Eat, Pray, Loathe Venice

Serene like they say? Well, yeah. In a slit your wrists, suicidal sort of way. If that's your thing then, sure. Dive right into the book. Personally, I'm hoping the movie's more enjoyable. If nothing else, I'm banking on its shot-on-location, eye-candy appeal.

I'm in the middle of the oft touted and much recommended Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert and just had to vent on her Venice bit, for a bit.

Anyone else miffed by her dark take on La Serenissima?

I'm still enjoying the book (generally), but ...

"Her cheer, her optimism - they in no way match this stinky, slow, sinking, mysterious, silent, weird city. Venice seems like a wonderful city in which to die a slow and alcoholic death, or to lose a loved one, or to lose the murder weapon with which the loved one was lost in the first place. Seeing Venice, I'm grateful that I chose to live in Rome instead. I don't think I would have gotten off the antidepressants quite so quick here. Venice is beautiful, but like a Bergman movie is beautiful; you can admire it, but you don't really want to live in it."

Oh, but it gets better. Meaning, of course, worse.

"The beautiful young Venetian woman who owns the restaurant near where we are staying is miserable with her fate. She hates Venice. She swears that everyone who lives in Venice regards it as a tomb."

Sounds like our traveling author met a depressed woman in Venice and allowed this one person's view of the city to reinforce her own negative first impressions as fact. But, now that Ms. Gilbert is on her merry way to happiness without help (i.e., sans antidepressants), it seems she can no longer recognize clinical angst in others and take what such sad souls say with a grain of salt.

Sigh. Just had to get that off my chest. As you were.

So. Love it or loathe it? Elizabeth Gilbert's take on Venice, that is. Post away! Please use the comments feature to share your own Eat, Pray, Love (or Loathe) thoughts rather than contacting Marisa directly. That way everyone can learn a thing or two, too.

State of the Union's Approach to Travel

A leisurely vacation overseas escapes the vast majority of American working dreamers. For most U.S. workers - lacking the time or the money, or both - traveling abroad essentially amounts to an unattainable or once in a lifetime (if they're lucky) luxury.

Having just returned from a quick four-day visit to Montreal, I was already lamenting having to wait a full calendar year to accrue the allotted 12 days of paid time off so that I could take something more akin to what I consider a real vacation. For me, if there isn't a trip on the horizon I'm just not a happy camper. So I put in for my time away next spring, this spring. That's how serious I am about taking time off. I was chatting about this with a friend in Paris and he mentioned to me that the new job he's considering offers―now would be the time to sit down and brace yourself before reading on―48 days of paid vacation. Um, yeah. I was floored, too.

I was reminded of that scene in Sicko where, "Sitting at a restaurant table with a bunch of American ex-pats in Paris, Moore is treated to a jaw-dropping recitation of the perks of social democracy: 30 days of vacation time, unlimited sick days, full child care, social workers who come to help new parents adjust to the strains and challenges of child-rearing." - Ezra Klein

In stark sobering contrast to what workaday Americans are guaranteed, in the way of paid time off in particular: "We guarantee zero. Absolutely none. That's why one out of 10 full-time American employees, and more than six out of 10 part-time employees, get no vacation. And even among workers with paid vacation benefits, the average number of days enjoyed is a mere 12. In other words, even those of us who are lucky enough to get some vacation typically receive just over a third of what the French are guaranteed." - Ezra Klein

Sigh. And a very heavy one, at that.

I'm now one of those Americans who enjoys "a mere 12" paid vacation days. After three years with the company that will increase to a whopping 15. If it weren't for the the fact that I love the company, the work, and the people, I couldn't commit to such a setup. Not unless there were the possibility of unpaid leave, which is what I enjoyed at my former place of employment.

Although, to quote Ezra Klein - "Very few individual workers in the United States can ask for four weeks of vacation. It is not only outside the benefits of their job but far outside the culture of our workplace. The incentives for most every individual, particularly if they want to keep their position and amass a reputation as a good employee, is to abide by those norms," I worked up the gall to ask my last employer for unlimited unpaid leave in addition to the standard two weeks (i.e., only 10 days) he outlined in the company benefits package. For some crazy reason, my request was deemed reasonable and I got my wish. It was fantastic. I even took it a step further when I opted for less monthly income in favor of a four-day work week.

That arrangement lasted for nearly six travelicious years before I decided it was time to move on and pursue my work as an artist more seriously, along with a career/day job that more closely matched personal passions; first and foremost, my love of travel. I consider myself exceptionally lucky to have found just such a place and position. Although I lost my lobby for unpaid leave in lieu of more fully-funded with my new employer, the fact that I enjoy my work counts immensely. Not many people―American or otherwise―can say that.

All that said, this still strikes me as shockingly medieval. This being where the U.S. ranks with the rest of the industrialized world in time paid to step away from the grindstone and catch up on some much needed R&R:

Kinda makes you want to scream and wish you'd been born a Brit or a Brazilian, right?

The reason it's so hard to get a vacation and so hard to enjoy one when you manage to squeeze part of one in is that the U.S. is the only country in the industrialized world without a minimum paid-leave law. As you can see from the chart [above], we've got a death grip on last place in the paid-leave standings. The first column details figures for statutory minimum annual leave and the right-hand column lists combined mandated leave with average additional time off by agreement with employers.

One of the most frequent remarks I'd encounter on my extended two, three, and four week trips abroad in the last five years is how atypical my length of leisure was for an American. Americans are often criticized for being an insular clan of overworked folks who take quick trips of five to seven days abroad and aim to squeeze in as much as possible within that tiny time frame. Going from Venice to Florence to Rome in the space of five or seven days doesn't sound like leisure to me; it sounds like stressful work. How can one possibly achieve a state of relaxation when so much time is spent traveling and sprinting about on the vacation itself? But given that "the average number of days enjoyed is a mere 12," what's a Yank to do? Spend the whole 12 on a single trip without saving time for family events or other piecemeal days off needed throughout the year? It's not like most companies allow a plethora of "personal days" or sick leave. That's right. For many Americans, sick time can often dip into vacation time because we're also lacking a logical allotment of paid sick leave.

It's kind of sad―though it's brought me unmeasurable pleasure, but I'm more and more thankful to be single and without dependents. Life is expensive these days and it's difficult to coordinate time off with friends, family, and partners. Especially when you're unwilling to take a five or seven day trip to somewhere 10 or more hours away by plane. I can't even imagine affording a real vacation, with kids. Let alone enjoying one! Not that it's not possible for those of us making less than $100,000 a year. I'm just saying that I can't imagine it.

In conclusion, I think that when one's government does not espouse or encourage a proper vacation by law, it is unarguably apparent that said government does not truly expect its people to be citizens of the world. Particularly puzzling when the nation in question is one of the richest in the Western World. The part that shouldn't come as a shock, then, is that in the United States, the vast majority of Americans can afford to be nothing other than what they are: untraveled people whose idea of a vacation is a three-day weekend (often spent working, from home!) It might also explain why Americans can be such ugly travelers, as they say. We don't get out much. Out of the country, that is. Our culture both in and outside of the workplace doesn't allow for much else (lack of support or mandate from the federal government; professional/social peer and personal pressure to work longer hours and to value material rewards rather than experiential rewards like vacations). Coupled with the ever increasing cost of living and the well-traveled American becomes the true overseas oddity. It's the truth, and it's a travesty.

