Tina Time

The only unfriendly Italians we met while we were there were the concierges at the hotel in Venice. A woman in the evening and a man during the daytime, each was tall, thin, dark and much better dressed than you would imagine a hotel concierge could afford. The hotel itself was small, only 37 rooms. It was quaint and all the other hotel employees smiled shyly at us in the hallway and seemed quite nice.

But the issues with both concierges (they were practically interchangeable in looks, age, demeanor and (lack of) manners) went on and on. When our luggage didn't arrive with us, we had to call the airport to follow up. The instruction sheet was in Italian, as was the recording when I called the phone number, the only thing on the page that I could read. When I went to the front desk, the woman was on the phone, speaking in Italian and not missing a breath as I waited for her attention. When she finally finished her call, she turned to me with a disdain tht let me know that she had much better things to do than to help me.

Later that evening we wanted to get something to eat so we asked at the front desk for a recomendation. Once again, she looked down her nose and said there were no restaraunts open at this time. We mentioned tht we had seen some restaraunts on our way in. "Oh", she said casually, "you don't want to go there, they are no good". But, we were hungry so headed out around the corner.

The small restaraunt we found was plain but full with every table inhabited by interesting looking people and the variety of languages was astounding. While the meal was not the best we had in Italy, it was a decent meal, with friendly service and lots of local flavor. The next day, it was cold and raining and stll without luggage, we wanted to head out and really begin to see the city. Once again we asked the concierge, this time the male version, if there were any shops close by. He assured us, no place we would want to go. We headed to the city, found a small shop across town and continued on to have a very nice day. That evening, while walking off dinner we passed two different mens sports clothes and menswear shops. what gives?

But the ultimate insult came on the last day we were in Venice. We had hoped to tour the glass blowing factory, but were worried that it would be cutting it too close with our train tickets to Florence. So we got up, ate our breakfast, packed our bags and headed for the front desk. Our train left around 11am and we knew our hotel was "somewhere" close to the train station. We headed to the front desk and asked directions. This time both conceirges were there. These were elegant, well dressed and attractive people. Tthe sardonic smile on each of thier faces was just the final touch to create the caricature they appeared.

Thier English was accented, but excellent, so this was not a communication problem. We asked about the train station and they offered directions, saying it was over the bridge (our room looked out over a canal) and then "right there". We took off, confident that if it was as close and obvious as thier directions, we should be able to see it once we crossed the bridge. We pulled our luggage up the stairs, across the small bridge and down the stairs on the other side, looking expectantly for a sign of a train station. There was actually a bus station right there, so we figured we were close. We walked up and once again, no sign of a train station. We asked a policemen, who waved us down a gangway, blocks away from where we had been looking. We headed down the street, down the gangway, but alas, no train stration in sight. There were many people walking in each direction on this alley like street facing the Grand Canal on our right and a quasi-strip mall with a few small businesses facing the walkway. Up and down this alley we walked, dragging our roll behinds, and carrying cameras, purses, and my backpack. We asked several people, at least three, and all directed us one way or another until finally, one gentlemen mentioned that we had to take a water taxi across the canal to the train station! Are you kidding me, not once, at the hotel, at the bus station, from random strangers on the street, did a single soul mention the fact that we had to cross a major body of water to get to where we were going. Amazing. At least most of the people we asked seemed genuinely happy to help, so I cannot say the oversight was intentional.....We finally bought our tickets, jumped on the water taxi and rode to the train station, which was there in sight as we left the boat.

So here it is, coming down to the test. Is this a serious endevour? Am I serious about this? It's the time where the luster has dimmed, the excitement of the performance has faded, the work has begun. So here is the deal, the time has come when I should write, need to write, but prefer or choose to do other things. I find myself making excuses each evening as dinner, homework, family and committments still press in. By the time evening is done and my time is my own, I am exhausted.

As we walk through this process and examine the components of inspiration, try to find where motivation originates, understand the forces that pull us to avoid or embrace the task at hand, I must acknowledge my own weakness in giving in to excuses.

Too tired, too many other things to do, just no energy left at the end of the day or guilt for choosing writing over chores or time with family and friends, have all been excuses I have allowed myself instead of focusing on the goal. No matter what the day has been like, there is almost always 30 min to be found when its a priority. I always think about Woody Allen's quote, "80% of success is just showing up". Doing the work, spending the time, choosing the activity that requires additional focus and energy after a long day, even if its not perfect, even if you're not in the mood, that is showing up.

