catch up

      

"You profit to the full at such times by all the old voices, echoes, images- by that element of the history of Venice which represents all Europe as having at one time and another revelled or rested, asked for pleasure or for patience there; which gives you the place supremely as the refuge of endless strange secrets, broken fortunes and wounded hearts."

-Henry James

Friday found me on a rather ancient regional train, hurtling across southern Friuli, bound for Venice.  It had been in my head quite a while, this little escape.  It came to me in a dream, actually.  Carnivale was hitting it's peak, and my gut told me to get while the getting was good.  I was armed: Henry James' Italian Hours was my libro of choice, and I could not have had chosen better company.  Who but Henry James writes the Italians so well, so bluntly, honestly, lovingly?  The Venice that haunts James exists still today, which I think was his whole point, actually.  Venice is nothing if not eternal, as all moderately maintained museums and the gems that they house are.  It would take a natural disaster to befall the MoMA, or the decay of an entire civilization, and then the deaths of all those who are sentimental about it.  Venice is the same, though living and breathing, interactive.  She will end only when sunk, fully and completely and with a soul-ripping howl, the nerve-shattering sound of suction, such a sad lament, into her lagoon.  The water above will resume it's murky, algae green glow.  Bony fish will smugly feast on chips of paint, the tables turned, while the rest of the world will have to find some other dream to dine in.

Lucky for me, for all of us, it hasn't come to that yet.  Venice lives!  She is vibrant, an aging queen sitting in a shrine to herself pointing out the antiques on her dresser, gifts from long-dead kings and heroes and old loves.  You can go and see it for yourself. 

My goal for the day was to eat well, visit the Peggy Guggenheim Collection, see some fun costumes and refuel my soul with a dose of adventure, a splash of romance.

The alleys were filled both with tourists and their eye candy: men and women in gorgeous, even outrageous costumes.  There were jugglers and unicycle riders in the piazze, children running amuck in masks, gondolieri wearing RayBans, musicians with accordions and tambourines, fishermen with sacks of clams slung over their shoulders, Americans in baseball caps, locals in fur coats.  The weather was stunning, blindingly gold, and I clutched Italian Hours like a bible and ambled blissfully through that "most melancholy of cities...the most beautiful of tombs". 

My hunt for the Peggy Guggenheim took me a good while.  I have this thing against asking for directions in cities, as I feel that a good part of the fun is the getting lost, and then the finding of oneself.  While lost this time, I had a salad of fresh caught octopi, white and purple and curled, and not one but two bombolone (delicious.  A treat during Carnivale, and I believe a native of Venice or at least the region of Veneto.  Basically a hunk of sweetened fried dough full of custard, rolled in powdered sugar.  Some have nuts and raisins.  http://www.facebook.com/bombolone.  Ha!).  I crossed several bridges and tossed a coin into the hat of a few street performers.  I trailed a couple dressed in 18th century regalia through a series of tiny, dark alleys, beyond intrigued by their final destination, only to be led to an unbelievably enchanting private garden where they both took a seat on a fountain, green with age, and shared a cigarette.  As I snuck away I imagined telling someone over supper in the future about this secret rose garden.  I would say to them, "I stumbled upon the most stunning little rose garden in the bowels of Venice one time", and this sentence was so absurd that I giggled out loud.  I browsed an antique store full of books that looked as though they would crumble to dust if touched.  They also had a collection of pistols and a display of monocles. 

The Peggy Guggenheim collection was fantastic, and I fell in love with Joseph Cornell's Setting for a Fairy Tale box.  Wish to become very small, climb inside and live amongst those silvery trees, find romance in that stark pen-and-ink piazza, watch the ballet at an eternal 5pm.

Not quite sure what makes Jackson Pollock so great, aside from being the first.

As the sun began to set I emerged in Piazza San Marco, which is always fabulous.  The center of the piazza was set up for a masked ball which would begin around 8pm.  People in costume lined the piazza posing for pictures.  There was music and floods of tourists and a mood which can only be described as jubilant.  The more the sun set the more magical it all became, and I felt a bit like Cinderella- my train back to Udine left at 7. 

It was this walk back- that long walk from Piazza San Marco to Venezia Santa Lucia, a walk which I always underestimate the length of- it was this walk that was the most charming part of the entire day.  By this hour the sky was dark, and the streets were filled with the glow of shops, barbiere, lights and lanterns hung overhead.  Venice was awake and full by this hour, excited for the evenings events.  The costumes became more extreme, and the locals perched from their windows to watch them pass, holding aperitivi, toasting a Friday night.  The restaurants were filling up with Americans and Brits who like to eat during the early shift, lured surely by the huge tables full of crustaceans and fresh vegetables set up outside the trattorie to entice clientele.  It became very cold, and starry.  A quick pop into a cafe' for a vin brulee to warm my insides, and I rushed to my train just in time.  Steam rose up all around it in manner of a train departing in the early 20th century, and I felt so romantic as I flung myself into the (electric) closing doors of the first carriage.  Standing room only, so I took a seat on the steps, and watched through the window as we sailed out across the lagoon, leaving Venezia to her revelry.   

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For some time I had been anticipating this past Sunday, as it was the day of a festival in Lignano entitled Festa Delle Cape.  When I read the bill advertising such I tugged at FL's sleeve, afraid to get my hopes up.

