Chapter 7: (Ve)Nice To Meet You

“Venice”.

The name conjures up images of slim mustachioed accordion players balancing on curvy black gondolas, serenading young couples in love as they serenely float through narrow dark-watered canals edged with cobblestone streets.

Well I was sort of toying with the idea of a gondola ride – you gotta do one if you’re in Venice, right? – as Rachel and I began to stroll through the town. But do you know what they don’t tell you? That ALL OF THE GONDOLIERS are really really really incredibly annoyingly handsome.

Nuh-uh, no sir. I’m not shucking out $80 so my wife and I can recline at the feet of a muscular tight-shirted Jon Hamm murmering to us in a sexy Italian accent. Especially after all the cheese and prosciutto I’ve been eating. Thanks, but we’ll stick with the water taxi. Sorry Rachel.

Upon leaving Rome, Rachel and I spent a relaxing two days wandering the uneven streets and countless bridges of Venice.

My first realization was that, if I ever need to be rushed to the hospital, I definitely want to be transported via water ambulance.

I mean, that’s pretty cool, but does lead to several questions. Is there a dock at the hospital? I saw flashing lights, but is there a siren? How do they load the stretcher while making sure they don’t dump poor Mr. Pulmonary Embolism into the water? Do they pack a 60-foot rope and a slalom ski onboard for slow days? More research is needed.

We wound our way down to Piazza San Marco, which contains St Mark’s Basilica, a lovely church which will discreetly ask you for 3 euros to walk inside and 10 euros to walk up to the second story and 8 euros to see the museum next door and 6 euros to roll your eyes.

Also in the square is St. Mark’s Bell Tower, where in 1609 modern astronomy was born when Galileo took his new-fangled telescope to the top and proved that the earth orbits around the Sun.

Over 400 years later, there is a burgeoning and vocal contingent of dim humans who believe not only that the earth is at the center of our universe, but also that it is somehow flat. Galileo must be orbiting in his grave.

One of our favorite traditions in Venice was partaking in cicchetti, small finger-foods served in the bars and cafés. These could be tiny sandwiches, shrimp, small cakes, or bites of meat on a toothpick, and are ordered several at a time by peering into through a finger-smudged glass case and pointing at whatever looks good. We quickly settled into a routine of wandering around until our feet hurt, then taking a respite at an outdoor table to partake in a few cicchetti and a glass of prosecco.

One such excursion took us to a small café right across the canal from where the gondolas are repaired. (I was fine with this. Let’s just say those workers weren’t quite as handsome.)

We did get semi-lost once, at the far southern tip of the main island, while looking for a famous art installation of giant white resin hands. In retrospect, we probably shouldn’t have walked through the partially opened gate in the chain-link construction fence, where no other tourists could be seen, but that Italian security guard didn’t have to look so irritated when he shooed us out of his yard.

But, no matter, we found the hands.