frances
lai
VENICE
February 15
The 4:30am wake-up call wasn’t all too bad. Undoubtedly, the three bottles of wine the night before—wait, no, a few hours before—sure made it easier. I’m completely floored as I brush my teeth and think about the jolly good mood I’m in, considering. And then it hits me, OH THAT’S RIGHT, I’m still drunk.
Which is the only way I recommend traveling with such an early boarding call.
I could go into the whys and how-could-I’s and countless never-agains or even the what-was-I-thinkings, but reading about that is hardly enjoyable, much less writing about it, and everyone suffers their own regrets anyway. Why relive someone else’s self-deprecating remorse? There will be plenty of time for that later, and besides, at this point I’m still riding the last remnants of intoxication.
Vacating our Airbnb in the XIème arrondissement after just twelve short hours, we self-ejected with an array of carry-on items onto the rambunctious street, still scintillating with those who had yet to go to bed. A navigator, a lush, a rolling suitcase, a weekender, a backpack, a camera bag, and a mask box all made it to Charles de Gaulle by train after riding a night bus dripping with fading partiers and their unfinished spirits.
The shuttle from Marco Polo Airport dropped us off shortly after the bridge at the edge town, as far in as it’s possible to go in a motor vehicle. Our accommodation was located not too far from the bus port; however, to my hungover chagrin we had more than half an hour to kill before we could drop off our belongings. Putting me in a more sour disposition was the idea that we would have to wait far into the afternoon until the flat was actually available to us; after disposing of our things, the time at that point was only 10:30. GAG.
But nevermind that I was hungover, unshowered, and desperately wanting a space engulfed in darkness to rest the sentient condition of my soul, Venice was awake and gleaming as she awaited us to make her acquaintance. It was easy to marginalize my bodily pangs while wandering the thoroughfares along the canals, traversing bridges of different breadths and styles. Yet soon my withdrawal would no longer be ignored: I needed a seat and more importantly, I needed a drink.
We happened upon a square where an oddly familiar neoclassic building gave way to a few shops and cafés with outdoor seating. A bottle of prosecco proved to be 20 EUR, and we were sorted. With an English-speaking tour group in ear’s reach of us, it was somewhat onerous not to allow it to impinge on our conversation. But the moment I heard “Indiana Jones,” I could’ve slapped myself on the forehead. Of course! The building we were sipping bubbles in front of served as the façade of the Biblioteca di San Barnaba in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, under which Indy and Elsa discover the tomb of a knight of the First Crusade. Before I overheard that it was more than just a relic of Neoclassicism, I hadn’t thought of much when I was noncommittally gazing at the building. Now with so much more significance to me as a landmark from a cherished classic, I studied the mise en abyme of columns and pediments, all the while remembering the upturned coffin scene that my sister and I would reenact in Grandma’s pool and realizing how the square looked so much bigger on screen than in real life, as do all things.
And now upturning the empty bottle to be taken away, I was ready to satiate the next necessity on my hierarchy of needs. Lured into a pizza joint by chubby calzones, I was crestfallen to have to endure a disastrous lack of sauce. I had always thought that Calzone was the introverted twin sister of Pizza, with everything identical but tucked all the way on the inside. This one’s cheese was gooey, the filling plentiful and garlicky, the breading salted and wonderfully doughy, but it so desperately needed sauce. What a disappointment.
All that was needed for a hat trick now was BED. There may have been only a half hour to go before the cleaning was done, but we chanced it anyway. Not enough could be said about what an incredible find this apartment was. It was spacious, brimming with natural light, flanked by two balconies, and fully fitted with all amenities, including a blow dryer, Nespresso, and bidet.
A few winks to sleep off the residuals of the night before, some splashes to rinse the rest away, and I was ready to don my mask and frock. Trying to keep from skipping out the door, we descended upon the streets to find them nearly deserted. I suspect the Sunday night was to blame. A notoriously slow night, it came after the last Saturday of Carnevale, also Valentine’s Day. Surely the masqueraders were taking the night off to recuperate.
The night chill propelled us on a brisk walk to the Rialto Bridge, one of the most iconic architectural structures in Venice, or so I’ve been told. Approaching the bridge on foot at night robs it a bit of its grandeur, especially crossing it and passing through the portico, all of which I found to be grimier than the rest of the city. The piercing wind left no desire to take time to appreciate it more, and so we hurried along our way.
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Ritually looking up regional specialties before embarking on a trip, I had a self-curated list of must-eats to seek out. I was thrilled to learn that polenta, in all its forms, is a common dish of Veneto, and being of the opinion that polenta does not feature nearly enough on menus, I made an unofficial pact with myself to have as much of it as I could. I started with polenta e schie, tiny fried shrimp from the lagoon on a seabed of creamy polenta. It was close to how I had imagined: the shrimp, small and imparting a bottom-dwelling saltiness as opposed to the slight sweetness of larger shrimp, was well balanced by the rich creaminess of the polenta. Kyle was not a fan of the shrimp; I, on the other hand, was no stranger to its taste as it's similar to the variety sometimes used in Asian cooking.
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The fegato alla veneziana, fried liver and onions alongside firm polenta this time, was rich and decadent, although I struggled to finish the generous portion.
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The tiramisu was easily the best I’d ever tasted, a dense, pudgy slab, so much more delectable and soggy than the light, airy versions I’ve had.
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With masked eyelids weighted down by polenta and wine, we zigzagged back on a path without motor hums and bicycle bells, void of even the sound of footsteps other than our own.
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THE DEETS
Flying in
From Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport (CDG) to Venice Marco Polo Airport (VCE) direct on Air France, roughly 1.5-hour flight time +1 hour time difference from GMT. Beverages and snacks provided. 270 GBP 2-way flights for 2 passengers.
Airport transfer
ATVO runs a frequent shuttle service direct to Venice Piazzale Roma. Tickets available from machines in the baggage claim area or transport ticket office in arrivals hall. ACTV, the local bus service, runs a similar service at the same price. 11 EUR return pp.
Accommodation
5 minute walk from Piazzale Roma. 2-bedroom apartment with bathroom, 2 balconies, Wi-Fi, washing machine, hair styling tools, and kitchen fitted with stove, microwave, refrigerator, and Nespresso. Booked through Airbnb, hosted by Roberto Raia. 60 GBP/night + 28 GBP cleaning fee + 33 GBP service fee.
