2003, Christmas
Sunday 21 December 2003
After some beautiful shots of the Alps, we land at Marco Polo in pouring drizzle, board the motoscaffo after a damp walk and head for Madonna dell Orto to meet Camilla, the representative of the company from whom we have rented the apartment. Quite why they arrange a 17.40 meet when the plane landed at 16.15 is beyond me - we arrive at 17.10 and have to wait for half an hour or so. Except, of course, Cat is angry at this. This is unreasonable, perhaps, but understandable or at least forgiveable given that she is heavily pregnant and very tired. And cold. And wet. And I am aware that I have been tense on the trip, and thus difficult for her (and no doubt Georgia and Neli) to deal with. So she lets fly and storms off into the darkness with Neli and Georgia in tow to find a cafe.
Camilla turns up and shows us the flat, which is impressive but bad on the details. Principal of these failings is that, in Christmas week, the heating is not on. Camilla - an utterly hopeless girl who plainly cannot wait to be shot of her assignment - says that she turned it all on "about 20 minutes ago" and that it will all be fine within the hour. She leaves, my words ringing in her ears that I will call her if it does not. It does not. I call her, only to find that he number is unavailable - she will no doubt claim poor reception. Fume. At Cat's sensible suggestion, I call the office and get through to the owner, Riccardo, who arranges for Adriano, the plumber, to come round. He duly does so, and promptly, drains some air off and then disappears into the night, saying that "it will all be fine within an hour". It is not.
By now, there is no one in the office (Camilla is, of course, still not available - and would be hopeless in any event), so Cat and I make up a bed on the sofa by one of the only working radiators in the enormous main room. The night is freezing, and so are we. Cat is up all night, peeing, and neither of us get much sleep.
Monday 22 December 2003
Next day there is no improvement. It seems that major works are in progress on the heating to the whole block, though the agency has only now become aware of it. After certain arguments, we are moved to a rather smaller, but in many respects nicer apartment a stone's throw from Piazza San Marco, at somewhere called Orseolo. It's on two floors and up in the eaves. And w-a-r-m.
After settling in and doing some emergency shopping (for milk and the like), Georgia and I go off to the offices of the agency, DV, where the woman, one Elisabetta, who looks like La Cicciolina's even less attractive older sister, tries to rip us off. The owner, Riccardo, had reasonably volunteered that he would not charge us for Sunday night, yet this wretch still tries to charge us for 5 nights and will not have it when I try, gently but firmly, to show her what "pro-rating" means (if 5 nights is €1,200 then 4 nights is [1,200/5]x4). Finally, she calls Riccardo, and we agree that I will pay about €550 rather than the €875 that she had been trying to extort. Bloody woman.
We stop to get some salad and fruit before going back to the apartment, via the gelateria for a strawberry cone, which Georgia loves.
Then disaster nearly caputs my Beloved Mac, when Cat trips over the power cable (which I had stupidly left across the floor), pulling it on to the marble with a crash. There is a nasty dent in the front, near the battery casing, and the little 'feet' are now not sitting level, such that it rocks back and forth like a restaurant table when I am typing. Cat says that this is "character-building", though I somehow doubt that her equanimity would remain unfazed if one of her Birkins suffered similar damage. Oh, well.
We dine very well at an enoteca about 10 metres down the alley-way. Georgia devours a large portion of salmon, while I have tagliolini with zucchini and prawns followed by frittura of fish, seafood and vegetables, and an excellent capuccino. And then back to a nice warm apartment, where I type this listening to Bach, Haydn and now Mozart's Hunt quartet, occasionally looking out at the illuminated tower of San Marco.
Tuesday 23 December 2003
Up early today while the others are still asleep, I go to the markets at the Rialto to buy chicken, pancetta, vegetables and bread, stop for a caffe latte and then head back, picking up sundries along the way. There is an amusing incident when I go into an alimentari shop and try and explain, with mime and halting Italian, that I want some washing-up liquid ("sapone per piatti").
We then venture out to Piazza San Marco where Georgia chases the pigeons, dismisses the Bridge of Sighs, and demands a boat ride (which, admittedly, has been promised). So we head up the main shopping street towards the Accademia and after a terrifyingly expensive breakfast (€46 for 4 of us, and not very much (coffee/brioche)), Cat, Georgia and I take a 30 minute trip in a gondola. The head boatman is youngish and very jolly and picks Georgia up, calling her "la bambina piu bella del mondo", which she suffers with impassive delight (I could tell) and we then clamber aboard the gondola, covering up with a blanket and waving goodbye to Neli, whose bravery on the water has already surprised us but which will not quite extend to a small rickety boat without an engine. We have a wonderful trip, which Georgia is absolutely thrilled by, quiet for most of the time and just watching carefully. She does announce, when we get into the boat, "Holly and Dulcie have never been here in a boat", in a tone of quiet triumph. We pass Mozart's house, and that of Goethe, and even learn from our surprisingly sophisticated gondolier (who had lived in Chelsea for a while) that the population of Venice is shrinking by about 4,000 a year. Given that they now only have 70,000 full-time inhabitants here that is quite a striking number. He blamed it on the high cost of housing and living, and said that he thought Venice and London the two most expensive places in Europe.
We stop in a shop or two on the way to Campo Santo Stefano, where we have coffee, crepes and sandwiches outside. It is freezing cold, and I have little in the way of warm clothing (thanks, Metcheck!). Even Georgia, who normally complains of being too hot, is beginning to look very cold, so we race back to the apartment as fast as possible, briefly and inwardly cheering at the sight of the Senegalese bag-sellers.