Update: August 5, 2010 - Why don't Americans have longer vacations?

Sources:

• Land of the overworked and tired
  
• http://www.worktolive.info/poen_vaca_worl.cfm

Questions? Ask away! Please use the comments feature to ask questions rather than contacting Marisa directly. That way everyone can learn a thing or two, too.

A broad at home

Take-home trips: Titillating travel designed for use at home or away.

While either ramping up for a trip and seeking inspiration or just because, I read these books and found them to be entertaining or informative or both. At the very least, definitely worth delving into. Thought you might derive some virtual vacationing pleasure from them, too. Alphabetical by country and continent, note that the books themselves appear in no particular order of preference or importance. The list includes fiction and non-fiction titles, both. If it's not here, it is quite possible that I found the tome insufferable and wouldn't recommend it to a soul. For example, I can't do Frances Mayes. After attempting Under the Tuscan Sun on more than one occasion, I finally gave up for sheer boredom. While I did get through A Thousand Days in Venice, I found it flat and devoid of any real charm; an accomplishment for a book set in Venice, one of the most charming cities in the world. But that's no reason to read it. On the contrary! Anyway. As with my "When in ... " list, I'll try to keep this collection of recommended reading fresh. So check back periodically for the latest suggestions.

Travel with a capital T

• The Art of Travel, by Alain de Botton
  

Cuba

• Dirty Havana Trilogy, by Pedro Juan Gutierrez

England

• Notes from a Small Island, by Bill Bryson
• The Other Boleyn Girl, by Philippa Gregory
  

Europe

• Neither Here nor There: Travels in Europe, by Bill Bryson
• A Perfect Red: Empire, Espionage, and the Quest for
  the Color of Desire, by Amy Butler Greenfield
  

France

• Paris to the Moon, by Adam Gopnik
• Athenais: The Life of Louis XIV's Mistress,
  the Real Queen of France, by Lisa Hilton
• A Place in the World Called Paris, by Susan Sontag
• A Year in Provence, by Peter Mayle
• Toujours Provence, by Peter Mayle
• Encore Provence, by Peter Mayle
• French Lessons: Adventures with Knife, Fork, and Corkscrew,
  by Peter Mayle
• A Year in the Merde, by Stephen Clarke
• In the Merde for Love, by Stephen Clarke
• The Sweet Life in Paris, by David Lebovitz
• Mediterranean Summer, by David Shalleck
• Mistress of the Sun, by Sandra Gulland
  

Iran

• The Complete Persepolis, by Marjane Satrapi
  

Set in Venice and peppered with truth about the town, Donna Leon's Guido Brunetti Mysteries are always good reads.

Italy

• Pompeii: A novel, by Robert Harris
  
• The Smell of the Night: An Inspector Montalbano Mystery,
  by Andrea Camilleri
• The World of Venice: Revised Edition, by Jan Morris
• Venice Observed, by Mary McCarthy
  
• The City of Falling Angels, by John Berendt
• Fatal Remedies:
  A Commissario Guido Brunetti Mystery, by Donna Leon
• Death and Judgement:
  A Commissario Guido Brunetti Mystery, by Donna Leon
• Dressed for Death:
  A Commissario Guido Brunetti Mystery, by Donna Leon
• Death at La Fenice:
  A Commissario Guido Brunetti Mystery, by Donna Leon
• Through a Glass, Darkly:
  A Commissario Guido Brunetti Mystery, by Donna Leon
• Quietly in Their Sleep:
  A Commissario Guido Brunetti Mystery, by Donna Leon
• Death in a Strange Country:
  A Commissario Guido Brunetti Mystery, by Donna Leon
• A Noble Radiance:
  A Commissario Guido Brunetti Mystery, by Donna Leon
• Acqua Alta:
  A Commissario Guido Brunetti Mystery, by Donna Leon
• Doctored Evidence:
  A Commissario Guido Brunetti Mystery, by Donna Leon
• Uniform Justice:
  A Commissario Guido Brunetti Mystery, by Donna Leon
• Blood from a Stone:
  A Commissario Guido Brunetti Mystery, by Donna Leon
• Falling Palace: A Romance of Naples, by Dan Hofstadter
  
• A Venetian Affair: A True Tale of Forbidden Love
  in the 18th Century, by Andrea di Robilant
• Dreaming Venice, Photos by Fernando Bertuzzi
• Italian Dreams, Photos by Steven Rothfeld
• La Bella Figura: A Field Guide to the Italian Mind,
  by Beppe Severgnini
• Pagan Holiday, by Tony Perrottet
• Mediterranean Summer, by David Shalleck
• Imprimateur, by Monaldi & Sorti
  

Hawaiians have some of the most beautiful proverbs and poetical sayings anywhere. A joy to collect and read.

United States

• I'm a Stranger Here Myself: Notes on Returning to America
  after 20 Years Away, by Bill Bryson
• The Lost Continent: Travels in Small-Town America,
  by Bill Bryson
• Ciao, America!: An Italian Discovers the U.S.,
  by Beppe Severgnini
• In the Garden of Good and Evil, by John Berendt
• Olelo No'Eau: Hawaiian Proverbs and Poetical Sayings, by Mary Kawena Pukui
  

Questions? Ask away! Please use the comments feature to ask questions rather than contacting Marisa directly. That way everyone can learn a thing or two, too.

Montreal notes from a broad

Cocoa Loco
It isn't often that one meets a brownie worth blogging about. But I encountered (and inhaled) just such a specimen on my quick introduction to Canada, via Montréal. Based on the photos and descriptions found in my Eat Shop Montreal, I made it a top priority to swing by Cocoa Locale. Come rain or shine. It ended up being a shockingly cold day, made all the more frigid by an icy and persistent precipitation. But I made it to Cocoa Locale in one wet piece, just before closing. My choices were an entire key lime pie or two slices of the much touted (per my pre-trip research) Valrhona spicy brownie. Being that it was my birthday weekend and I'd already had more sweets than was either healthy or warranted, I opted for the brownies in luau of the pie (Mais oui - that luau was for you, Jenny.) Oh man. Score. The taste, the texture. The spicy kick! Far more delicious than a brownie should be and gone before I was ready to stop savoring. You must go to Montréal and have one. You simply must.

