Day 1: Dorsoduro
There are two ways to approach Venice: by land, or by sea. The most economical means include a bus, or the Alilaguna, a public shuttle boat that costs 18 euro one way. The private boat taxis, while the fastest and most luxurious option, run upwards of 150 euros. My friend Leann described approaching Venice by boat as the most “whimsical” option, which of course sold me. So onto the Alilaguna I went, along with a gaggle of fellow travelers.
The eight-hour flight from New York to Venice had been long; I’d failed to sleep—in part, because the old man across the aisle from me caused continual disturbances, to the point that the lead flight attendant threatened arrest. He wouldn’t stay in his seat and responded aggressively when they tried to enforce the rules. He tormented the women sitting in front of him and his wife, at one point snapping something (a book?) shut directly behind their ears. At this, the younger of the women abandoned her seat for a new one in another part of the plane. Upon landing, we were asked to wait before standing to collect our luggage. Two politzia arrived to escort the man off the plane. The drama!
Sleep-deprived, I grew easily aggravated by the English couple behind me on the boat, who spoke incessantly for nearly an hour. “Murano, that’s Murano. Yep, that’s Murano,” the man said repeatedly while his female companion took vertical video out the small window. Otherwise, the voyage was long, but pleasant as the boat cruised around the east side of Venice, eventually dropping me at Zaterre, a stop on the south only a few minutes’ walk from my hotel.
I slept a few hours and left my room around 4 p.m., mad at myself for wasting the afternoon. I walked toward Dorsoduro, weaving my way through tiny, shop-lined streets and over small bridges crossing the canals. Private boat taxis sped past, churning the blue-green water, and evoking scenes from To Catch a Thief, or The Talented Mr. Ripley.
Eventually, I settled in at an outdoor bar where Italians sat sipping radioactive-orange spritzes. I ordered a spritz of my own, and two cicchetti, the Venetian version of tapas. Two slices of baguette, one topped with mustard and mortadella, the other with soppressata. I wrote for an hour or so, just until the sun began to set, then made my way back toward the hotel. Lanterns glowed on the buildings across the dark water, and the sky dimmed to a deep blue. I stood near two Swedish women, in blonde solidarity, and snapped a photo. As I said to a dedicated blog reader, the charm is real.
