Paradise found

My man is a great lover of cinema and could happily watch a movie every night of the week. He is also a night owl and loves watching films late at night. I do enjoy a film every so often, but mostly I prefer to have a conversation, or, if that doesn’t seem to be happening, read. I also like to be in bed by 11 at the latest (at least during the week, weekends I've been known to sometimes stay up past midnight!). So when he sulks because I hardly ever agree to a (late) night in front of the box, I try to convince him to watch one without me, I mean it’s not as if I would mind. But that’s the other problem; he doesn’t like watching films alone.

Ever since we returned from Venice I have been harassing him to start learning Italian with me. After a fairly relentless campaign he eventually caved in and we now spend about half an hour every evening repeating simple dialogue and memorising verbs. I love it! Whenever I develop a new interest it tends to border on the obsessive, like the case with quantum physics, which somehow managed to snare me a few years ago. But it quickly passes. This is different, I know it. So whilst he patiently puts up with my frantic enthusiasm, expecting it to fade soon enough, I am busy planning a new life in Italy (I’m sorry you had to find out this way, honey).

In the meantime, we have found the perfect solution to our movie dilemma. In my desire to immerse myself in everything Italian I have suggested that we watch only Italian films, and lots of them. He, delirious with joy at the prospect of finally having someone to watch movies with, has of course agreed. He doesn’t even mind when I pause the film every few minutes to ask “did they say non c’e male?” (or some other equally simple word or expression). I guess it really isn’t so bad, at least in comparison to the cinematic desert we previously inhabited.

Broken baubles and chocolate waterfalls

After my fourth and final day in Venice I know four things:

1. The Venetians love chocolate
2. They make exceptionally good hot chocolate
3. The brew I had at Caffe Florian on my first day, though delicious, is no better than many other concoctions I sampled; even the simplest café on a back street serve up what can only be described as molten chocolate, it’s so thick your spoon almost stands up in it.

And finally

4. I’ve come to realise that the only reason I’ve been tempted to have whipped cream with hot chocolate in the past is because there’s been nothing else very special about it. Here on the other hand it feels disrespectful to add cream to what is already perfection

On our last day we came across an exclusive boutique selling nothing but chocolate. On the wall directly opposite as you enter is what is basically a chocolate water fall, and the shelves are stacked with chocolate spreads, nut brittles, chocolate fondue sets, and chocolate bars all beautifully packaged. Behind the counter a selection of about 40 different kinds of truffles, pralines and dragees lay in wait, and of course there was a selection of hot chocolates to choose from (they even do iced chocolate in the summer). We stocked up on gifts for fellow chocoholics back home and left with a very heavy bag.

After the chocolate affair we continued our wander towards Piazzala Roma and came across a small shop selling beautiful glassware made on the premises by the owner, Viviana Toso. Even though Christmas is pretty much over I couldn’t resist one of the gorgeous baubles on display in the window. With the transaction finished and my bauble wrapped in bubble-wrap I did a very silly thing and dropped the bag on the floor. At first it seemed to have survived unscathed, but upon closer inspection Viviana noticed that the glass hook was broken.

Not being able to communicate very well made everything a little bit awkward, but she was very gracious and offered to fix it for me. And so she sat down at her desk and lit the gas flame and produced a clear glass rod, the tip of which she held directly in the flame. After only a minute or so it started melting and it looked fantastic; gooey and slow-running, like lava. She expertly turned it this way and that, and using some mysterious tool she managed to transform the blob into a long thin strand, which she separated from the rest of the rod, and then just like that twisted around to form a loop. Using special glass glue she attached the new hook to my bauble.

We had planned to go to Murano while we were in Venice, but there simply wasn’t enough time. In a way I think this was much better, there was no pressure to buy anything and we were the only ones there. The only thing I would want to change is that I would have liked to be able to speak to her. And that’s what I’m taking away with me from Venice. A love of the city and a promise to myself to learn Italian.

The photo of the molten chocolate is from the Viziovirtù website.

The fabulous Peggy G

Today we paid homage to the legendary Peggy Guggenheim, enjoying her impressive collection of modern art housed at the Palazzo Venier dei Leoni right on the Canal Grande, which was her home for thirty years until her death in 1979. Upon entering you first come across the Nasher Sculpture Garden, which hosts not only Ms G’s and her many beloved dogs’ graves, and an olive tree donated by Yoko Ono but also several large pieces from the current exhibition by Germaine Richier. Inside, the permanent collection displays works by Picasso, Ernst, Miró, Giacometti, Kandinski, Rothko and Pollock, to name a few. And if you exit at the canal side you come face to face with a provocative sculpture by Marini, which will either entice you or make you blush. After this particular encounter, coupled with the sensory overload from the dazzling range of epochs inside, we were both in need of a break.

We gratefully sat down in the museum café which, despite offering us a waiter with the attention span of a gnat, allowed us to calm our minds and, with the help of a roasted vegetable and cheese sandwich accompanied by a glass or two of wine, prepared us for a delightful private wander through the temporary exhibition. To find yourself in the third most visited museum in one of Europe’s most visited cities and have an entire exhibition to yourself is wonderful beyond words; it reminds me of a solitary hike many years ago through the Walbran Valley in British Columbia. With no distractions your senses are allowed to come alive in a way they very rarely do.

Having spent most of the afternoon wandering through Peggy G’s palazzo I realise she must have been a phenomenal woman. And despite stories of her outrageous behaviour and rumours that she was more interested in the artists themselves than in their art, I immediately warmed to her, and in her devil-may-care attitude and many imperfections, I found myself a new heroine.

