Venice or Bust VIII - Viva Venezia!

MARCO THE GONDOLIER
CANAL WITH WOODEN STRUCTURES

SEARCHING FOR BARGAINS IN THE RIALTO

BRIDE AND GROOM IN PIAZZA SAN MARCO

THE SNAKE MADE ME DO IT!

PARKING LOT AT THE ILE POMENI

VIVA VENEZIA

I just love the sound of Italian in the morning!
“Buon giorno,” says our waitperson.
“Due café,” I reply. “Espresso con pane e uno cappuccino con biscotti.”
I’m not sure if I get the hand gestures right but the accent is understandable.
Our waitperson bustles off.

We are sitting in the sunshine on the Grand Canal facing the Rialto Bridge with our first coffees and the whole day ahead. “Che buona fortuna!”

The guys in the nautical black hats and striped sailor shirts are ‘gondolieri’. For 70 euros the four of us clamber aboard for a thirty minute gondola trip to the Grand Canal, the Rialto fish market and back . Our gondolier is named Marco. He and I are both namesakes of the patron Saint of Venezia – San Marco. Marco points out some of the original wooden structures that are 500+ years old and date to the time when the proto-Venetians moved to this inaccessible swamp to avoid Attila and the gang. (see 'Hungarian-One Easy Lesson' in my August 4, 2008 blog)
These pre-date the glorious stone and brick ‘palazzos’ built during Venice’s ascendancy as the major naval power in the Levant from 1200-1500 C.E. We see a famous tenor walking to the opera house on his way to work. Hailed by Marco, he smiles and waves.

Shops take up most of the area between the Rialto and St. Mark’s square. By the time we reach the Piazza San Marco, everyone is tired, thirsty and out of euros. We take a break for pizza and gelato and, of course, more café –‘stile Italiano’.

It’s Saturday and I snap a nice photo of a bride and groom on their wedding day in front of the western façade of St. Mark’s. No one else wants to see the paintings by Tiepolo and Tintoretto that decorate the Doge’s palace. They go off shopping while I sit in the sun, watching tour groups and flocks of pigeons perambulate the Piazza. The tour groups crowd around their guide’s banner. Meanwhile, the pigeons congregate in not dissimilar fashion around individuals holding paper cones high in their outstretched arms. I flash on a scene from my childhood: I’m standing in Piazza San Marco. I’m holding a cone of cracked corn. Pigeons sit on my head and arms while Dad takes my picture. I remember the feeling of scratchy pink pigeon feet on my seven year old scalp. Funny thing memories! I wonder what our bride and groom will remember of their wedding day 50 years from now?

I photograph the mosaics and the statues on the outside of the palace. My favorite is the statue of Adam and Eve on the Southeast corner. The snake is in the middle. The tree of life has everybody adequately covered. It looks to me like Eve is pointing accusatorily at the serpent. “The snake made me do it.”

No time to gaze at art. We hike further east to Ile Pomeni – a small island in a residential neighborhood. It’s evening and families promenade with their dogs and children in the afternoon sunshine. There are no cars in all of Venice so people are free to inhabit the streets. And they do! How wonderful to live where walking is the norm. In this respect, Venice is a lot like Amesbury’s sister village of Esabalu in Kenya. If you haven’t lived in a community of pedestrians before, you really haven’t lived the way human beings should.

After sunset, Venice is magic! We cross the Rialto Bridge an dine at an outdoor restaurant in Campo San Polo. San Polo is the second largest public square in Venice, after Piazza San Marco. Bullfights used to be held at Campo San Polo and Lorenzo di Medici was assassinated here.

The spaghetti at the local trattoria is so expensive that we have to send John out to find an ATM in order to get tip money. Of course, John gets a little disoriented by the winding streets and we send out a search party (me). I leave Marg and Rena wondering if they’ll have to do dishes in an Italian ristorante. After a long meander I find John wrestling with the ATM. We figure out why his card isn’t working (in Italian) and return to the ladies patiently wondering where in the heck we are. ‘Missione compiuta.’

