Venezia, Pandemonium and Hitler

Venice - Ponte della Paglia and Ponte dei Sospiri (Bridge of Straw and Bridge of Sighs)

Venice is about an hour and a half drive from Verona.  The two cities are both in the Veneto Province. 

See Verona on the left and Venezia on the right.

When I look through pictures from the past, I realize that we went to Venice many times with various friends. It was an easy day trip with the children. Venice is a magical place. The kids had a wonderful time chasing the pigeons on Piazzo San Marco and running over bridges. We rode the vaporeto (water taxi) and went out to the Island of Murano to see the glass blowers.  Once we went to the Lido to play on the beach. 

Christopher, Charles and Marie-Juliette spellbound by the pigeons.

Murano glass blowers.

Murano Glass

Lido Beach

Perhaps my most memorable trip to Venice, however, was with a group of acquaintances.  We were 4 couples, all of us transplants to Verona.  Two couples from Torino and another from Bologna.  I knew the women relatively well, but I’d never met “Carlo”.  Dark wavy hair, a sturdy build and an aggressive manner. He exuded a certain slippery sexuality.  

It was decided we would drive there together in a VW van that Vincent had inherited from an Italian-American couple who had returned to the states. Our friends were used to driving snazzy cars so taking a rusty van was a lark.

We set off at four in the afternoon so we could go for a walk-a passeggiata and do some shopping before dinner.   A leisurely passeggiata is essential to Italian life; walking slowly arm in arm and chatting intimately.  At first this closeness seemed strange to me.  In America we maintain a certain distance.  But Italians like to get up close and personal.

We had an aperitivo at a bar and wandered down small passageways and over stone bridges.  As I remember one of our group was looking for a rare book and we stopped at several librerie.  Our destination for dinner was in the old fish market.  Perhaps it was the Antica Trattoria Poste Vecie that specializes in Venetian food and local fish.  I looked at their web site today but it looks fancier than what I remember.

Venice at dusk.

Antica Trattoria Poste Vecie.  I read that Casanova brought lady friends here.

As I remember the maître d’hôtel lead us down some stairs to a lower level. We were ushered to a long table.  The walls of this room were stone or brick, elegantly rustic.   Several tables were occupied. Across the room a group of men were just sitting down.  Lively conversation echoed in the room.

We might have started with Sarde in Saòr, sweet and sour sardines or Spaghetti al Nero di Seppia  - spaghetti with squid ink, or Risi e Bisi, rice with peas. These are all Venetian specialties. Then perhaps grilled fish or Baccala (cod). The atmosphere was lively and the conversation brisk.  We ate a leisurely dinner, taking time with each course and drinking quite a lot of wine.

Sarde in Saòr

Spaghetti al nero di seppia  -spaghetti in squid ink.

Risi e bisi

The restaurant emptied out except for the group of gentlemen across the room. One of them raised his voice in song and the others joined in.  They were singing in German.  When they’d finished, our group applauded and we sent a pitcher of wine to their table.  Everyone laughed.  Then we began to sing an Italian song.  When we’d finished they applauded and sent us some wine.  As the evening progressed the atmosphere became more raucous.  We sang, clapped our hands and shared more wine.  The girls got up to dance.  We danced together; we danced with our husbands; we danced with the German fellows. The feeling was wild pandemonium.  I remember twirling around in my red dress. 

Then all of a sudden “Carlo” stood on a chair, raised his arm in a Nazi salute and said: Heil Hitler.  His harsh voice carried across the room.  And then there was total silence.  We were frozen in place.  The German-speakers mumbled, “But we are not Germans.  We are Austrians.”  

Some of us apologized. A cold wind swept through the room.  A delightful evening had turned into a train wreck.

The wine urges me on, the bewitching wine, which sets even a

wise man to singing and to laughing gently and rouses him up 

to dance and brings forth words which were better unspoken.

Homer

The Odyssey, bk. XIV, l. 463