So infused with a little of her spirit we took the vaparetto across to the island of San Giorgio Maggiore. With its magnificent church and impressive belfry (higher than the one at San Marco) it forms part of a Benedictine monastery that sits directly opposite the piazetta di San Marco. With Peggy in mind I bravely conquered my double fear of lifts and heights and rode to the top of the campanile (belfry). The view was awesome, and with its high solid walls I felt protected and free to really take in the panorama across Venice and the lagoon, with the myriad of boats crossing the Canale della Giudecca.

Cream puffs and leather note books

I often feel a stupid pride whenever I’m in a new city and in my fear of looking like a tourist by referring to maps I often get lost as I march on, stubbornly pretending to know how to reach my destination. But I don’t feel this shame in Venice; it seems everyone here, including the Italians, is a tourist. And it’s liberating to boldly walk around with a half-open map in one’s hand, stopping every couple of steps to try and figure out which little canal we are crossing or what that magnificent church we have just stumbled upon is called.

We took the vaparetto from Palanca to Pizzale Roma early in the afternoon and from there meandered the narrow streets, crossing countless bridges and squares until we happened across the most exquisite little paper shop near Casa Goldini in the district of San Polo. Luckily we share a passion for stationary and so took our time browsing the selection of beautiful leather-bound notebooks, magnifying glasses with delicate Murano glass handles and gorgeous wax seal sets. After some modest haggling (initiated by the very friendly owner) we settled on an oxblood notebook, which was wrapped for us in handmade paper and secured with string and wax seals.

Unfortunately our joint worship of notebooks also comes with a shared sense of unworthiness of actually using them. It’s as if the words we put in them must not only be profound, but also written in the most beautiful hand. With such great expectations there simply seems to be no point in trying. So whether we will eventually use this beauty or whether it will be merely admired and occasionally caressed only time will tell.

Venice is not only bursting with paper shops, there also seems to be a pasticceria on nearly every corner, offering a tempting assortment of goodies. Since our Italian is nonexistent we are utterly clueless when making our selections; nevertheless today we bravely bought a box bursting with various cream puffs and chocolaty delicacies, and arriving back at the flat with said box after a long day, spent almost entirely on foot, it was wonderful to have a cup of tea, put our feet up and just indulge.

The papershop is called Karisma and the address is San Polo 2752. All the objects in the shop are made on the premises by the owner. It is truly worth a visit.

Bella Venezia

If you are willing to pay upwards of 80 euros you can arrive in Venice in style, by water taxi. We couldn’t decide whether we could justify such an extravagance, but after our descent into Marco Polo airport through a thick layer of clouds we figured we might as well climb aboard a humble bus and pay 2 euros each to take us to Piazzala Roma, the main bus station in Venice. It worked to our advantage as the 30 minute ride proved just long enough to convince the clouds to scatter. By the time we were motoring along Canale della Giudecca the sun shone so brilliantly on the buildings of the southern shore of Dorsoduro I even had to dig out my sunglasses. I knew then that this would be more than just a fling. My Man had capitulated much earlier; in fact as soon as we disembarked from the bus he proclaimed his undying love for the city, with its magnetic mixture of brilliance and dilapidation it was just up his street.

Arriving exhausted at Laguna we were met by the most spectacular views of the lagoon, a huge leather sofa and a bottle of Prosecco chilling in the fridge. If the sun hadn’t been shining so temptingly we would have remained there for the rest of the afternoon. But we decided that a sedate trip along the Canal Grande by vaparetto would be a fine way to see Venice on our first day. We made the right choice; sitting outside at the front of the boat was indeed glorious and the brisk wind ensured we stayed awake. We were both seduced by the buildings and particularly struck by the colour scheme. I now understand why Stockholm is called Venice of the north; the low winter sun on the buildings along the north side of the Canal Grande reminded me of the spectacular sight of Söder – the south island in Stockholm when standing on Norr Mälarstrand. All mustard yellows, dusky pinks, rusty oranges, deep reds and the occasional pastel green. But whereas Stockholm borders on the clinical in terms of cleanliness and order, Venice oozes a ruinous charm; crumbling buildings with large portions of exposed brick work that are brazenly decorated with bold flower arrangements.

We arrived at San Marco nearly frozen solid and decided to disembark and so with the rest of the tourists we made the obvious pilgrimage to Piazza San Marco. I must admit it was something of an anticlimax, but a good friend had hinted that very good hot chocolate could be had at one of Europe’s oldest cafés, Caffe Florian located on the south side of the square. And sitting in the lux surroundings sipping a deliciously thick and slightly bitter concoction I could almost feel the presence of past regulars, apparently both Byron and Casanova used to frequent the place (though not necessarily together). At 10 euros it was probably the most expensive hot chocolate I’ve ever indulged in, but I felt fabulously chic attended to by handsome waiters with gold braiding on the shoulders of their white jackets.

On a comfortable sugar high we left Caffe Florian in time to prevent bankruptcy and made our way to San Zaccaria vaparetto stop, dodging the hordes of manically photographing tourists along the way. It’s true, it is beautiful to behold, but if all you see is what’s displayed on the little screen of your digital camera can you really claim to have experienced Venice? We purposely left the camera in our pocket in order to try and absorb some of the sights and sounds and get a feel for the city first. With everything so breathtakingly beautiful it’s easy to be convinced that snapping away for 20 minutes outside the local Coop is a good idea, for it is indeed very pretty but probably not worth more than one shot.

Since we’d been up since 3:45am we agreed that a quiet dinner in our new home would be the best way to finish a lovely day. So we just made some pasta with fresh tomatoes, tuna, a couple of spoons of pesto and polished off the bottle of prosecco. And then after the Jacuzzi – bed. Bliss.