doge’s Palace. (I do believe an instrumental version of “Volare” was playing.) This is where we would be having an apéritif of either a pinot bianco or merlot (both Venetian regional wines) or any soft drink of your choice…as I was still slightly hungover I opted for a Coke Lite. I kind of wish I’d tried one of the wines, though, since practically everybody who tried them said they were absolutely delicious.

We had a brief rest stop at this café before we were scheduled for our water taxi ride on the Grand Canal, so we had just a little time to take a quick look around St. Mark’s Square. While sitting at the café, the Doge’s Palace was directly in front of us, St. Mark’s Basilica was to our left, the Campanile was to our left and across from St. Mark’s Basilica, and the Grand Canal was directly to our right. Also directly to our right were two tall columns. One is St. Mark’s Tower, and the other is St. Theodore’s Tower. St. Mark’s Tower is topped by a winged lion; St. Mark is Venice’s patron saint, and the lion is associated with him, so several building façades in Venice feature winged lions. St. Theodore’s Tower features St. Theodore standing on top of a crocodile (man, there has to be an easier way to get alligator-skin boots). I don’t think we were told St. Theodore’s story, but, man, he was crushing a big ol’ croc under his feet, so I thought his tower was a lot more impressive than St. Mark’s (and, no, size doesn’t matter).

As it was getting dark, it was time for our water taxi ride along the Grand Canal (which would take us back to our bus). It was an open air water taxi, but it was already a little too dark by the time we reached (and passed under) the Rialto Bridge. I didn’t get a decent picture of the Rialto Bridge, and our tour schedule didn’t leave time for a trip to it.

We ended the night with another pasta dinner at the hotel, and another night of solid sleep was in store for me, with only the occasional feeling of being tossed about by waves (I’ve never been good at getting my sea legs).

Venice photos, baby; dig ‘em.

The Great Gigolo Hunt of 2007, Part 3A

Day Three—October 2, 2007

…I think I woke up with a slight hangover. Just a slight one. Since, you know, I don’t drink, and so the Hangover is a concept that is alien to me.

Sure I’m supposed to feel headachy and pukey and all, right? I mean, Rome did have vomitoria back in the day, right? Even though no actual vomiting took place there…go fig…

And to top things off we had to wake up on the early side yet again in order to hit the humongous breakfast buffet before starting our 7 hour drive up to Venice. Because there wouldn’t be many opportunities for noshing on the road, because food was verboten on the bus (although there were some naughty folk who did eat…and even leave their trash behind…I tell you, today’s seniors just are so irresponsible).

Now, normally I don’t have any problem with motion sickness, but I tell you I really wasn’t feeling too spiffy by the time we hit our first rest stop. Oh, my poor aching head. And apparently plain old aspirin can’t be sold over the counter (or at least I couldn’t find any at the place we stopped…but my Mom, ever prepared, had some stuck in one of her overstuffed bags). About all I could do was grab a few jugs of Gatorade and try to sleep it off.

I did doze a bit on the ride. Nevertheless, I did wake up every so often to get a look at the Italian highway system and snippets of the countryside that could be seen from the highway. But…I’ve seen a lot of countryside during countless trips along I-5 between San Francisco and Los Angeles, so I know what agriculture looks like. At any rate, by the time we reached our next rest stop for lunch (at a kind of combination self-service food bar/fast food/souvenir stand/gas station) my head no longer felt like a smooshed spicy meatball. It wasn’t a long stopover, maybe about 50 minutes or so, and since this stop would also have to include a trip to visit the line in the ladies room we just grabbed a pizza and fries and a “Coke Lite” (well, the fries came with the pizza combo). I also managed to slip in a quick call to my Bitter Half to see how the fort was holding up, and of course my Mom had to let him know I was a drunken lout the night before…thanks, Mom. I denied this, even though I did refer to the section of highway known as the “loop of Bologna” (which we had just passed before making our rest stop) as the “ring of Baloney.” Guess my brain still wasn’t quite up to speed (then again, those who know me say this kind of thinking is normal for me).

Well, back on the bus.

Since the entire bus ride would take roughly 7 hours, at some point Antonella our tour guide brought out the spiel about what optional tour excursions would be available (as well as the prices). As this vacation was basically for my Mom’s 55^th birthday (still about a month away at that point, but probably a lot closer than she’d care to think about), we decided to do the whole shebang. Otherwise, we’d probably be wandering around not knowing where to look next. Besides, this arrangement would also take our dinner plans into account, and rather than fuss with the local McDonald’s we figured this would be a much better way to go. So, if you’re going on a guided tour to begin with, you might as well go all the way.

At one point in the drive, we crossed the Po River, the longest river in Italy despite its itty bitty name (and, yes, there is a lame Teletubbies joke in there, somewhere behind the hangover haze).

But, soon enough, we neared Venice. Venezia, the city made up of several small islands bunched up together and bobbing on the Venetian Lagoon. Venice is really the reason my Mom wanted to visit Italy to begin with, but I had no heart to tell her just what the Venetian Lagoon is. Our hotel was on the mainland (most Venetians live on the mainland rather than the canal-riddled sections), and we had just enough time to stretch out briefly before heading down for the Dreaded Authentic Venetian Gondola Ride…

Only two photos this time, so grab ‘em while they’re hot.