Airport Encounters
As per usual, the airport proved the place to make the acquaintance of friendly strangers: A new mother and her happy daughter (the little girl of 6-months smiled so much that I smiled so much my cheeks cramped up!) on the way to Montréal; a Venezuelan mother taking the first plane trip of her life (well the second, technically, because she didn't arrive in Canada by osmosis) after visiting her grandchildren in Montréal, on her way back home via Toronto (where I met her). The new mom was Italian, born in Lucca, now living in Napa. Though she'd love to return to Europe sooner rather than later, her family and friends still in Italy assure her the best opportunities to be had remain Stateside. With so many people out of work and unable to afford homes (even those like her best friend, a lawyer), la vita isn't so dolce as it should be for many Italians (and Spaniards, and, and, and) per the move to the Euro, which has made the gap between rich and poor only the grander (or more grandiose). Just because the Euro is up and the Dollar down does not spell wealth and celebration for all those paid in the favored currency. On the contrary. People are struggling now as ever and perhaps even moreso. Unable to find work. Unable to afford property. And all the while the cost of basics like bread and milk and eggs rises. As for the mother from Venezuela, she attached herself to me immediately based first on the assumption that I must speak Spanish (Hablas español, sí? Pero usted es de México o de América Latina, sí? No? Negra? Qué?) and then out of sheer nueva-traveler fear and the fact that I can in fact speak Spanish. Kinda. Painfully poco though. Loco poco even (particularly after spending the last three months brushing up on the French I'd last studied as a student some 15 years ago; as for el español, it's been about 12 to 13 years). And her Venezuelan accent didn't help any. I may not be Mexican, but it is Mexican Spanish one learns in California schools (makes practical sense, sí?) So I think the misunderstanding went both ways. I can't think of an example to use, but on words I knew that I knew, her pronunciation was vastly different from the Spanish I'd been taught. Reminds me of learning Spanish at UCLA and my mother asking, "What the hell am I paying them to teach you?" Being a Spanish teacher herself (and shame on the woman for not raising me bilingually, or trilingually; she also teaches French) she didn't understand the benefit of one's learning Spanish in California with an Argentinian pronunciation or dialect. It's true it was pretty useless given the circumstances, but it was fun and I did learn basic Spanish, in the end (I also didn't continue on with that particular professor.) Anyway, back to my lost in translation experience at the Toronto airport. Every time I tried to think of the Spanish I'd deliver a French-Italian-Spanglish fiction that only made sense to me and caused my new friend's brow to crinkle in confusion. I'd try again and eventually put together something loosely reminiscent of the desired language in that it finally made the vaguest of sense, I think, because she'd relax a little and Sí a lot. I got her on the plane and to her connecting flight in the end, and that's all that matters. Sí?

Cafe Culture
I found the cafe life in Montréal to be among the friendliest and most open anywhere. Though I was only in town for three full days, I felt like a fixture in an old haunt from the moment I set foot in Olive + Gourmando. On my first visit to this most delightful of cafes, just down the street from where I was staying, I met a New Yorker who has a flat in Old Montréal. My little piece of Europe, she called it. Our conversation threaded from travel, to reality TV, to the cost of living and the growing gap between rich and poor, to the economy in general, to bankruptcy, to art, and back to travel. Nicest New Yorker I've ever met. On my second visit to the same cafe the next day I met a native of Montréal. We chatted. We watched the passersby and took note of the impeccably chic clientele who glided in and out of the posh boutique across the street. Before I left she gave me her cell number, a few city tips, and invited (and treated) me to coffee (I had a hot chocolate, actually) the morning of my birthday at Cafe Olympico (another cafe with a very friendly, all-in-the-family feel) in Mile End. How nice was that?

Bilingual Bliss
Well before coming to Québec, I'd cooked up a romantic notion of it based on nothing more than the knowledge that both French and English are spoken here. Being something of a rudimentary Francophile, not nearly fluent in the language, there is a certain coolness and comfort factor in knowing that one can use either language and likely be understood (rather than laughed at, the way one's less than commanding grasp of French can sometimes be received in the environs of say, Paris.) My imagined Montréal did not disappoint, in this regard. It was wonderful. I'd been brushing up on my French for a month or three and it proved to be worth the effort. I could read signs and menus and descriptions of things with little difficulty. When people spoke to me directly I think I fared alright. But eavesdropping on conversations of two or more people proved fruitless. I blame the Québécois accent and dialect. Not the French one leans in school, but we'll come to that later. The Montréalaise woman I met at Olive + Gourmando who treated me to a birthday hot chocolate seemed to mirror my sentiment about the uniquely Franglais culture one finds only in Québec. She spent some time living in London and noted that, "I really missed the French." A marvelous Montréalais man I had the pleasure of talking with explained that, "Québec is a separate country, whether it is officially recognized or not." He pointed to the language for support; "How can you claim to know a place if you don't speak the language? I am modest enough to say that while I know something of English-speaking Canada, I do not know it. My English is okay, but it is not my first language." He makes a good point. Even if one knows or speaks some French, unless one also knows Québécois specifically, one can never truly know Québec.

Fun with Québécois
I studied up on my French, when I should have been learning to Speak Québec! I had no idea there are so many distinct and nuanced differences in everything from pronunciation to structure. I suppose I should have guessed as much; judging from how English is or can sound worlds apart within the U.S. itself or as compared to the various dialects of Mother England, Australia, etc.) Oh well. When I go back I'll have a native phrase or two to kick around like a local. Learning beaucoup from my souvenir copy of Speak Québec! by Daniel Kraus. If you can't find one at home, there'll be plenty for sale au Canada. It's a great little livre and one of the only English-Québécois (as opposed to French-Québécois) resources out there.

A few of my favorite entries:

• An?- The Québécois equivalent of, Huh?
• Atchoumer - To sneeze. From the onomatopoeia, "Atchoo!"
• Avoir un face de boeuf - To be in a bad mood. Literally, to have a face of beef.
• Avoir les baguettes en l'air - To gesticulate wildly.
• Avoir juste le cul et les dents - 1. To have no personality. 2. To be extremely thin. Literally, to have just an ass and teeth.
• Avoir le feu au cul - A rude expression meaning, to be furious. Literally, to have fire in one's ass.
• Avoir du fun - To have fun, to have a good time.
  
• Avoir vu neiger - To have experience. Literally, to have seen it snow before.
• Baptême! - Shit! Literally, Baptism.
  
• Chat sauvage - Chat is cat. Chat sauvage is raccoon. What a great way to describe a raccoon.
• Être game - To be game, to be willing.
  
• Faker - To fake, to pretend.
• Flusher - To purge, to flush, to dump. Ils sortent plus ensemble, elle l'a flushé il ya a trois mois. They're not going out anymore, she dumped him three months ago.
• Il n'y a pas de trouble! - No problem!
• Kodak - Camera.
  
• Kossé? - What is it? A condensation or deformation of the French, "Qu'est-ce que c'est?"
• Oreilles de Christ - Fried pig ears.
• Parlure - Slang.
• Péter de la broue - To brag about one's abilities. Literally, to fart suds.
• Pis - 1. And, next 2. "So?" 3. "What's new?" Pis toi? And you? Et pis? And so?
• Quessé? - Another form of "What is it?" from the French, "Qu'est-ce que c'est?"
• Questa? - What do you have? What's wrong? From the French, "Qu'est-ce que tu as?"
• Shafter - To give someone the shaft.
• Swinger - Nope. Not the noun. A verb. To party, to dance, to have a good time.
• Tiguidou - Okey-dokey.
• Tourlou - Toodleoo. Used as "goodbye".
  
• Trippant(e) - Impressive, amazing.
  
• Tripper - To dig something, to find something cool, to really like something.
• Zozo - Idiotic, foolish.
  

Snow Pants
Is that a dog? No. OMG. It's a cat! I met a girl walking her cat on a little harness and a leash. The cat was stopping every few feet to window shop. Yes, to window shop. A long-haired orange beauty, "Mooshe" looked like a lion up close. A lion with snow pants. His fur was so long that it swayed and billowed in the breeze like a pair of pants one might sport in the dead of a snowy winter. Much like the snowy winter he was plodding through right then, on the streets of Montréal. His owner kindly gave me directions to the street I was seeking and she swooped him up and began to carry him. "He gets tired of walking sometimes. Especially today. We've been walking for nearly two hours." "How'd you train him to walk on a leash," I wondered aloud. "It's easy if you train them from when they're kittens. I've done it several times before." I would have never believed it if I hadn't seen it firsthand. And unfortunately you'll just have to take my word for it since I didn't snap a picture. Anyhow, something to remember for when and if I ever find myself on the market for kittens.