Never mind. The food is delicious. The lights, the lively Saturday night crowd, the strolling classical street musicians on a clear autumn evening weave a spell. Ciao Venezia! I’d stay longer if I could.

DAKTARI

Venice or Bust VII - Corfu Second Class Island

Empress Sisi as a Nymphette

Sisi's Study

Hail, Hail Freedonia!

Escape from Corfu - PLEASE!

Corfu – Second class Island

After Santorini, the Greek island of Corfu is a disappointment.

I'm afraid that I have to say it’s the Revere Beach of Greek islands.

As we debark from the Splendour, I vote to take a ferry to the even smaller island of Pakos and spend the day in an “unspoiled Greek fishing village” as described in the tourbook. I’m outvoted 3 to 1, so we do the same thing on Corfu that we did in Santorini. Only it’s inferior in every way.

First the taxi tour. Our driver, Christos, is quite personable and his English is better than any of the others (he lived in Toronto for 20 years). Unfortunately, the material he has to work with is not top drawer.

The scenery is so-so and it’s a cloudy day (the only cloudy day on the cruise). There are no dramatic cliffs, active volcanoes or buried cities. The chief attraction is a tiny palace built by the last Hapsburg Empress – Elizabeth of Austria a.k.a. ‘Sisi’. (faithful blog readers will remember her as the same Empress for whom the ‘Sisi’ bridge in Budapest was named -see "Peeing in the Public Baths - Budapest, Hungary August 25, 2001" ) She built this palace on Corfu because it was the part of the Empire farthest away from her detested husband, the Emperor Franz Joseph. It was constructed in 1892 at the height of Austrian kitsch. Sisi was assassinated by an anarchist bomb in 1898, so she didn’t get to spend much time in the palace.
And we don’t either.

After the island tour, we spend the rest of the day in the Old City shopping. The Old City is not that old. I would say it’s about as old as the Marx brothers. It even reminds me of the capital of Freedonia,“Land of the Spree, and the Home of the Knave”, as depicted in the movie ‘Duck Soup’. Only where’s Rufus T. Firefly when we need him most? I am un-amused.

The shopping itself is also inferior. What can you expect from an island whose principle products are olive oil and kumquats? Kumquat liqueur anyone? I buy a tee-shirt and take a few photos.
One of them is actually quite interesting. It seems to show a bunch of toys escaping from a Corfu shop window and invading Freedonia. Now that would be interesting! Unfortunately it’s just a trick reflection on the glass.

That pretty much sums up Corfu – a trick reflection of a Greek Island from which toys and tourists cannot escape. As old Groucho might say - “Corfooey”.
Don’t worry readers – better days are ahead. Next stop – Venezia!!

DAKTARI

HAPPY THANKSGIVING - 2008

My friend Tom and I are sending our best wishes for a Happy Thanksgiving day.

(Hope she thaws out before morning, Tom!)

DAKTARI

Venice or Bust VI - Spectacular Santorini - Oct 1, 2008

Cliffs of the Caldera
Fira -Cable Car versus Mule trail?

Waiting for the Taxi

Make way for Burros

BEAUTIFUL OIA

Spectacular Santorini

Santorini (Saint Irene in Greek) is one of the most beautiful places in the world. We drop anchor in Santorini harbor, surrounded on all sides by 1000 foot volcanic cliffs layered in red, beige and black. The white-washed village of Fira clings to the top of the cliff , its sunlit cottages overlooking our shadowed mooring.

The harbor was created when a huge eruption breached the western wall of the volcano of Santorini allowing the turquoise waters of the Aegean to fill the caldera. Another eruption 3600 years ago unleashed a catastrophic tidal wave that destroyed the Minoan civilization on Crete 90 miles to the South. (Remember the legendary Minotaur and his labyrinth? That civilization.)

We take a tender from the ship to the dock at the foot of the cliff.
"Looks like we have to take the cable car," says Rena as we approach the dock. "And look at that line!"
A long, long line of tourists from cruise ships snakes along the dock. The cable car’s single gondola holds only six passengers at a time.