The Great Gigolo Hunt of 2007, Part 2D

Day Two (…la notte…)—October 1, 2007

I can’t remember exactly how long of a break we had back at the hotel, but it wasn’t nearly long enough for the likes of me. I was exhausted from pumping out so much raw tourist juice, and I really could have used some time to recharge my batteries, as it were. There was time for a quick shower (no time to indulge in a Roman bath, ha ha…ha), change my shoes for some sandals that were a helluva lot more comfortable than the sneakers I’d been wearing all day, and to grab my spare memory card for my camera (I thought I’d taken it with me when I left that morning, and as it was I had only about 5 pictures left after leaving the Piazza Navona)…after all, I just can’t satisfy my need to take craplousy pictures.

So, feeling slightly rested, it was time to go out for the last part of our Roman squaliday. We were going out for dinner at a little place that was reportedly a favorite of Fellini. But first, a little trip to another famous part of Rome: the Spanish Steps.

So, why would something in Rome be called the Spanish Steps? Just because it’s close to the Spanish Embassy (which, oddly enough, is near the Piazza di Spagna).

Our bus dropped us off God knows where and, after a short walk, we reached the Piazza Trinità dei Monti just as the sun started to set. The Piazza Trinità dei Monti is pretty much at the top of the Spanish Steps. The piazza had the usual souvenir stands as well as artists’ booths and, as it was sunset, there was a pretty spiffy view of a view of the city. There was a church in the background (I know, I know, a church in Rome?), but I could never figure out what the name of it was (curse you, Internet, for failing me in my quest to identify every single Roman church).

But the Piazza Trinità dei Monti has a fairly famous church just at the top of the Spanish Steps known as the Santissima Trinità al Monte Pincio. Yep, quite a mouthful.

If my math and memory are right, there are basically three tiers in the Spanish Steps. The first tier (if you’re walking from the top to the bottom) leads you to small landing (where you could probably rest and catch your breath if you were hoofing it up the Spanish Steps rather than walking down them). The second tier leads to another small landing where, if you look behind you, gives you a pretty good view of the Santissima Trinità al Monte Pincio and, if you look down, gives you a pretty clear look at the Piazza di Spagna. If you push pass the crush of bodies sitting and/or loitering on the bottommost tier of steps you make it to the actual Piazza di Spagna. There is a pretty nice fountain there (the Fontana della Barcaccia, or the Fisherman’s Fountain), which depicted some kind of watery hellbeast but I couldn’t get too close to it because of all the bodies sitting around it. The Piazza di Spagna also has yet another obelisk at one end (where I didn’t go, as it was getting dark and spooky by this time). After gawking at the Piazza di Spagna for a while (and failing to notice that all the pictures I’d taken since arriving at the Piazza Trinità dei Monti were…well, there’s no other way to say it, pretty damn lousy…I forgot to remember that it’s never a good idea to move while the flash hasn’t finished flashing its magic flash powers, so all my photos are basically blurs), we went in search of FOOD.

I can’t remember the name of the restaurant we went; all I remember is our tour guide repeatedly told us it was a place that Fellini dug. At any rate, the restaurant’s foyer had many stills from his films, so I could see they took a little pride in the association. I was hoping for at least a leering dwarf or two, and on that level I was disappointed, but the food was tasty as can be. Believe it or not, we had pasta that night.

Now, since Italy kind of has a reputation for pasta, each region tries to make its local pasta specialties, well, special. Whether it’s the shape of the noodle or the sauce that accompanies it, no two pasta dishes really taste the same. I believe the pasta we had that night was something that translates literally into “strangled priest” pasta (basically, two short tubes twisted together with a light tomato-based sauce).

I don’t really remember if this was the night I had the strangled priest pasta, or if it was on another night, and the reason I really can’t remember is…well, I think I got a wee bit tipsy, and I’m not a drinker (teetotaler, that’s me). But there was a full bottle of white wine and a full bottle of red wine and, well, that red wasn’t long for this world when the lounge singer started up and I realized, much to my horror, that I’d be listening to way too many versions of “Volare” over the next few days.

I needed something to dull the pain and horror, and that’s the story I’m sticking with.

One other cool thing I noticed about the restaurant (and, no, it wasn’t just because I may or may not have been well into my cups by this point) is the ceiling rolled back, giving a kind of open air feel to the place. As it was a pretty mild night this was quite a treat.

There was another tour group there, and they were full of raving drunks (at least the matron who flashed her bra at us seemed to be a little sloshed).

At some point the wait staff politely saw us out the door (it must have been around 10), and as we staggered through a moonlit plaza toward the bus, our tour guide, Antonella, presented the ladies of the group with a rose from a local vendor. I got a pretty pink one, and I think my Mom’s was also pink. (We ended up leaving them in the hotel room, because we had no way of keeping them in water.)

On the bus back to the hotel, it dawned on me that, after 14 years, I finally made it to Rome. I had originally intended to spend about 4 or 5 days back during my 1993 trip. This time around, only 1 day was available to see what I could, and while I knew it was impossible to see it all (or even to see what I did see as long as I would have liked to), I think we did a pretty good job of seeing a lot in a short time.

I passed out cold that night, only knowing I’d be regretting the next morning’s possible (possible, mind you) hangover during the 7 hour bus ride to our next destination: Venice.

Blurry pictures can be found here.