Day 2: Arte
Art. This is what I came for. Well, art and seeing this magical city built on water. Somehow, I had never before looked up exactly how Venice came to be. But sitting on the marble bench on Peggy Guggenheim’s terrace, I read that millions of wooden piles are what hold up this centuries-old city. Larch, oak, alder, pine, spruce, and elm trees, all driven into the silt-y bed of the lagoon, topped with wooden platforms, then stone, on top of which all these buildings and bridges were built. An insane idea. And yet.
Following hotel breakfast (duh) and a cappuccino at a cafe across the Accademia Bridge, I set off down the street to the Peggy Guggenheim Collection in an old villa backing up to the Grand Canal. Pollock, Picasso, Calder greeted me as I entered the space. As I wove deeper into lower halls, I discovered an immense Agnes Martin grid symbolizing a delicate rose. My audio guide murmured words from Peggy’s journals about her friendships with Kandinsky and Duchamp while I meandered through the small galleries. Outside on the terrace, I watched a family attempt a timed portrait and waited for them to ask me to take their photo, but the request never came. As I left the museum, though, a couple (Indian? Pakistani?) asked me if it was “worth it.” Yes, I said, but I love art.
I walked back across the bridge and toward San Marco, wary of the crowds I would encounter in the Times Square of Venice. I followed a pilgrimage of pedestrians headed in the same direction, and eventually, we exited a narrow passage into the wide, open piazzo. I walked along the right side, admiring the velvet and gold rococo of Caffe Florian, where Hemingway once wrote, until I neared the basilica. Crowds of people stood before netted barriers blocking the path to the Doge’s Palace. I was hoping to circumnavigate the palace and carry on to a chapel to see the Tintorettos, but my plan was foiled. Back into the square I went, walking around the barriers to the other side. As I walked, I heard cheers and whistles—the lead marathoner had just arrived. Ethiopian, of course. This explained the barriers.
I crossed to the left side of the square, but was met by pools of water. I’d heard that the piazzo often flooded, but still hadn’t factored that into my footwear plans. I tried to step into the shallower end of the puddle to save my Salomons, but no luck. I soaked my left toe. I watched as a waiter sloshed his way through in green galoshes. Into a narrow street I went, attempting to go east. Before long, the line of people stopped, and I was stuck in the cramped alley behind a pair of women who refused to move. I peered around them and saw the reason: the street ahead was entirely submersed in water. I turned around, and followed a street heading north-ish instead.
Wandering somewhat aimlessly, I covered a lot of ground, over the Rialto Bridge and back, then into Canareggio, the Jewish quarter. Eventually, I settled for a busy-enough street cafe for lunch, and ordered a salad and focaccia. Still low on energy, I opted to ride the vaporetto back to my hotel instead of walking the half-hour back. These public water taxis operate like the city bus, chugging up and down the Grand Canal. But at 9.50 euros a ride, it’s quite the luxury.
After a quick stopover, I left the hotel and walked to the nearby Galleria, home to some of the most illustrious works of the Venetian Renaissance. Bellini, Titian, Tintoretto, and so many more! I made my way slowly through the dim galleries, recalling the stories my college professor would tell about each painting as she projected slides in the high-ceilinged lecture hall in Johnson.
Soul suitably doused in art, I stopped at a nearby caffe to write before walking back into Dorsoduro for dinner at a cozy and decidedly not trendy spot called Oniga. An animated Italian woman served me spaghetti con ragu and a glass of house pinot nero, then I followed the trail of people back toward my hotel, and called it a night.