Another favorite quote from Henry Ford (and forgive as I paraphrase) is "No one is ever congratulated or acknowleded anyone for what they said they were going to do". Any time you find yourself with a dream that occupies your time and thoughts and yet you are not really making any positive moves toward the goal, at some point you must either begin to take those steps, or acknowledge that it really wasn't that much of a dream after all. Too often in my life I have allowed myself to take the easier route of acknowledging the lack of trueness of the dream and simply convinced myself that all that time and energy spent thinking and planning was a lie and the admission that the absence of the dream was an acceptable reallty. The easier but far less satifying route.

So, here I am, committing again, to push on, to suck it up, to see the bigger goal of creating th life I want instead of short term comfort or ease. What makes the difference, how to find the strength, make the tougher choice? I am very interested in this idea, since I have often been so disappointed in my own choices

......tomorrow, back to Italy.....
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I have often kept a journal in different times of my life, mostly times filled with angst or especially frenetic times when there was so much going through my head and feelings filling me so overwhelmingly that writing them out seemed to be the only way to exorcise these recurring thoughts and save myself from an unending and repititious litany of thoughts I could not be rid of. Writing when I knew that no one wiould ever read my thoughts lent itself to a free form, unstructrured thought process that did not and did not need to make sense. It was simply a catharsis of the raw emotions that sometimes have overwhelmed me to the point that they needed an explicit outlet.

Writing out here in the blogsphere, in spite of the fact that I am realistic to know that no one is actually reading my unending prattlings aobut wanting to be important, its different. Here, the words have to make sense, nonsensical rantings and barely developed thoughts are soon revealed for what they are, or are not, when read with a critical eye. And I am too brutally honest to indulge in delusions about this undertaking.

It is, somewhat to be expected. I declare to the world that I will be a writer and speaker with no reflected effort or body of work to show my seriousness about the goal. Just the poems, which I have had a hard time taking seriously. This left me outside of the arena of competing for your time and considerstion. The blog space is like a workshop, an unending opportunity to practice practice practice writing, sharing thoughts, developing ideas.

It's in this space, upon the endless re-reading and editing that you realize that it is so much more than simply sitting down and letting the thoughts, fall, unbidden out of your head onto the paper. The work is in taking a raw emotion or undeveloped idea and present it as legitimate thought, worthy of a readers time and attention.

Now the challenge is to just keep writing, practicing, working. Hopefully something worthwhile will happen...

Dear friends, have you missed me? This brief respite from my storytelling has left me feeling guilty for having abandoned my blog and anxious to get back and not allow this to become a permanent derailment.

I must plead sickness as my excuse, I was actually body dragging, head throbbing, mind numbing ill and unable to yield coherent thoughts for perhaps 3-4 days. This, of course, does not account for the rest of the absence, other than the awkwardness and hesitation of jumping back in.

But no way to do it other than to just do it.

So, where were we…..St. Mark’s Square…….The cathedral there was simply awe-inspiring and utterly indescribable. The marble was so colorful and so beautiful I took pictures of multiple quadrants trying to capture the patterns and colors.

The statues atop the magnificent doorways were carvings in marble of saints and angels, some gilded gold. And domes everywhere, and spires. Murals of scenes of the bible and coronation of popes under endless archways. Magnificent! Angels were perched on top of tall columns, watching down on us. And arches within arches within arches resting on columns of varied colored marbles forming imposing and important doorways.

The square has, as its perimeters, great rectangular building, intricate with innate carvings and forming a symmetry that leaves you wondering why it seems so perfect….the divine proportion at work again, is my guess (will talk about this at some point in the future). And, as in the midst of all Italian squares and piazza’s, stood the obelisk. It never occurred to me to wonder or ask about the significance of the obelisk, but thinking back, they are everywhere. I will need to look into this.

As we tried to soak in the sights and the sounds and the smells of the moist day a thick mist began to descend. We approached one of the remaining brave vendors and ordered our first cappuccino in Italy. It warmed us up as the temperature dropped and the rain increased. We ducked under the awnings of the hotel, warming our hands on the steaming cappuccinos, listening to the orchestra, gazing across the bay at some unknown but beautiful cathedrals and buildings and waited for the weather to clear. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply trying to suck the imprint of this moment, this day, as deep into my being so as to not lose utter joy I was experiencing.

This was the actual day of our anniversary, and we were excited about the serenaded gondola ride we had scheduled for 7:30. I had been imaging the evening for months, the dark but lighted canal, the handsome gondolier singing mellifluously behind us as we snuggled in the front of the gondola. I couldn’t wait!