A special merci to Liz for turning me on to the term, snow pants. Parfait man. Parfait.

Mall Mania
Montréal boasts an underground city spanning some 19 miles of passageways with 11 subways, 2 railway stations, over 10,000 parking spaces, 37 movie theaters, and 18,000 businesses. Over 500,000 people traverse this subterranean city beneath the city each day. I don't know exactly how many malls they've got down there, but I can say that it's a whole bunch of them and that on a Saturday afternoon when it's raining ice outside, the mall situation below is absolute mayhem. I browsed a bookstore at street-level, exited the same store two floors down, and wandered through three distinct malls before deciding I was completely lost and that there were far too many people to enjoy myself. The first Metro sign I saw I bolted and made my way out of Hades shopping hell. It's a nice idea, but not my idea of fun. Something to see on your first trip to Montréal though. I'd never seen anything like it before (and hope never to see, again.)

L'Architecture
If the dollar continues to dip and you find yourself craving a trip to Paris for the cafe culture, la langue, or l'architecture, hop on a plane to Montréal instead. Or Québec City. I'm told that Québec City's old town is far larger than that of Montréal with architecture that is even more quaint and charming and French-European. Québec City is also said to be more conservative and traditionally French. Many people there do not speak any English.

Airport Security and Other Jokes that Aren't Amusing
Why is it so difficult to uphold consistent security rules from airport to airport, or even in a single airport? I flew from San Francisco to Toronto with the same stupid little ladies' Coach pocketknife key chain that I've had on my keys for years. Meaning, it's flown with me to Hawaii, Los Angeles, and Europe multiple times post-9/11 without ever having been confiscated. Truth be told, I didn't even know there was a legitimate blade on the damn thing. When the security person at Toronto showed it to me, I was genuinely shocked, but pointed out that one would be hard-pressed to do any real cutting with the pathetic-looking thing. Scissors and nail file in the event of an emergency is all I'd ever used it for. It was a gift. Would I like to check it for C$7 or lose it? I'm going to miss my flight. Happy birthday. It's my birthday, but keep it. It's yours now lady. The two gentlemen behind me weren't quite so curt with their security situation. A special lighter that they'd specifically been told could be brought on the plane no more than 10 seconds earlier by another security type was now an issue. "You should have checked with the rest of your baggage, sir. I don't care what that woman told you. She's wrong. Check it for C$7 or lose it. Your choice." Being that they were also about to miss their connecting flight, they opted for a loss. But not after losing it with the security guard pretty heatedly (though briefly), first.

Sí, nevando.
On the way home, waiting for my flight from Montréal to Toronto, it started snowing pretty convincingly. "Nevando?" I asked my friend from Venezuela. "Sí, nevando." I don't know how I remembered the Spanish for that. Thought it was one of my muddled, made-up words.

Extreme Passenger
I don't know the how's and why's of it, but I'm continually blessed with making the acquaintance of nice (if not plain interesting) folks when I fly. The flight home didn't pan out any different. Though this was certainly one of the more interesting people I've met on a plane. Extremely interesting. A fellow "mutt" (with a far more interesting mix; thought his last name was Portuguese but he said no, Spanish-East Indian and that his roots are a melange of French-Egyptian, Spanish-East Indian, Caribbean-Canadian, and who knows what all else) and self-proclaimed "extreme traveler", the man in the middle (I had the window) had gone sky-diving, bungie-jumping, mountain-climbing; you name it. Next on his list? Swimming with sharks and night-diving. No joke. He was dead serious. Anything sporty and dangerous, he's all about it. Sharks or scuba-diving in the dark. Hmmm. I can't decide which is more terrifying or insane, or both. What a nice guy though. Offered to show me around Toronto if I ever get out there for a visit. Total sweetheart. Assuming he hasn't had an extreme accident of some kind (which wouldn't be a shocker), I look forward to the (terror-free) tour.

On est Back
In Québécois, rather than using the typical French nous form for we, the on form is used with verbs and conjugations. Thus, "On est Back" rather than "Nous sommes Back". The use of the English word "back" is très Québécois. According to my copy of Speak Québec!, English words are folded in with the French to enhance an idea or to express an extreme. And now, I leave you with some Québécois hip-hop. Note, I didn't say it was good. But it's what's popular at the moment, unfortunately. Perhaps when je suis (pronounced "chwee" in Québécois) back one day, something a little more flavorable will be in fashion.

Questions? Ask away! Please use the comments feature to ask questions rather than contacting Marisa directly. That way everyone can learn a thing or two, too.

When in ...

A trip to Venice is not complete without a visit to Alberto Valese's shop. Alberto makes beautiful marbled papers and books. All by hand.

When in Rome. Though I've not been there, yet. But you know. That sort of thing. Was just reminiscing about the highlights of trips past and thought I'd put together a broad list of things missed (as in looking forward to seeing or doing, again.) And, therefore, things not to be missed. Anywho, check back periodically. I'll try to keep this little collection of lists up to date as I discover new things one must endeavor to experience when in where ever. I've even included some Stateside favorites.

When in Amsterdam

• Day trip by train to Haarlem
• Day trip by bus to Keukenhof Gardens

When in Barcelona

• Get lost in the Barri Gotic
• Eat lots of hot chocolate (too thick to drink)
• Day trip by train to the beach town of Sitges
• Day trip by train to the town of Girona on the Riu Onyar
• Food to go from Farga
  
• Picnic at Parc Guell
• Watch the sunset from the roof of Casa Mila (aka La Pedrera, same thing)
• Watch whatever's playing at the Coliseum Cinema

When in Berkeley

• Go gourmet with your glace, Ici
• Go cocoa-loco at Bittersweet, The Chocolate Cafe
• Enjoy an order of the best crispy chicken tacos on the planet at Cactus Taqueria
  

When in Budapest

• Enjoy the Fisherman's Bastion and surrounding Buda Castle Hill sites at sunrise, before the shops open and the bus loads of tourists arrive to alter the ambiance
• Have a piece of paradise at Ruszwurm while you're up on Castle Hill in Buda
  
• Return at sunset for the view of Pest
• Lounge for hours in the baths at Gellert
• Day or night, gawk at the grandeur of Heroes Square
  
• Sit for a bit in the Great Synagogue on Dohany Street
• Ogle the door at St. Stephen's Basilica
• Wander around and ogle the architecture

When in Dubrovnik

• Explore the old town at sunrise (it will be all yours) and again at sunset (when you'll have to share)
• Day trip by bus to Cavtat
• Day trip by bus to Korcula
• Day trip by bus to The Bay of Kotor and the town of Kotor in Montenegro
• Eat lots of dried figs
• Eat lots of pastries from Niko
  

When in Liguria, on the Italian Riviera

• Day trip by train to Camogli
• Day trip by train to each of the Cinque Terre
• Day trip by train to Santa Margherita
• Day trip by train to Sestri Levante
• Day trip by train and bus to Portofino
• Day trip by train and bus to Portovenere
• Far a whole lot of niente