"Not necessary," I respond. "The guidebook says you can take a mule or donkey to the top via a mountain path. It costs a little more but it will probably take less time and be more scenic. How about an adventure?"

The response from Margaret, John and Rena, a combination of eye-rolling and sideways glances, implies a healthy skepticism for my 'donkey adventure' proposal. All hopes are soon dashed when the ship's steward announces over the lighter's intercom that taking the donkey option will make us "smell like mule for three days". Despite my protests that we can buy a can of Fabreze and spray our clothes at the top, the final vote is: Cablecar Wimps 3 vs. Mule-piss Volunteers 1. Rats!

I am mollified somewhat by the cable car ride which is steeper and scarier than any I have taken before. I am sitting across from a woman from New Jersey who turns white and covers her eyes, moaning gently all the way up. Despite the silver anti-nausea patch behind her left ear, I am relieved when we exit the car without an emetic eruption. Wouldn’t it be ironic to escape smelling like a mule only to wind up smelling like a barf bag. (Travel tip: always pack Fabreze in your luggage along with the bugspray and suntan oil.)

A wrong turn at the top of the lift leads us away from the main tourist route. After several blocks Rena queries, "Do you know where we're going."

"Not exactly," I admit.

At just that moment a local fellow exits a house on the side-street and heads for his car.
"Excuse me," I ask. " Where can we find a taxi?"
Luckily I don't know enough Greek to ask for directions in the language of Pericles. I never (well to be truthful, hardly ever) ask directions in a language I don't understand. The answer always leaves me worse off than when I started.

Lucky for us, it’s 'Be Nice to Dumb Tourist Day'. Seeing our distress, his wife comes out of the house to help. After a brief discussion, our saviors summon a cab with their cellphone. We spend a pleasant 1/2 hour sitting in the autumn sun waiting for the taxi. The wife and small son wave bye-bye from the window as we depart. I realize, "Hey Santorini, you’re a small town just like Amesbury." I relax and feel at home.

At the cabby's recommendation we traverse the spine of the caldera to the small village of Oia. It's the only town I can think of whose name consists of three vowels – just pronounce it ee-ah. The road ends and from there, its either Shank’s mare or donkey. (N.B. Shank’s mare - an old Scottish saying meaning “to travel by foot”)
A local muleteer charges uphill on his burro scattering tourists to either side of the narrow path. Another donkey sure-footedly delivers six full suitcases to a cliff-side pensión.

At the top we stop at a taverna for Greek coffee and cheese pie. The pie is made with a local goat cheese called 'chloro' wrapped in filo dough and deep fried in olive oil. Served piping hot with Santorini's dark honey, it's 'to die for'. The photographs from the café don't really do justice to the great views. We take a card from a local bed-and-breakfast in case we ever return. (I should be so lucky!)

If ever I do come back there are still many things to do including beaches, winery tours, archeologic excavations, and a visit to the active volcano in the middle of the harbor. Shopping, by the way, is not too shabby either. This island is definitely a gem worth re-visiting.

P.S. One of the local treats are fresh almonds right off the trees. They are moist and chewy and taste like mild coconuts or Brazil nuts rather than almond flavor. It’s the first time in my life I’ve ever had them! If you ever get the chance, be sure and sample a few.

DAKTARI

YES WE CAN

S. Rose Bolick -'Bama Baby

(Charter Member of 'Baby Needs a Change.org')

Venice or bust V -Say NO to Rugs - Oct 1, 2008

MARG AT HER LOOM

ROMEO MEETS JULIETTE

THE LOCAL MOSQUE

RENA TAKES THE VEIL!

SAY NO TO RUGS

Ahmed drives us to a rug shop, probably owned by a relative. The establishment is run by a large Turkish family. Today marks the end of Ramadan, a big Muslim holiday. For kids it means no school and lots of candy and chocolates. The men of the family greet each other with kisses on both cheeks. Everyone is dressed in their Holiday best and a big family feast is in preparation in the back.

“Looks like we have to stay for the timeshare sales pitch,” I murmur to Rena.

