Day 3...

Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Venice, Italy 

Day three...we started off with our usual continental breakfast at the hotel, the breakfast room being directly outside our room. Soft, buttery croissants tasted heavenly dipped in mud-like coffee.  Deli slices of white cheese atop prepackaged crackers take on a gourmet feel when eaten in Europe.  
Planning on spending the morning trekking to the infamous Rialto Bridge.  Pleasantly surprising, the asshole of a front desk manager had his helpful hospitality pants on and was more than willing to offer up the 
"local's route", cutting our walk in two.  We climbed the famous bridge in search of the luscious food market below.  Very old and historic, Venice's fish and veggie market has been located at the base of the bridge for centuries.  I was unimpressed.  Citrus obviously boated in from Mexico sat perched atop cardboard boxes, Chicita bananas still bore their blue stickers proudly.  Yawn.  The pescitaria was housed in a very nice pavilion and stunk to high heaven.  Not my cup of tea to say the least.  Just beyond the fishy market were rows and rows of vendor carts, much like what we see at Saturday Market.  Full of mostly junk, we did find one little tiny storefront that caught our eye.  A rotund man with a full beard was manning the shop, paper machete masks hanging from every available surface, ceiling included. Crowded to say the least, mom wanted to keep looking.  Row after row of porcelain masks decorated with glitter and artificially died plumage was all we found.  I suggested we head back to the little shop whose artistic quality was unlike any of the other mass-produced Chinese crap we had been seeing.  Ha!  Not so fast.  We wandered up and down and back up the rows of trinkets and chotskes, unable to find the tiny hovel.  Finally, after much frustration, we turned the corner to find it at last!  The shopkeep was actually the artist - and a true artist he was!  These masks are insanely beautiful.  I find the whole mask thing creepy and hard to appreciate but these really are unique.  Of course, I can never come to any sort of disision so I walked away empty handed.  Mom, of course, ended up with a beautiful piece of art for her dressing room.  Sigh.
Back to the hotel around 1pm, we decided to take asshole desk man's suggestion on taking a free private charter to murano, famous island known for it's glass.  A very italian looking gentleman in designer jeans, motorcycle jacket and aviator sunglasses picked us up at our hotel and briskly walked us to the dock where our boat was to meet us.  He was a smooth one alright, talking up everything Venitian.  Mom made the mistake of saying she preferred Florence.  Ha!  I guess if someone were to say the same about seattle I would gaffaw as well...
The boat finally came, we boarded and took off for Murano.  A beautiful sunny day, I stood in the back, mom of course tucked away in the cabin.  We were escorted into Marco Polo factory, a compound which has been glass blowing for centuries.  They were making guilded leaves for chandeliers at that moment.  We stood and watched in awe, learning the kiln itself was 300 years old.  The artisans were two brothers, both older in dingy tees and stretched out jeans.  They worked silently in perfect harmony.  We were then ushered upstairs, to "the gallery", where two stories and ,multiple rooms were teeming with beautiful, light reflecting glass.  Somethings were absolutely breathtaking...the chandeliers, some of the stemware.  Some stuff was downright awful...think gaudy mobster crap.  I really was hoping to pick up a set of champagne flutes, or so,ething really pretty and functional which would serve as an amazing memory.  Yeah right.  The set of 6 flutes I had my eye on were roughly $600 Euro...a far cry from the $1.75 each I paid at ikea for my current set.  Of course Mary ended up with a set of colorful wine glasses and a beautiful pitcher.  Please note my mother has one-upped me many tmes this trip.  Meaning I find something I want, can't afford, and she buys it for herself.  Ce la vie. While mom was wrapping up her transaction, I realized we really had no way off the island unless we had purchased something.  We had no way of contacting any sort of transportation, and the charter we took over was completely controlled by the people selling us stuff and was not offered up until we bought something.  Creepy, hostage style.  We waited another 30 min for the boat, which ferried us back across the choppy yet gorgeous lagoon towards Venice, passing Ste. Michelle, the cemetery island on our way.  
After having the front desk make us a reservation at at nice restaurant for dinner, we had to cancel.  Mom's feet are not holding up well this trip and with no cars on the island, walking is the only way around.  Not up to the jaunt, we opted for something close to the hotel.  pizzeria Sacrista was just a few steps from our hotel and was written up in mom's Rick Steves guide.  Dimly lit, fake grapes in the windows, the place had a sort of quirky charm - like Ernestos meets the Old World.  Or so it seemed.  We were quickly ushered to a table and given sweet glasses of sangria (? In Italy?) rimmed with sugar.  The menu was Bible-thick, full of pre picked menus aimed at tourists.  Being Right on the water, Venice is famed for it's seafood.  Mom ordered the scallop starter, scallops served in the half shell, some sort of bacon sauce.  I started with a green salad.  Wilted greens with lemon juice and shredded carrots does not a great salad make.  Mom had to use a knife to cut scallops...just sayin'.  My gnocchi with onions and mushrooms was anything but homemade.  Each gnocchi looked exactly like the one before - machine made and swimming in a floury sauce obviously frozen at some point.  Gross.  No other adjective would properly describe mr. Rick Steves' recommendation.  I asked for my entree to go, hoping to avoid the poor server the embarrassment.  I tried to "accidentally" leave my doggie bag on the table, trying to not carry around frozen Olive Garden food around with me...no such luck.  They chased after me, worried I was forgetting their prized cuisine.  Riiiiight.  I promptly dumped it in the nearest receptacle.  Back in Piazza San Marco, I asked my mother if she was down to go out...hardy har har.  Obviously she wasn't and apparently she was appalled at the idea of me venturing around a small, isolated island alone.  "you're not going to have anymore wine, are you?"...apparently the two glasses I had at Chez Dogshit were too much as it was.  Instead of arguing, I just said fine and retreated back to the hotel to spend yet another evening in bed early with my middle aged mother.  I was not happy.  Not one bit.  I tried explaining I am almost 30 and very independent.  I tried rationalizing there is no way for me to gauge a culture hidden in a tiny chamber locked away with my mother.  big Sigh. I cracked my book, faced the wall, sheets up to my chin and cried.  I never imagined I would feel caged in Europa.  Yet here I was, texting Hanna and Stef how I wanted to be home.  I'm grateful for Hanna, for she knows my mother - and has a difficult one of her own.  She has always been able to rise and face hers, however, where I often cower out of ease and fear of the fight.  3 benedrill later and sleep finally came over me, dreams of the boy I need to forget sweeping over my european vacation.