When in Hawaii, on the island of Oahu

• Rent a car and get as far away from Honolulu-Waikiki as possible
• Hope for a slice (or two) of homemade Okinawan (which is to say, purple) sweet potato pie with fresh haupia from The Food Company in Kailua
• Lounge on Lanikai Beach
• Eat a pineapple burger at Kua'Aina Sandwich in Haleiwa
• Enjoy the big sand, sun, and fun of Waimea Bay
• Head for the hills and escape everything at the Mu-ryang-sa Korean temple

When in Montreal

• While away the hours at Olive + Gourmando (351 Rue Saint-Paul Ouest)
• Dessert from Cocoa Locale (4807 Avenue du Parc)
• Or from Les Glaceurs (453 Rue Saint-Sulpice)
• Book-browsing (or buying, if you're up for a supreme splurge) at Librissime (62 Rue Saint-Paul Ouest)
• Pick a church or two to sample in addition to a requisite visit to the Basilique Notre-Dame. Lots of lovely churches, if I do say so myself. And I've not a(n organized) religious bone in my body.

When in Paris

• Wander around with your spiral bound copy of Michelin Paris Par Arrondissements and a keen sense of curiosity and adventure
• Skip the Louvre (or go on a Wednesday or Friday night after 6PM when it stays open until 10PM, the crowds have thinned, and it costs less, to boot) and go straight for a hot chocolate with Chantilly at Angelina's
• Walk it off in the Tuileries
• Catch a sunrise at La Tour Eiffel (tout seul) and then, later, share a sunset with the hordes
• Repeat with Sacre Coeur
• And again with the Place des Vosges
  
• Have plenty of pastries from Paul
• Macaroons and tarts from Laduree
• Lots of L'As du Fallafel (34 Rue des Rossiers, Paris, 75004)
• Beaucoup de glace from Berthillon
• Hot and sweet mint tea at the Grande Mosquée de Paris and a meal fit for a sultan, inside
  
• And of course, shop til you drop
  

When in San Francisco

• Pretend you're in Paris and get yourself over to la pâtisserie Miette, and/or one of Bay Bread's little Paris-parfaît Boulangeries
  

When in Sorrento

• Eat lots of gelato from Primavera (on the Corso Italia) or Davide
• Drink in the sunset with a glass of something special at Hotel Bellevue Syrene
• Day trip by train to Ercolano (Herculaneum)
• Day trip by ferry to the island of Procida
• Day trip by ferry to the island of Capri
• Indulge in the moist chocolate magnificence of a torta caprese and a warm, handmade waffle cone with icy fresh gelato from Raffaele Buonacore (Via Vittorio Emanuele 35, Capri)
  
• Visit the Blue Grotto
• Visit the Villa San Michele
  
• Day trip by train to Naples (and keep a close eye and a firm grip on your valuables)
• Visit the cloister of Santa Chiara in Naples
• Day trip by bus or boat to Positano
• Day trip by bus or boat to Amalfi
• Visit the crypt of the Basilica Sant' Andrea and lounge on the steps
  
• Day trip by bus to Ravello
• Visit the Villa Cimbrone

When in Venice

• Item number one, get lost
• Ponder the leaning tower of San Pietro di Castello
• Ponder the leaning tower of San Giorgio dei Greci and the golden interior of its church
  
• Sunrise in St. Mark's Square and sunset there too, at Caffe Florian or elsewhere on the Piazza San Marco
• Sunset with a picnic on the steps of the church at San Giorgio Maggiore
• Sit for a bit and contemplate the largest oil painting in the world in the Doge's Palace
• Savor several flavors from Gelateria Nico
• Ginger gelato and other unique mouth-watering choices from Alaska
• Keep your eyes peeled at all times for shops carrying uniquely delicious genius of glass designer Barbara Proverbio
  
• Drinks and dinner at Centrale
  
• Paper/goods from Alberto Valese
  
• Paper/goods from Paolo Olbi
• Acqua tint etchings from Cadore
• Chocolates to die for from Vizio Virtù
• View from the campanile of San Giorgio Maggiore
• View from the campanile of San Marco
• Day trip by train to Padua (Padova)
• Day trip by train to Vicenza
• Day trip by train to Verona
• Day trip by train to Bassano del Grappa
• Day trip by train to Bologna
• Day trip by water bus to the island of Burano
  
• Day trip by train to Treviso

When in Vienna

• Spend endless hours, rain or shine, at the bistro-cafe Le Bol (Neuer Markt 14)

Questions? Ask away! Please use the comments feature to ask questions rather than contacting Marisa directly. That way everyone can learn a thing or two, too.

Oahu notes from a broad

The first time I ventured to Hawaii (to the island of Oahu), I was lucky enough to stay with an old friend who'd just moved there from The Mainland, as locals call that big continental bit of the United States, just over yonder across the Pacific. Since that first visit over 10 years ago, I've been back many times and have also explored a couple other islands in the chain. But my first is still my favorite, despite its also being the most populated and touristed. Thankfully, I know how and where to escape the droves. In order to do that, wheels are essential. Which reminds me again of my first trip (to Oahu) and of the instant illiteracy I felt as I tried to navigate streets with names like:

Kapukawai Street (Waipahu): Handsome
Kupu'eu Place (Waipahu): Hero, wondrous one
Lakimau Street (Diamond Head): Always lucky
Lakoloa Place (Kalihi): Very rich, prosperous
Lalawai Drive ('Aiea): Successful, well-to-do
Pahukula Place (Kuli'ou'ou): Chest of gold
'Apake'e Street (Wai'anae): Deceitful
Kahekili Highway (Kane'ohe): Thunder
Kaie'e Street ('Ewa Beach): Tidal wave
Kalapu Street ('Ewa Beach): Ghost
Ka'onawai Place (Manoa): The liquid intoxicant
Nakiu Place (McCully): The spies
Na'opala Lane (Kalihi): Rubbish
'Aikanaka Place/Road ('Ewa Beach): To eat human flesh
'Ilipilo Street (Kailua): Smelly skin
Kauhako Street/Place (Hawai'i Kai): The dragged large intestines
Mo'omuku Place (Kuli'ou'ou): Mutilated lizard
Lumi'au'au Street (Waipahu): Bathroom
Helekula Way/Place (Wai'anae): To go to school
Ki'ona'ole Road (Kane'ohe): Without dung heaps
Komai'a Drive (Manoa): Dragging bananas
Ki'i'oni'oni Loop/Place (Wai'alae): Motion pictures, movies
Wai'aka Place (McCully): Laughing water
'Ano'ilei Place (Hau'ula): Cherished, sweetheart
Hanakealoha Place (Palolo Valley): Love-making
Ho'oha'i Street/Place (Pearl City): To flirt
Pa'ale'a Street (Palolo Valley): Pleasure-loving
Poli'ala Street (Waimanalo): Fragrant breast
'Eu Lane (Kalihi): Rascal
Lukini Place ('Ewa Beach): Perfume
Kani'ahe Street/Place (Wahiawa): To giggle or laugh softly
Wela Street/Lane (Kaimuki): Lust, passion
Kuewa Drive (Waialua): Wanderer, homeless
Nalulu Place (Wai'alae 'Iki): A dull headache
Meahala Street (Waipahu): Sinner
Hepa Street (Waipahu): Idiot, imbecile, moron
Kahalewai Place (Hale'iwa): Prison, jail
Pokapahu Place (Diamond Head): Bursting bullet
'Onaha Street (Kahala): Bow-legged
Kalena Street (Wahiawa): The lazy one
Ma'ipalaoa Road (Wai'anae): Whale genitals
'Iole Street/Place (Kane'ohe): Hawaiian rat
Ka'uku Place (Hawai'i Kai): Louse
Kaluamo'o Street (Kailua): Lizard pit
Ke Ala Mano Street (Kalihi Valley): Shark's road
Miula Street ('Ewa Beach): Mule
Popoi'a Road (Kailua): Fish rot

