In a fit of boredom, or as an attempt to ward off the insanity and depression that comes with cabin fever, I decided to leave Cormons yesterday. Yes- leave this town, these vineyards, these quiet cobbled streets, the wine that is starting to make me gag on sight (too much of a good thing). My body and mind had reached a fever pitch of day-time lonesomeness, and I thought another afternoon of sitting in my panties sending our resumes, or wandering about the hills thinking of sending out resumes, or sitting at a cafe trying to study my Italian while knowing that surely my time would be better spent sending out resumes, would drive me mad. I needed to shake things up, see some new faces, practice my Italian on living souls other than those who inhabit this strange snow-globe that is Cormons. In practica, spend some money instead of obsessing over my lack of it. The tips of my fingers had started to tingle, and instead of buying a pack of cigarettes, I bought a train ticket.

Anthony Bourdain did one of his shows a while back on Venice, and it made me weep, literally. Sitting on the sofa at my mother's house, glass of Lambrusco balanced on one knee, my grey kitty on the other, I watched this episode and my chest seemed to swell and I began to have trouble breathing. It sounds scary, but it was euphoric. It happens like this with me and Italy: I see photos, or read books, or watch a film, and something inside me feels like it is mine, like not only that I belong there and know these things intimately, but that it, in a way, belongs to me. Immediately after this wave of pride, however, for years, came the jealousy. Because they belonged to someone else, these images and words would fill me with grief, anxiety. Why wasn't I there, damnit? Roman Holiday was always the worst, but even stupid things like Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen Mystery in Amalfi would make me moody. So the other night when I was watching Bourdain, I went through these waves of emotion, in a matter of seconds, except this time there was something else: the realization that in X weeks I would be there! I could go to Venice, I could eat these things and see these things, anything and everything, and as often as I wanted. This truth hit me like a tumbling stack of biscotti and I just burst into tears. There in my living room, startling the grey cat, as I watched anchovies (which I don't even like) being sucked down Bourdain's throat. "You will be mine!", I cried aloud, shaking my fist at the boney, shrivled, vinegar-cured fish on the TV, "Just you wait!"

And so, I went to Venice, in search of anchovies (which I don't even like), and in search of a restaurant that had been featured on the program, Da Romano.

Opened in 1910, Da Romano is a trattoria on the island of Burano that was for a time "the restaurant", a mecca for the artists of Venice. Burano has for centuries been a tiny fishing island, about half an hour out from Venice. The houses are painted vibrant colors, and the production of lace is the island's major export, giving the place an overall feel of beauty, light, delicacy, and creativity. In the early 20th century, artists and writers from all corners of Europe began flocking there, for the peace and quiet, I imagine, and to convene in a colony-style atmosphere to discuss ideas, trends, or whatever it is that artists discuss. I am not one, so I am not sure.

Anthony Bourdain had come here for the seafood risotto, which is legendary and supposedly the "best" in Italy. Now, I am not foolish or mainstream enough to confuse "the best" with "the most well-known", but I figured it was worth trying. If anything, something to check off my bucket list. And Burano! The island is positively blinding in places, the colors so bright it seems to make even the little old ladies and children glow. Fresh laundry hung in the dazzling sunshine from almost every window, and the tiny streets were filled with carts full of lace, soft and intricate. The smell of grilled seafood permeated the air, bringing the island back to reality, a savory needle to pop the balloon of heavenly surrealism.

I wanted to take photos and wander about the streets, but due to something, possibly a flaw, in my character, that causes me to "go by foot" to the Burano Boat boarding dock on the complete other side of Venice, instead of paying 2 euro more to take the boat that is already waiting outside of the train station upon arrival, I was late and desperate to find the restaurant before it closed.
It was not hard. There is only one main drag through the island, and Da Romano is at the heart of it.

A be-suited waiter showed me to a table, elegantly clothed in silk, and I looked over the menu. All variety of seafood, prepared in a variety of ways. Octopus salad, steamed mussels, anchovies over fresh sheep's milk cheese, pan-roasted rombo, oven-roasted branzino, salt-cured orata. And then the risotti! Risotto with clams, risotto with black squid ink, risotto...Da Romano, al frutto dal mare. This I ordered, and a bottle of aqua frizzante, and I sat and watched the crowed dining room. The front half was packed with tourists, all nationalities. Some had come here because they new the name, some had stumbled in accidentally. There was a lull in the crowd, a space, a row or two of empty tables, and then there were the Italians. Men in business suits, little old ladies, guys in work gear, coated in cement or dust. This half of the restaurant seemed older in a way, perhaps shaded in black and white, or sepia toned. The Italians of Burano and Venice knew why they were here, and probably came often. They ordered as though this were their last supper, not just a Wednesday lunch; steaming bowls of tightly wound pasta, trays of whole fish, mountains of fried shrimp, a jug of wine.
My risotto came, and it was exceptional. Creamy, savory. A seafood broth had been used, but there were no bits or chunks of creature on my plate. Just the essence of the animals, steaming off of the silky white rice. A dash of ground black pepper, it was perfect. Each bite seemed to be the consistency of ice cream, tapioca, soft and lightly textured, though in the end, at just the last instant, my teeth would hit a crunch, the ultimate catch in a perfect risotto. This is not mush, but instead expertly indulged rice, moist until tooth collides with the fine bone in the center of each grain.

I cannot say that it is the best risotto in Italy, but it is delicious, and well worth the trip.
Had a walk about and took some photos. Burano has a leaning tower, too, though it's hard to prove it with photos taken up-close.
At 6 p.m. I found myself back at the train station, boarded my train for Cormons. There's always a relief in heading back to Cormons. FL was waiting for me at the station, had me detail my whole adventure, right down to the nifty device I found on my camera that lets me play with the photos and their colors and shapes.
Ah, though. Today is Thursday and it is back to business as usual. After a hike over the hills, I will take my book and some resumes into town. Thinking of dropping some off at the Enoteca di Cormons; that nice lady knows everyone. Who know's what will become of me?