Benvenuti al Carnevale di Venezia...

“People everywhere. Immediately off the vaporetto we were utterly, and completely enveloped by masked people, costumed people, painted people, people on stilts, winged people, intoxicated people, wigged people, and any incarnation thereof. And we, of course, got lost with all of our luggage in the middle of confusion’s masterpiece.” ~excerpt from journal

Surreal:

having the disorienting, hallucinatory quality of a dream

We thought something was suspect as the airport seemed barren of life, the vaporetti (water taxis) were empty, and one of the only other passengers on our vaporetto was dressed in flamboyant Renaissance garb. However, we were too tired to postulate; a red-eye flight, layovers, Frankfurt customs, and other joys of flying had taken their toll. Besides, I took the “T” to school, work, and my baseball games every day for four year, so passengers' oddities do not surprise me anymore. We both fell asleep as soon as we handed over our tickets and had a brief conversation with a precocious Italian toddler. All was good and right in the world: we were just minutes away from docking in Venice.

Drum beats and music seeped into our dreams. We struggled to keep our eyes open, but concluded it didn’t matter: there was a thick layer of fog masking the city; we wouldn't be able to see anything anyway. Intrigue surreptitiously goaded our consciences as we tried shaking off the weariness of travel. The syncopated drum beats were now accompanied by random outbursts from what seemed like a very large crowd. The haze of sleep slowly slipped away. We looked at each other to make sure the other was awake and we weren’t in the middle of a Shakespearean dream. Venice was finally visible - and it consisted of lots of people. The sheer number would not be known for a few more minutes, but it clearly was more than we figured was normal for a dreary February day. The piers were covered in loud decorations. The ant colony of people grew in size with each iterative blink. They all scurried about trying to find any reasonably stable and unoccupied piece of Piazza San Marco to stand on, showing off their over-the-top sartorial selections of the day - mainly distinguished, 18^th-century Venetian Republic dresses, tights, wigs, and masks. 

Carrie took out her maps and I grabbed hold of the luggage. As soon as we stepped off the vaporetto and into the mass of people, Carrie grabbed hold of my arm. Pirates greeted us and slapped me on the back. Liquor spilled on my shoes. Someone grabbed my suitcase. Dogs barked. Mascots danced. The crowd counted down. An Angel flew o’er head. Confetti rained down. Masks hugged us and kissed us. For all we knew, we were the ten-millionth visitor of the day and had won a car, or better yet, a gondola. Not so. Like a running back, I lowered my head and kept forward, or to the right, or maybe we were going backwards. Each step was met with a blockade. Each glance revealed more painted individuals yelling at/to/for/with us. The vertigo settled in. We were on the set of a David Lynch movie; or perhaps this was the setting for one of Shakespeare’s murder mind-trips. I had just finished teaching Macbeth to my students before break; I figured this was ironic.

After slicing our way through Piazza San Marco, and finally being able to breathe, the next challenge awaited us: finding our hotel. Now you may not think this to be too difficult, but keep in mind that there were still thousands of people littering the very narrow streets that infamously lack order and lead to stranded tourists (just try it someday!). Streets are unnamed, numbers do not always follow a clear system, and we were unfamiliar with most of the key Venetian (Veneten) dialect terms. Remember, the unified “Italian language” (Tuscan-centric as a result of Florence's wealth and power and the writing prowess of Boccaccio and Dante) is still quite young. Most cities are unwilling to let go of their local and distinguishing dialect, as we found out the hard way in Venice. Regardless, we were tired, worn down, and about ready to give up. Our system of finding a pocket of “space” to stand and look at a map to relocate ourselves was not working. We were literally in the middle of a small alley that smelled strongly of urine (Italy is not known for its public restrooms), and was covered with confetti, booze, and a couple of passed-out “Maidens,” when Carrie looked like she was about to break down and give up.

Some things just can’t be made up, and although I enjoy writing fiction, I promise you none of this is. Very fittingly, a heavily inebriated woman asked in slurred Italian if we needed help. She swayed, barely able to stand up, with a cup in each hand. “Si, per favore signora! Grazie mille. Cerchiamo l’albergo Ca’San Marco,” I said. She handed me one of her cups, and then pointed over my shoulder and simply said, “Eccolo.” She grabbed her cup, smiled, and stumbled away. We were practically at the doorstep of this place and had passed it probably ten times. Thanks for the street names and numbers Venice. Real helpful.

That, my friends, is my all-too-true tale of arriving in Venice at the very moment that Carnevale’s opening ceremonies were commencing. The “Flight of the Angel” marks the kickoff of all Carnevale festivities each year, and as you will see in any photos you view on-line, it is a disorienting, confusing, and exciting event that draws visitors from all over Europe. Once the events quieted down a bit, we took off our newly acquired hand-made mascherette and saw the most beautiful city every constructed. I truly believe everyone should visit Venice once in their lifetime, to see a city like no other. There are no cars or buses anywhere. Walking and water taxis are the modes of transportation, or, if you’re willing to shell out 80 euro, a gondola ride. I will not attempt to describe the beauty of the city, but rather implore you to research it for yourselves on the internet or in books. Besides, food is my shtick.

Fish, bigoli, risotto, and polenta are found everywhere. And because it was Carnevale, the most amazing fried treats were insidious: frittelle. They are traditionally made with rum-soaked raisins and/or with a silky zabaglione; placed in a bag and covered with sugar. If I had a dollar for every frittella I ate... I will say that holistically, as far as the food is concerned, Venice is closer to the bottom than the top of the Italian food chain. Do not misunderstand me: Venice has wonderful food, but the variety is vastly limited due to their “island” location. However, the fish dishes, which include the jet-black squid-ink risotto with perfectly cooked calamari or cappesante (scallops) that stain your teeth, are flawless.  

A day could be made walking through the Rialto Market and looking at all the wonderful fish and spices - Venice was the largest trading port in Europe and its proximity to Middle Eastern countries explains Venice’s sometimes exotic ingredients, such as curry or cumin. But with so many sites to see in Venice, it’s hard to be pinned down to one spot for so long. Walking through Piazza San Marco (beware of the pigeons!), or in the austere Basilica, it’s easy to recognize that this city was one of extreme power and wealth. The Venetian word for gold, “oro” is found in names everywhere - from restaurants to boutiques to houses to palaces - to remind everyone of Venice’s prominent place in history.
 
And although it has nothing to do with food, I would be remiss if I did not mention how amazing the islands of Murano and Burano are - notable for their blown glass and hand-made lace. Simply amazing. Being obsessed with traditional, hand-made methods myself, these islands were a testament to artisanal practices.

This trek to the northeastern part of Italy just elucidates how different each region truly is, and Venice could be the most unique of them all in more ways than one. I hope you all get to “try” Venice, if just for a day. Just be sure to check the calendar...