Source

Granted, of course, I didn't know the meanings of such street names. Not that it would have helped me find my way any better. I don't know what I was expecting on that first trip, other than for Hawaii to be an even more Americanized, Disney version of its former or true self. So though confused, I was pleasantly surprised by something so simple as the plethora of Hawaiian street names, in Hawaiian. Hawaii, at present, can still be a very watered down take on its authentic past, but there are pockets of authenticity (both things modern and things throwback). An attempt is being made to reclaim what was lost and remake history into something relevant for today. Reclaiming the language is a first step. And I'm happy to report that my friend's children are learning the mother tongue of their island home. Very cool. It's such a beautiful language. Both written and spoken. Once you get the basics down, even a mainlander like me can learn to read the street signs at a good clip and get from point A to point B without any difficulty!

But enough about street names and navigation. Let's talk beaches. They're all different and unique and for me anyway, they do not blend into a single strip of sun and sand. I've surveyed strips from Kauai, Oahu, and Maui and have a list of clearly defined favorites. But at the top of my list is Lanikai, the chain's most honored beach; it's won Best Beach awards for years (and years).

On this last trip, I was out one postcard-perfect afternoon, snapping photos of the twin Mokulua Islands. A woman came up and stood next to me. "Beautiful day, isn't it? Perfect day." I agreed with her and we struck up a little conversation. She was from Germany, on vacation with her husband who was back at their hotel taking a nap. Typical of Germans, she and her husband were exceptionally well traveled. She rattled off for me, as proof, all of the beach-ladened countries that they'd visited over the years. So, when she told me that Lanikai was "by far" the most beautiful and "perfect" beach in the world, I didn't question her. Though I hadn't seen nearly as many beaches with which to compare it, I agreed wholeheartedly. "Some beaches have nice scenery to look out on, but the sand is too big. Other beaches have powder fine sand and nothing to gaze at. Others have both perfect sand and scenery, but the water isn't clear or the waves are too rough or it's too cold. Lanikai has everything. Everything about it is perfect. The sand, the scenery, crystal clear water that is as calm as a lake. Perfect. Don't bother traveling the world in search of the perfect beach. Trust me. You've already found it."

Lucky me. (And lucky you! Now you know where to find the world's best beach, too.)

Questions? Ask away! Please use the comments feature to ask questions rather than contacting Marisa directly. That way everyone can learn a thing or two, too.

The Beach Beckons by Marisa Allegra Williams | Make Your Own Book

Sorrento notes from a broad

Well, that's what happens when you enjoy a trip to its fullest and opt out of the detailed mass email to family and friends. You start to forget. What was so funny. What was so cool. What was what. Sigh. But at least you've got those warm and fuzzy memories, right? Fuzzier than warm with the passage of time, to be sure. Here's the little that I can remember from those three wanton weeks in the land of lemons and limoncello. In bullet form, no less. Probably not even mildly exciting enough to warrant sharing (or reading), but here goes. Knock yourself out.

• Naples had been on my list of places to visit for a long while. Mainly because it was held in such high esteem by a boy I once pedestaled. Thinking we had the same taste, or at least something similar, I was looking forward to exploring and developing my own amore for the city. Not to be. The city's allure was absolutely lost on me. While I get why other people may deeply dig Napoli, people who likely love the grittier edge and energy of New York City, for example ... I didn't dig it. The friend I was traveling with passed three attempts at having her purse snatched with admirable calm (and a vice grip on her bag). Especially in the face the big picture. I've never experienced such free-flowing chaos in a European city before. This was my first trip to Southern Italy and I scoffed at all the warnings from every Northern Italian I'd met who'd warned me away from Campania. And Naples in particular. Worth a visit, to be sure; don't get me wrong. Naples is just a whole hell of a lot poorer, dirtier, and fringe than I was expecting. I'd read so much about how the city had been cleaned up and made safer. And perhaps that is the case. But it begs the question, What was Naples like before the big PR effort? No fewer than seven couples saying at the tiny B&B (the Casa Astarita in Sorrento and I'd highly recommend it, by the way) with us over the course of sixteen nights had their wallets, purses, or bags stolen either on the train to/from Naples or in Naples itself. I'm happy to say that both my travel companion and myself came away from our two day trips to Naples with all of our belongings. Peace of mind though, not so much. As one local from the Sorrento area told us, "I don't like going to Naples. If I do have to go, I always take a shower when I get home to Sorrento. Naples makes you feel so dirty." Dirty and unnerved. A simple stroll down the street can be a triumphant, death defying experience. Try it sometime in the Spanish Quarter. I dare you. Diving into the Spanish Quarter proper isn't even necessary, if you're feeling a little chicken. Just walk straight up the Via Toledo and you'll immediately be plenty on edge navigating the onslaught of people, mopeds, and cars. All traveling at top speed, often going the wrong way (the scooters and the cars), and nearly always without helmets (the scooters). Unfortunately, a banged up moped being driven by a young woman with a kid under ten and a baby, maybe even a family dog, all without helmets, doing hairpin turns at a blinding clip against traffic down the tiny side streets and up onto the sidewalks through packs of pedestrians is not an uncommon sight. Anyway, Naples is (in a word) intense. And not in my favorite fashion. But I'm glad I went and I might even go back, someday. The frescoed and hand-painted tile cloister of Santa Chiara church, for example, is definitely worth experiencing again.
  
  
• If you ever go to Sorrento and get hungry, I'd recommend swinging by L'Abate or Photo for lunch and/or dinner. L'Abate had the best funghi (mushroom) pizza and Photo's ravioli was to die for fresh and delicious. If you get thirsty, imbibe a drink and a sunset from the terrace of Hotel Syrene. Amazing view of Vesuvius, the Bay of Naples, and the coast. Delightful. Very romantic. As for gelato, Primavera on the Corso Italia has a dizzying array of flavors and portions fit to fill the tummy of every over-eating American in town. I actually preferred it to the much touted Davide. Buon appetito.
  
  
• Easter week processions on the island of Procida are where it's at. Go for Good Friday and spend the day.
  
  
• How do all these women manage to walk the uneven cobblestone streets in stilettos? I just don't understand. I'd break my neck and my ass.
  
  
• What's in fashion at the moment are jeans tucked into boots. It's unattractive if you ask me, but everyone's doing it. And I mean everyone. All the ladies, that is.
  
  
• The guys are rocking bomber jackets and argyle sweaters. Don't ask me why.
  