There had been some confusion in the scheduling of the gondola ride with the travel agency, so we decided to head to the address on our reservations a little early to make sure everything was in order. Of course it was, so here we were early. Staning on the deck in front of the pier we met a young couple who also had a gondola ride scheduled for 7:30.

Their names were Skyler and Kendra, a lovely young couple on their honeymoon. They were from California and very attractive. They described their trek across Europe, the honeymoon a gift Skylar’s grandmother.(I kind of had to roll my eyes at their names: Skyler and Kendra, rich kids from California, it just seemed so obvious).

We had some time to kill, so the four of us walked down the cobblestone alley way until we found a small corner bar and ordered beers and just window shopped, sharing stories and laughs and never really running out of things to say or look at and comment on. They weren’t much older than our oldest kids, but that night we were just two American couples in Venice.

We walked back to the pier for our gondola rides and laughed and laughed as we realized that there were about 24 couples waiting to ride in 8 gondolas and one serenader with a karaoke machine. Not exactly the intimate ride I had imagined, I thought, as we got in line to get in our gondola.

The truth though, is, it was a lovely ride through the canals of Venice at night. We met several other nice couples on the ride, another couple on their honeymoon and an older couple returning to a city they had enjoyed together long ago. The night was clear, the stars shone bright, the singer providing the soundtrack to our ride through the inner workings of the city seen by starlight. In between songs, another of the gondoliers would point out historic sites or provide some history and they seemed to have the ride timed to sing and speak at just the appropriate moments. All in all it was a magical ride.

We returned from the gondola ride, tired and hungry but full of the Venizia sky. (It’s not called Venice in Italy, but Venizia) We were in an unfamiliar part of the city, but we had our small map and the way home seemed obvious. We started to walk home to our hotel, debating about whether to stop and eat or head back and eat near the hotel. The more we talked and the more small empty restaraunts we passed the more we realized we wanted to get back to the familiarity of the little part of town we called home. Of course along the way, we still window shopped and enjoyed all the beautiful things for sale. Masks are a trademark of Venice and mask and puppet shops are plentiful, each one more masterful and creative than the next. Many had picture of famous actors wearing or holding the masks or hats and costumes sold by these exquisite shops. And the blown glass….everywhere.

(One of my disappointments early in the trip was that we did not make it to the glass blowing factory located on small island right outside Venice. We intended to make the trip out there, but just didn’t have the get up and go the next morning. You just have to make choices sometimes. We really didn’t want the kind of vacation where we were going and doing every minute of everyday. Once I came to grips with the fact that we were simply not going to be able to get to everything we would have liked to do or see, I determined to enjoy each minute and savor snuggling with my husband uninterrupted and unhindered by responsibility in a beautiful hotel room as much as seeing an ancient ruin or art masterpiece. It made all the difference and offered memories of not only things we did and saw, but feelings and experiences shared powerful enough to hold sway over us still today.)

But back to the story….We were walking home, and walking, and walking. Soon we started seeing some of the same shops and realized we were walking in circles. We stopped and got directions and headed (we hoped) for home. On the way we passed some street musicians playing glasses. Yes, you know the crystal glasses of different shapes and filled with different amounts of water to render different pure pitched sounds. There were two men, one had a tray of traditional wine and champagne and a few other odd assorted shapes, the other a rack with long crystal tubes. They played that crystal like an orchestra and the multi dimensional sounds they produced did not seem to be able to come from some glasses. We actually took some video, though dark and grainy, you can hear their music. Digital cameras are amazing things these days.

We put a few euros in their hat and trudged on in what we hoped was the right direction. By now we were had walked what felt like hundreds of miles, still carrying the clothes we had been wearing that morning, as well as all the trinkets purchased throughout the day, and still not exactly sure how to get back. The walking part of Venice is all stone walkways or cobblestone and somewhat hard on our legs and feet after all day. It is also not flat, but a series of steps and bridges over canals, so walking there is hard work. I was exhausted and fading fast, finally Keith steered us to the water taxi station and we rode the perimeter of the city to be dropped just a few blocks from our hotel.

Though we were tired, we were even hungrier, so we dropped off our bags in our room, quickly changed our clothes and headed back out to a restaurant close by. We walked around the corner and down a few blocks and finally stopped in a tiny little place that displayed many of their delicious looking pastas, grilled vegetables and dishes in the window.