"Darling, this says 'cape', which means, like, clams and mussels and stuff."

"Yes," he said, "'mollusks', I think is the word."  And then he covered his ears.

I let out a wail of joy and pretty much almost collapsed onto the sidewalk with excitement.  I think that only if someone told me that there was a Festival of Crab Legs with Lemon and Butter could I be more excited.

"MOLLUSKS FESTIVAL," I cried out loud to myself at least 100 times over the week leading up to the event.  "A REAL LIFE MOLLUSKS FESTIVAL!"  Could not believe that I was being gifted such an experience.

Sunday came and the weather was perfect.  I am one who can be accused of rushing the season, so as the sun was out and while standing directly in it I could feel the (slight) sting of it's rays, I put on a sundress and cardigan and pranced about trying to work up as much appetite as possible.  The crew for the mollusks festival was myself and FL, FL's BFF Pich, and our friends Daniele e Laura.  Crunched together in Daniele's tiny Fiat, we sped out toward the city of Lignano, which sits on a peninsula jutting out into what is technically the Mediterranean Sea (I had no idea.  Thought the whole damn inlet or whatever, the eastern side of the boot, was the Adriatic, entirely separate from the Mediterranean.  But they are as one.  Obviously I am v. ignorant and uneducated despite thousands owed to the University of Georgia.  Pity).  It is a beach resort town, full of ugly condos, discotheques, and over-priced seafood restaurants.  

Located the "festival", which was, heart-breakingly, one kiosk selling razor clams and steamed mussels for 9 euro a basket, with a line about 12 kilometers long, which we were told was taking over an hour to get through.  No music, no all-you-can-eat oyster buffet, nothing.  We might as well have gone to the grocery store.

This moment can undoubtedly be classified as one of the great disappointments of my life.  However, as so happens with great disappointments... something better came along.

Pich called his brother, "Jack" who lives in Lignano and explained the situation.  American on the cusp of hyperventilation, possible breakdown, we need seafood stat, etc.  Jack to the rescue!  He sent us to a place outside of town, by the marina, that was, he said, one of the best kept secrets by the locals of Lignano.  Tucked away, hidden out of view from the road, facing only the inlet, seen only by those who own boats, was La Maranese.  And it did not- did.  not.- disappoint.

Spaghetti alle Vongole

The place was casual but elegant, and packed.  We waiting a good 20 minutes for a table, and the heaping trays of seafood dishes carted around by the waiters told us why.  For the price, we could order what we liked.  FL and I split an antipasto, we ordered two first courses, two second courses...and then went back for a third second course.  We couldn't help ourselves.

Seppie alla griglia

The antipasto, a mix of fresh seafood, prepared simply i.e. perfectly was a great place to start.  My first course, gli spaghetti alle cozze, just, like, blew my mind.  I ordered it thinking that it would be served in the traditional white wine sauce, but, in fact, it was served in the other tradition, a marinara.  I am so glad that I didn't know, because I usually would never order the marinara, and then I never would have experienced what was absolutely one of the top 3 pasta dishes that I have ever ever ever had the pleasure of eating.  It was perfect.  The pasta al dente, the mussels like little bombs of flavor, it was savory and just a tad spicy and I kept saying "oh my god oh my god oh my god" the whole time. 

Spaghetti alle Cozze

FL ordered gli spaghetti alle vongole, which was also the best of that dish that either of us had ever had.  For my secondo I ordered le seppie alle griglia, grilled squid.  Once again, perfection.  Cooked to perfection (I am trying to think of another word to describe these dishes, I even went to thesaurus.com to find another way to say "perfect", but there isn't.  What is that called?  When a word describing itself is the only way it can be described?  Perfect, therefore, is the only word for it).  Dense, but not chewy, served with a slice of lemon, it cut like a steak.  FL ordered a giant platter of fried seafood, crunchy, salty and just  _ _ _ _ _ _ _.  Giggling like school children as we licked out plates clean, we signaled for the waitress to bring another menu.  Steamed mussels seemed the way to go, light and brothy. 

When it was all done, when every scrap of food had been savored and fawned over and photographed, we ordered a round of sorbetti (I have decided that sorbetto is the second best thing about Italy- FL being the first.  It is just an amazing treat., and does wonders to a full, sleepy Eleanor).  And then a round of grappa.  And then a round of amarretti.  Celebrations were in order. 

Antipasto, misto

So this is life.  Charmed, for sure.  Blessed.  Days like these take the pressure off the dark tunnel of unemployment and general confusion of 25.  At least for these days and the glowing days that follow there is an answer for the question, "what the hell am I doing here?"  Living: a charmed and blessed life, with someone who loves me very much, in a place that could, at times, be mistaken for Joseph Cornell's Setting for a Fairy Tale.  Being young: young enough still to keep hiding out in Venice when I feel hounded by the sinking sensation and icy grip of indirection, young enough still to burn the necessary calories to warrant such grandiose meals. 

I can't say for sure how long I'll be here, what will become of me, who I will be, or even who I am.  It's bound to work itself out, though.  I have faith in that.

Joseph Cornell, Setting for a Fairy Tale, 1942