postcard 58: very good biscuits indeed
hidden treasures in Venice
I’ve learned this year that a day is never long enough to experience a place. We’ve found ourselves overwhelmed and unimpressed in many places across southern Europe this year, until the sun sets and the day trippers leave and we’re left with a place that actually exists. Not inside Tik Toks or guidebooks, but in the hearts and minds of people who live there. If the epic crowds of Cinque Terre could give way to quiet sunrises and the mob scene of our town, Pula, in the summer wane to empty beaches, I knew we had to give Venice another chance.
It’s as off season as it gets when we exit the people mover and make our way through the crowds towards the city’s winding streets. On a scale of 0 to 100 the busyness score was a 4 today, though it feels like more as we squeeze through bodies to get to the takeout pasta joint we loved last time we visited. The calamari is rubbery (though Hazelnut doesn’t care) but the Bolognese is still delicious.
We’ve planned our visit strategically, and Hazelnut is solidly medium well on the way to overcooked by the time we deposit her in a quiet hotel room and head to the Doge’s Palace for a tour on our own. It’s quiet inside and we speed through the publicly accessible areas, stopping to peer out at the crowds from the Bridge of Sighs, the final walk to the dungeons, before heading back to the courtyard. We’ve booked a “hidden treasures” tour and we end up being the only ones on it. Our guide tells us about the Doge, the figurehead ruler of the Republic of Venice, as we make our way through the gothic complex. It’s the most lavish spot I’ve ever experienced with intricate gold ceilings, marble statues, grand staircases and overwhelming amounts of detail everywhere we look. Our guide moves a rope, swipes a badge, and walks us up a closed staircase to the terrace overlooking Piazza San Marco. There’s thousands of people down below and we’re standing on an ancient balcony all our own, overlooking them. We exchange giddy grins.
Our guide leads us through hidden doors and up narrow, secret staircases. We stand on closed balconies and see the Doge’s private chapel before popping out of a hidden door we hadn’t noticed in the main senate room, the folks milling about looking baffled. We’ve learned so much more than we would have on our own, gotten the chance to experience a normally closed part of the palace and only spent €2 per person more than general admission. It feels like the most delicious secret.
When we get back to the hotel, it’s been hours since Hazelnut last peed. We study a map of Venice but the one promising looking garden appears to be closed already. We walk her through the streets, winding into quiet back alleys looking for any patch of grass or dirt or rocks, trying in vain to get her to go on the stone ground. She refuses, looking at the other dogs we pass suspiciously when they lift a leg next to a building. It takes us an hour and a half to finally, finally spot a planter with a tree and some rocks. She’s elated and we’re exhausted and hangry. Dinner isn’t until 9 and we’ve walked 10 miles already, pushing our way through thick crowds that make me shutter to think what 100 looks like. It’s a miracle Hazelnut doesn’t get stepped on. I buy a sandwich at a shop on the way back and in my delirious state declare it the best I've ever eaten, before promptly dropping it in the street. It was good: speck and arugala with caramelized onions and schiacciata cheese. We argue about getting another one before grumpily returning to the hotel room.
By the time dinner rolls around we’re in a better mood (Topher pet a street cat and it didn’t break skin when it bit him, so a win for both of us) and the wine and pasta doesn’t hurt. Spaghetti vongole for me, lasagna for Topher and glasses of Muscat for dessert. It almost makes up for having to walk back across the city to Hazelnut’s tree so she can pee again before bed. It’s so late the streets have quieted and we stand on the Rialto Bridge alone, watching the lights bounce on the rolling water. There’s a decidedly more romantic feel to the city at night.
The breakfast nook overlooks the Grand Canal and we eat croissants and, delightfully, caprese as we watch the city come to life the next morning. We’re carrying more weight today with our overnight bags on our backs as we hit the streets. Our destination is Murano, the island just off the main city of Venice known for its glass blowing. After our quiet afternoon at the Doge’s Palace, I’m shocked to see a massive line for the water taxi. We join it and are glad we’d banked on arriving early as we’re not making our planned ferry. While we wait, Hazelnut makes friends with the couple behind us before settling down and falling asleep in line. She’s moved far past cooked and is in well done territory now. They ask in broken English where we’re from and Topher tries exceptionally hard to explain without any sign of comprehension. I noticed they’re speaking French to each other and get brave and ask, “Parlez-vous français?”
They are so excited and though my French is embarrassingly rusty, I understand most of what they say and they get the gist of what I’m trying to communicate. The man asks what we think of Donald Trump and I’m proud to instantly recall the right vocabulary. “Fou!” After we all get a good laugh in (and I translate for Topher) they tell us France was shocked by the election results and they worry for Ukraine. I try to say we are sad, but think maybe I say “We are sorry,” and perhaps it’s more apropos.
Hazelnut falls back asleep on the taxi and is annoyed when we get to Murano, until she finds many, many planters full of grass to pee on. The streets are uncrowded, too, and she bounces with joy. The whole island is built of brick and as we pass glass studio after glass studio we realize why. Venice ordered all glass blowers to relocate to Murano in 1291 after too many fires in the city. We’ve booked a demonstration at one studio and are ushered into a workshop and set up on bleachers in front of the furnaces. They don't seem to think it’s problematic that Hazelnut’s fluffy tail has a front row seat and neither does she as she lays back down, taking any nap opportunity provided. The molten glass glows brightly as the artist blows one glob into a vase and then boggles my mind as he teases another into an intricate horse, the legs impossibly thin. A piece of newspaper tapped against the finished figures bursts into flames, it's still so hot.
Back on the street we wander into an alley and behind the grocery store to a bustling bar. It’s full of locals and the waitress calls out each new arrival by name. She brings us cappuccinos and a board with an assortment of crostini, little bar snacks that go by the name of cichetti here. I never would have ordered shrimp or tuna toast, but they’re perhaps even more delicious than their speck and salami brethren. A kid helps the waitress carry a glass out to his mom, thoughtfull sipping the white wine.
Our feet are aching by the time the water taxi deposits us once again in Venice and we shuffle back to the sandwich shop to decide if it was a hanger delusion or if the sandwiches were really that good. We pick different versions this time: mortadella and pesto for me, prosciutto cotto and sun dried tomatoes for Topher and the verdict remains the same. We daydream about opening our own sandwich shop one day as we lean against the wall, eating and listening to a group of drunken soccer fans sing off-key pep songs.
We have to kill another hour or two before the sushi restaurant we’re dying to revisit in Trieste opens so we wander off the beaten path and find a quiet square to have a glass of wine in. Kids play soccer and a dog runs back and forth with a tennis ball. Topher orders a baby pink Bellini and we soak in our last trip to Italy. The light through the last golden fall leaves matches our melancholia.
We meet a little grey puppy with a ferocious bark on the walk back to the tram who tries to wrestle Hazelnut, despite their massive size difference. The sushi is just as good as we remember.
It’s the last time our landlord is coming over to collect rent and Topher spends the afternoon baking batch after batch of chocolate chip cookies. The kitchen smells divine and I reflect on how far we’ve come as the two of them patiently stumble through the numbers for the electricity bill, one in terrible English, the other in worse Croatian. He texts us “very good biscuits indeed,” when he gets home and tries a cookie.
I need to work late one day, so a late start is in order. We drive up the coast to Rovinj where we wander the streets one last time. There’s coffee overlooking the marina, watching the boats bob and a particularly gnarly pigeon taunt Hazelnut. There’s gelato with three spoons and we finally buy a ceramic sardine to hang on the Christmas tree, promising ourselves we’ll never forget.
-Mikaela