As we sat down at our table, we realized the only other table was a 10 top and we recognized some of them as fellow guests from our small hotel. They were loud and boisterous and we were tired so we sat and enjoyed listening to their banter for awhile as we waited for the only waitress to bring our drinks. The other table was almost finished when we arrived, so soon they stood up and said their goodbyes, smiling at us in recognition. An older lady near the back of the table stopped in front of us and leaned over to offer her advice, “do yuhself a favuh” she said in a clearly NY accent, “have the bean soup, it’s to die fowah”. We thanked her and laughed and shared pleasantries.

When the waitress came, she explained that they did not have a menu, but simply made their favorite dishes each night and you were to order from what was available. I figured if the soup was so good it compelled this lady to stop and tell a perfect stranger about it, it was worth a try, so that’s what I ordered. Keith had the lasagna. We drank our wine and chatted about our day, listening to the American Oldies musack and taking in the quaint local décor.

Then the food came. We had many many unbelievably delicious meals on our trip through Italy, but that meal stands out in my mind. We were just amazed at intricacies and depth of that simple meal. The soup was a bean soup made with a brown bean of some sort, in a navy bean type soup, but darker and richer and with vegetables. It was served in an oval soup tureen and she picked up the olive oil bottle on the table and poured a generous serving over the top of the soup after she set it down.

The lasagna was not made with a red marinara, but with a brown meat gravy-like sauce as well as a rich white cream sauce. And the bread…..All were to die fowah…

We chatted with the owners after our fantastic meal, a husband and wife that owned and ran the little restaurant, he the chef and she the waitress/hostess with a little help in the back from a dishwasher/busboy. We took their card and promised to recommend them to all friends visiting Venice. Our hotel was a little out of the way and in a small business and residential district, so we really got a little feel for daily street life and enjoyed the less touristy, if less glamorous part of the city. In some ways like any cities older downtown district with contemporary products sold form old fashioned storefronts and tiny cafes with 2-3 tables outside their doors on every corner

After dinner, we started to walk back to the hotel, hating to see the day end, so we decided to get a coffee from a street vendor. We ordered two coffees and were served two shot glasses of dark thick mud. I had never had espresso and we did not realize that “coffee” in Italy is not a tall styra-foam glass of milky weak coffee juice. It is a concentrated shot of barely dissolved coffee beans. But not bad when you add some sugar though it definitely takes 2 or 3 to get used to it. “what is this, a shot of coffee?” I said. Though strong, it simply did not satisfy, as it was only two gulps and gone. “We better have another” so we downed the second shot and chatted pleasantly with the young street vendor and the friend who was keeping him company. They were friendly and we joked and laughed with them for a few moments before heading home to the put the caffeine to good use…..

Venice,

We walked along the canal but were starving, so we decided to stop for a bite to eat. There were so many restaurants along the canal, every one with a small display on the sidewalk, right outside the door. Some were menus or wine racks. a table with dishes or an attractive display, in front of one, there was a small shark, arranged as if he were ready to talk to you, on ice. I had to take a picture, it was so interesting. The city smells a little fish, but we were happy to be sitting at a small cafe right next to the canal, in between the gondola booths.

Because it had rained on and off practically all day, most of the gondolas were tied up at thier stands and the canal was fairly empty of traffic. The gondola drivers were standing around smoking, having conversations in Italian, wearing the traditional striped long sleeved, wide necked tight shirt. Many wore the caps too. It was so much fun just to sit, drinking Italian beer and an odd assortment of meat and grilled vegatables. The rain had finally stopped, but the sky was still cloudy and the air was slightly cold, but we were warmed by our beer and our lunch and we were off to St. Mark's square.

Venice is a fairly small city, and we walked and walked, following our small tourists map and trying to make sense of the Italian names and maze of canals and streets and piazza's. We knew we were close to our destination, but I wasn't sure how we managed not to find the biggest area in city. Finally, we turned the corner and there it was, a huge sprawling square, bordered on one side by the large cathedral and small shops, hotels and restaurants. And the pigeons, like you have never seen, on the ground in large shimmering waves of black and gray, tourists happily feeding them crumbs and bread and the birds scampering after every morsel. Some people thought it was fun to let the pigeons roost on thier shoulders and arms, but for me, not so much.

There were young men playing guitar or accordian with a case for change in front of them, setting up and gathering up as the rain came and went. A full orchestra accompanied by a grand piano played under the eaves of an elegant hotel, with the rain dripping off the awnings and the lady musicians trying ot keep thier shawls and jackets on while playing thier instruments.