After warming up briefly, Cat and I head out again and I pick up a warm quilted goose-down jacket from Ermenegildo Zegna (blissful) and we then wander up to the Mercerie for Sergio Rossi shoes for Cat and some more food for the apartment (cheese, pasta, panettone, olives, carciofini). When we get back, Georgia and Neli have been out running up and down in Piazza San Marco, chasing pigeons and mugging Senegalese baf-sellers, since both have fake Louis Vuitton bags, Neli beating the man down from €75 to €25 for hers. Georgia watches The Swan Princess and Sindy on DVD on the Mac and, after a sleep, Cat and I go to an indifferent restaurant next to the newly-opened La Fenice opera house, for pizza and a chat. A very strange woman comes in with what I think at first must be a hat, but which, if it is, she does not remove: it looks like poodle fur, and Cat remarks that she looks like Sideshow Bob from the Simpsons. It's true - she does. Bizarre.
Coda. As I write this, I have just finished watching Richard Greene in a 1991 [? that's what it said, but it looked more like late 50s] TV series adaptation of Robin Hood, also with Leo McKern - quite possibly the worst thing I have ever seen. Especially when dubbed into Italian. Actually, that probably made it better.
Christmas Eve, 2003
Again up early, I go for a long walk in the Arsenale area, getting lost around San Lorenzo and passing an alley aptly named the "Ramo Corte de la Vida" - the short branch of life, in Spanish - before emerging at the main gate of the Arsenale, with its battery of rather peculiar lions.
Coming out onto the Riva degli Schiavoni, I take the No. 1 vaporetto to the Accademia (for a princely €5) and then troll back by foot to the apartment, buying a beautiful little refillable sketch book from a shop called Biblos. When I get back the tinies are up and raring to go. After I have bathed and showered, we head back towards the Accademia and spend half an hour looking at the Giorgiones, which are on special show, although the only new picture is the Tre Filosofi which I had not seen before. I buy a little black commemorative shopping bag and we stroll to the Peggy Guggenheim museum for a 'relaxing café' and a quick look at the art [Note: Sadly, much of the material in the collection struck me last time I went as rather weak, so we did not spend too much time here]. We see a diver at work next to the Accademia bridge and Georgia watches for a full 10 minutes, fascinated (she is also angry with me because I have transgressed the unwritten law).
After a decent pizza and salad in Campo Santo Stefano, we go down the shopping street, argue, and then go to the Palazzo Ducale. However, we are now getting so cold and tired we can barely think and head homewards rapidly.
We also plan to go to midnight mass at San Marco but, after a pleasant supper of agnolotti and salad at home, we are all too worn out to make it. However, the bells of the Campanile sound wonderfully evocative and Orion rises above the Dogana della Saluta.
Christmas Day, 2003
This morning I am groggy with sleep and forego my constitutional. Neli is up first and then Georgia bounces in to wish us Merry Christmas. Presents are unwrapped in the sitting room upstairs and much satisfaction is had from the plenitude of pink glittery things that Santa has brought.
Cat notices that there are people up in the Campanile, so we take the lift up there for stunning views. The Alps are crystal clear in the hard light and the whole lagoon is laid out for us. It's an amazing sight. Sadly, Georgia does not appreciate it (well, it is cold and the balcony is a little too high for a young lady to peer over easily), so we descend to feed the pigeons. I hate the things and stay well away, but humour is afforded in plenty by Cat, covered in pigeons (there is even one on her head), holding the bag of bread in one hand and waving her handbag at them with the other, yelling "Get off, you f*ckers, this is a f*cking Birkin bag!" Priceless.
The Venetians have also erected a huge crib and manger scene, quite the biggest I have ever seen, in the Piazza. The necessary Venice touch is added by the red marble lions that flank the more traditional oxen and asses. Nice.
We take Neli's picture against the backdrop of the Bridge of Sighs, stop out on the waterfront for a 'relaxing café', but Georgia then gets frozen from the ice-cream and coca-cola she insists on having (well, it is holiday time), and so we race back to the flat to warm her up. Leaving her and Neli to play with presents and pack up, respectively, Cat and I stroll up to and across the Rialto for lunch by the Ca' Grande at a restaurant below the Consulat de Monaco. There is a Dutch or Scandinavian couple there, in their 50s, she completely sloshed and acting it, calling the waiters over across other people; and also a strange pair of girls, one an Australian who has plainly never learned that you can depilate or at least dye your moustache, and the other an American who rather unappealingly, given that she is plain, a would-be Goth and spotty, insists on displaying generous portions of dead white bosom. The waiters love them, though, and they get served rather quicker than we do.
We follow the canal back to the Accademia, through lovely San Polo, passing the good children's clothes shop, Il Nido delle Cigogne, the 'Leaping Jesus' church (with Tiepolo's Stations of the Cross) and the Convex Mirror Shop.
Approaching the apartment again, we run into Le Bottleneck Senegalois even on Christmas Day, and lots of Orientals going for gondola rides. Then home to tuck up and get warm again.
Amusing note: Georgia could not quite recall the word "gondola", and came up with two marvellous versions - "gondolilla" and "al hamdu l'illah".
Boxing Day
Not much today. I go for a short walk round the Molo and Piazzetta San Marco, then come back and pack. We wander around to near the Rialto then return for another pizza lunch in Frezzaria, then stagger, laden with bags, down to the end of Calle Valleresso and take a motoscaffo to the airport.
Georgia is very upset to be leaving Venice. She has loved it, and asks that we return for her birthday or, preferably, buy a house there.
Thanks, Venice - you were great!