“It doesn’t cost anything to look,” Rena whispers back.

“Famous last words,” I think to myself.

Actually it turns out to be much more fascinating than your average timeshare hard-sell.
The family business is selling Turkish carpets to tourists. In the entryway, a woman sits weaving a woolen carpet. Margaret asks if she can help and the scarf-covered young lady graciously makes room at the loom. She shows Margaret how to tie a rug knot. If Margaret ties one knot every 7 seconds, 8 hours a day for 7 days a week, in just 8 weeks she will have a respectable 3’ by 5’ carpet to sell!

Each tribe has its own colors of wool and traditional patterns for making rugs. Out back in the showroom, we are treated to hot apple tea as carpet after beautiful carpet is unfurled on the floor in front of the four of us. It’s a private showing of marvelous textile artwork in silk as well as wool.

In the front room is a big basket of what looks like oval white Styrofoam balls. Ahmed’s cousin gives one to each of us.

“Shake it next to your ear,” he says.

We dutifully shake the ovoids and hear a soft rattling noise.

“That’s the larva of the silk moth,” says our host. “ This cocoon is made of one single strand of silk over a mile in length. It was spun in just one day by the silk worm that you hear rattling around inside.”

He proceeds to open the lid of a vat of water with silkworm cocoons floating on the surface.

“Here we boil the cocoons, which loosens the fiber and allows us to unravel the cocoons.”

He uses a small whisk to gather up three dozen loose ends of silk, each with a silkworm cocoon attached. These strands are twisted together and fixed to a small spinning wheel, like the one that Ghandi used to spin the homespun cloth he made famous during his campaign to free India from the British.

“Once this single thread is spun,” says our guide, “we gather 30 threads together and spin them again to make a yarn suitable for rug making.”

I do the math. “That’s 1000 silkworms to make just one skein of rug yarn,” I think to myself. The final step is to get the lady of the house to tie 600 tiny knots in a very intricate pattern and “voila!”– one square inch of fine silk carpet.

For a thousand years, the knowledge of how to make silk thread was a trade secret of the Emperor of China. The silk road ran 4000 miles from Cathay to Venice – just to provide silk fiber and fabric to the royalty of Europe. The end product is exquisite and virtually indestructible.

After the tour and the private display of fine carpets comes the inevitable hard sell. Somehow we manage to say NO to rugs. I’m ready to buy but Rena holds firm while I give the merchant a knowing eye and my trademark apologetic shrug. We wish the merchant a Happy Eid ul-Fitr (End of the Fast.) and depart the premises.

From our private glimpse behind the silk curtain, we descend by backroad to the bazaar at Kusadasi. John and Margaret begin endless negotiations to buy a pair of leather jackets while I wander off to find stamps and a letterbox to mail some postcards. When I return, Rena has been picked up by a nice young Turkish boy named ‘Romeo’. I’m not sure if Romeo wants his new ‘Juiliette’ to buy a pocketbook or to take him to America in her steamer trunk!

After taking a photo of Rena and her Romeo, we walk to the mosque and hear the muezzin’s call to prayer. We stop for baklava, crepes and coffee at a sidewalk cafe. Well- dressed men continue to kiss their brethren while kids collect candy from all the shopowners. Rena tries on an “I dream of Jeannie” veil – suitable for the serraglio. She’s quite fetching. “Eat your heart out, Romeo,” I whisper smugly to myself.

What a great day in Turkey! We limp back to the boat with our collection of tired feet, achy backs and lame legs to the Splendour of the Seas. I’m cheered by the prospect of a Motown floorshow in the ship’s theater followed by Latin dance night in the Top Hat lounge. It’s formal night again and I get to wear my tuxedo! I hope I find a fellow dancer to partner with me. That would be heaven indeed.
Happy Eid ul-Fitr, y’all.

DAKTARI

HAPPY HALLOWEEN - Oct 31, 2008

HAPPY HALLOWEEN FROM MONKEY SOPHIE

HAPPY HALLOWEEN FROM NURSE LINDA AND DAKTARI