  
• Everyone has a pair of crazy, tricked out jeans with chains and embroidery or studs or some crap decorating nearly every inch of the denim. Especially the real estate at the rear. My favorite are the jeans spelling out RICH across the ass. Turns out it's a designer's name and not necessarily about wealth. Although I'd hazard a guess that the double entendre is intended.
  
  
• Riding a bus along the Amalfi Coast is pretty darn spectacular. A little nauseating, but in a good way. Scary, sure. But oh the fun you'll have telling friends and family when you get home. Seriously it's not so bad. My friend had a bit of motion sickness but even she was glad to take the ride. We got lots of great pics. The views are incredible.
  
  
• Boat rides along the Amalfi coast and to the islands of Capri, Ischia, and Procida are a must. If you go to Ischia, visit the gardens at La Mortella near Forio. Gorgeous.
  
  
• Namesake of the coast it once dominated, Amalfi is a charming town with the most incredible church. If the exterior doesn't make you swoon, the crypt surely will. Once you've been in a few European churches, they start to all look the same. Don't skip this one. The cloister isn't anything special (the frescoes and mosaics are badly damaged, though nice) and the church itself is okay, but the crypt is incredible.
  
  
• We met three inspiring and interesting American couples who were each on marathon trips. A seriously atypical situation for stock from the United States. I go away for two, three, four weeks at a time and pick one or two cities to call home for the duration of the trip. A travel timeframe and tactic that ceaselessly impresses Europeans who are used to encountering Americans enjoying (though how is that possible?) the Grand Tour in five days; ten, tops. At any rate, I quickly envied each of the three couples in question. The first were sailing around the world. From the American Midwest, they'd paid off their house and made good on a promise to then leave work behind for unrushed, indefinite travel. When we bumped into these two in Ravello, they informed us that they'd be wintering in Turkey and had been sailing and living on their boat (saved lots of would-be hotel monies) for three years. Yup. Three years. The second couple were living in Italy for a year and traveling all over the country and to other parts of Europe as well. Visit their http://www.expatsinitaly.com/cjumbria/ for wonderful entries and photos. The last couple was in fact a family of three with a young, soon-to-be teenage son. They weren't sure how long they'd be traveling and had already been away from their home on the East Coast for over a year. The boy asked if he could windsurf in Amalfi. "Wait until we're in Aruba in a few months. The windsurfing will be great there." Some bank of childhood memories this kid's racking up, eh?
  
  
• Yes. People talk with their hands. Moreso here than in Northern Italy, I think. There's more unabashed staring, too. Because you're attractive, because you're unattractive, because you're obviously a foreigner, because ... oh, who the hell knows. I'm used to Europeans staring, for whatever reason, but for my friend (her first trip to Italy) it was a new experience. The staring is definitely more intense in Italy. In my experience. I have no idea what exactly it's all about. But I've learned to ignore it. When all else fails, just stare back and turn it into a contest.
  
  
• So the Blue Grotto on Capri. Should you go, should you not go. I say go. Sure you only get five minutes inside the grotto, but it's creepy and why would you really want to be in there any longer than you have to? Go in the afternoon when the sun gives the grotto its most intense and glowing blue. The color is truly amazing. But it's creepy town. I'm telling you. You take a motor boat to the outside of the grotto, hop in a row boat and pray you don't capsize and fall in, lay down flat in the boat to enter the grotto so's you don't smash your head in on the top of the cave enterance, row around for a few minutes, snap a few photos, and you're done. Seems expensive until you hop back on the motor boat and tour around the rest of the island. All in all the whole excursion takes about an hour. It's worth it. The Villa San Michele was also advisable. Not as grand as Villas Rufolo or Cimbrone in Ravello, Villa San Michele is cozy and charming with lovely grounds and a great view.
  
  
• The Bourbon palace at Caserta, built to rival Versailles, did at one time; that much is clear. The royal apartments are spectacular, but like the rest of Napoli and the surrounding area, the splendor has fallen into a somewhat dingy bout of prime past. Work is being done to restore former glory, and I look forward to viewing the fruits of this monumental (and no doubt pricey) labor. My friend and I didn't have the energy to venture the mile or two into the famed gardens. But then that gives me another reason to return.
  
  
• Pompeii is bigger than you think. A lot bigger. We spent six hours there and didn't see everything. The one must-see site for me was the Villa dei Misteri (Villa of the Mysteries). On a much smaller scale, but far more interesting in many ways, is Ercolano or Herculaneum. A smaller, once seaside town, we saw all of Ercolano in two hours. It was fantastic. While Pompeii was buried in ash, Ercolano was done in by a pyroclastic flow of molten lava, mud, and gas. This allowed for the amazing preservation of items you rarely find from ancient times. Items like wooden doors, staircases, furniture. And papyrus "books" from the time. We're talking 79 A.D. folks. How wild is that? The Villa dei Papyri (Villa of the Papyrus) where over 1,000 papyrus scrolls were discovered in the 1700s was the inspiration for Getty's Malibu museum (the old one, not the newer one). Having seen both sites, if I had to choose just one to recommend it'd be Ercolano. Without a doubt. Smaller, but better preserved, more intimate, and to me, more interesting.
  
  
• The surprise hit of the trip that wasn't even on the original list of sites to see turned out to be Villa Reggina at the Capo di Sorrento. A ruin of a seaside Roman villa, the site is serene and downright beautiful with a private cove, sea arch, and views to Sorrento. Take the public bus from Sorrento (short ride) and hike down to the ruin.
  
  
• And the award for most entertaining and memorable framing of the question, "What are you?" goes to a lovable restaurant owner who asked, instead, "What's your generation? Hawaii?" Ah ha. Good times, good times.
  

And that's about all I can remember for the purpose of recounting. Ciao for now.

Questions? Ask away! Please use the comments feature to ask questions rather than contacting Marisa directly. That way everyone can learn a thing or two, too.

Conjuring Campania by Marisa Allegra Williams | Make Your Own Book

Farewell to a friend

Franco Mazzucco, A silversmith with a heart of gold.

I wrote the piece above in loving memory of Franco Mazzucco, whom I had the pleasure of befriending on one of my extended trips to Venice. One of the last silversmiths in Italy to work in the traditional way, by hand, Franco's passing is a great loss to his craft, his family, friends, and admirers of his art.

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As it turns out, the third time was a charm. My first two week-long visits to Venice had been so quintessentially dreamy and delightful that I planned a third escape to La Serenissima and made arrangements to languish in this lavish waterlogged paradise of decaying decadence for a full month. When you're in love (person or city, no matter), you devote as much quality time getting to know and enjoying your muse as you can possibly afford. Right? Being a long distance love affair with one of the priciest grande dames of them all, I was lucky to find accommodations allowing me to spend more than just a few days in Venice – let alone an entire month.

Hoping to find that intimate essence of Venice which eludes the day tripping, Grand Tour tourist, I fancied myself a traveler and intended to spend my month lost — and incrementally found — as the city revealed herself to me a little more each day. Not speaking a lick of Italian and having been told that Venetians are typically quite private, I assumed this would be a highly personal and something of a lonely journey. I couldn't have been more wrong.

Traveling alone and on a budget can be a challenge at times, especially when venturing to a famously expensive city like Venice. But after scouring the Internet for deals and recommendations from other travelers, I happened upon a real gem — the Ca' del Dose. A recently renovated room with a TV, private shower, toilet, and a bidet, cozily suited for one at only 50 Euros a night in low season, with breakfast included? Sold! Not only was it highly recommended and reasonably priced, the Ca' del Dose is ideally located in an authentically Venetian corner of the city where local life flourishes despite the daily tide of tourists.

Not long after I'd checked into the hotel, I discovered that the best feature of my happenstance home was not the price, the location, or even the private en suite bathroom and shower (a luxury much coveted by the vacationing population as often as is affordable). The loveliest aspect of the Ca' del Dose is without a doubt its delightful owners, Anna and Marco Lucchini. The couple took a particular interest in me; curious and protective of a lone female traveler. Each day they would check in to ask what my plans were, how my visit was going, share a recommendation, and always to offer help. Peppered with lots of smiles and laughter, we became fast friends. Before long I found myself accompanying Anna on her errands around the city, walking her home after work, and even sharing lunches and a dinner or three.

Flanked by the scents and sounds of Al Scalinetto to the right of my room and the "tink! tink! tink!" of the silversmith's workshop to the left, Ca' del Dose was a welcome reprieve of low-key authentic Venice after a morning or afternoon of fighting the throngs of tourists for a bit of peace in paradise. I always looked forward to "coming home" each day and having a chat with my new friends. Of the many neighborhood characters introduced to me by Anna, Franco Mazzucco quickly became one of my favorites. His was the workshop next door. Without the use of modern machinery, Franco welded and chiseled by hand the most detailed and delicate of works of art in silver that I had ever seen. Sometimes, when Anna wasn't available to act as translator, Franco and I would communicate in a broken babble of Italian and English; often involving an array of hand gestures colorful by even Italian standards and ending in shrugs and cheek-cramping laughter. More often still, I would just stop by to watch Franco work for a while and admire his shiny creations — platters, shell shaped dishes, goblets, bowls, boxes, crosses, mirrors, frames, figurines —  all created by hand for wealthy patrons and private collectors.

As my month rapidly melted into a series of cherished memories, I began to dread the end and wish I'd been able to lavish more time getting to know the city and a small group of people I was growing to adore and regard as extended family. The kind souls in this corner of the labyrinth had made my stay so warm and memorable, I would have done anything to demonstrate my appreciation. So when the opportunity presented itself, I jumped at the chance! Anna called a little meeting with Franco to explain that they had been unsuccessfully pursuing an American client of Franco's who had not paid him in full for a large piece that had taken Franco several months to complete. Anna had tried to contact the American via email and telephone on Franco's behalf, to no avail. And now that we were all friends, perhaps I might be more successful — being myself an American.

After months of international phone tag, faxes, and email, Franco was finally paid in full. A year later, I returned to Venice to relax and celebrate.

Not unlike my experience the previous year, my fourth trip and second full month in Venice was flawlessly delightful. When I arrived, Franco greeted me with a smile and a long-stem silver rose. He'd already mailed me two handmade silver picture frames as thanks for helping him collect from the American. I thanked him again for his many kind gifts and insisted that he allow me to take he and his wife, along with Anna and Marco, out to dinner to celebrate. This of course never came to pass because Franco instead arranged an incredible home-cooked meal at his house, prepared by his lovely wife Maria, for which he had spent a day in the mountains north of Venice picking fresh wild mushrooms. As if this weren't thanks enough, Franco saved the most generous gift of all for my farewell. 

One of the handmade items that I'd helped Franco get paid for was a large quadriga — a replica of the famous four bronze horses that grace Basilica San Marco. I'd seen pictures of the piece as part of the collections process. On one of my daily visits to Franco's workshop I asked him how much a small quadriga might cost to commission. He never got around to answering my question, but he did get around to making me the quadriga. Four silver horses prancing proudly atop a slab of rose-colored marble. I was speechless and asked what it cost, and could I pay him for it in installments, but he wouldn't hear of it. Franco explained that I travelled a lot and had spent much time in Venice — coming to know it as a second home — but that maybe now I would spend my month-long vacations creating similar roots and relationships in new cities. Look at the quadriga and remember. What a beautiful gift.

I knew in my heart that Franco was right. With a list of dream destinations long enough to fill two lifetimes' worth of yearly vacations, it was unlikely that I would be spending another solid month in Venice anytime soon. Not long after I'd settled back in at home and the New Year rolled around, I got the bad news. Franco had become ill and passed away. It had all happened so quickly and took everyone — family, friends, all — by surprise. The jovial, generous, well-loved family man and artist who had been so kind to me was gone. Not only had Venice lost a son, but a piece of her history and tradition as well. 

The last silversmith in Venice, Franco had learned his craft from his father. As the times and the economy had changed, fewer and fewer of Italy's young people were apprenticing and choosing a career in the traditional or old arts. Franco was the last of a handful of craftsmen throughout Italy who work silver in the old way, by hand rather than by machine. The work was hard and many long hours might go into the making of one small piece. Though the end results were unique, one-of-a-kind works of art, there simply wasn't the reliable demand for such priceless treasures necessary to make this career more appealing to a young artist than say that of a graphic designer. And so it is in this way that Italy, Europe, and the rest of the world continues to lose whole art forms. When given the choice between a passion and a paycheck, it is the paycheck that wins out — by necessity. It seems that the arts are hardest hit with this reality, as one can plainly see in a city with such a rich artistic past as Venice. Franco was the last silversmith, and how long will it be before the city loses her last handmade paper masters, bookbinders, or glassblowers? With more and more of these goods made on the cheap and imported from China, Venetians will tell you that the end looms ever nearer. It was Franco's hope and it is my hope that something might be done to preserve and encourage these dying arts to flourish in the city where they enjoyed such a celebrated and vital life.

My fondest memory of Franco is my last. On the second to last day of my trip, Franco asked me where I was planning on going. Had I been to the Chiesa dei Greci? No. I hadn't been to the Greek Orthodox Church. Was it nearby? Just around the corner from here. It is one of my favorite churches in Venice. Very interesting. Very beautiful. I know you and you will love it. It will move you to tears. And on this recommendation I spent both that very day and a portion of my last in this church. The first day it was full of tourists so I decided to return the next morning when it might be a bit quieter. I was very lucky and returned to find the church completely deserted, docent and all. Filled with art all in gold, I sat for over an hour in silent, watery-eyed awe. It was the sort of unexpectedly moving experience one most often finds abroad in a fabled place like Venice, and takes home to relish for a lifetime. Thanks to my silversmith with a heart of gold, it is for me but one of many. 

Practical Information:

Franco Mazzucco

http://www.francomazzucco.com/

Franco's works are available for viewing and purchase by appointment only. Contact Franco's wife, Maria, to schedule your visit: 0039.41.5229292. Please note that Maria does not speak English fluently. If you are uncomfortable speaking Italian, the kind folks at Ca' del Dose might be willing to help you make your arrangements with Maria.

Ca' del Dose

http://www.cadeldose.com/

Map to the bed and breakfast

Calle del Dose, Castello, 3801 - 30122 Venice, Italy

+39.041.5209887 Phone

+39.041.5209887 Fax

Al Scalinetto

Map to the restaurant

Calle del Dose, Castello, 3803 - 30122 Venice, Italy

Open for lunch and dinner, but hours vary. Check in with the restaurant and make a reservation if possible. Small establishment and popular with both locals and tourists, so sometimes difficult to get a table.

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