Venice

October 3, 2025

Travel is both a privilege, and a pain. The pain is in the viral illnesses that we inevitably catch on the plane that ramp up a few days after we arrive. It is in the jet lag that seems to have gotten much harder to overcome after 40. It is in the discomfort of hotel rooms, that are inevitably too loud, too hot, too cold, too few hooks, too many fees, and never have comfortable lounging space. It is in the awkward in-between check-out and check-in times, as you while away time in random cafes nursing cold decaf espresso. It is in dreadfully long flights (“there are 4 hours left?!?!”) and panicked sprints from a delayed train to one that is determined to leave on time. It is in the anxious search for a clean (or just available) public restroom. It is in the confused conversation with a bartender that results in a pitcher of white wine when you wanted a pint of lager. It is in the sudden national strike that cancels all trains and closes the only land bridge to the island where you have a nonrefundable hotel reservation.

Venice is... Venice. There is no other place in the world like it. As Rick Steves points out, Venice started out as a refugee camp of displaced peoples after the fall of Rome, when barbarians roamed the countryside, and the only safe place seemed to be the marshes of the Venetian Lagoon. So they pounded millions of wooden piles into the muddy lagoon soil and built a remarkable city with canals and bridges linking the island archipelago. Then it got rich off the trade between East and West, peaking in the 1500s. Venice has been declining for centuries, yet doing so with one part elegance, ten parts decadence. It has been a destination for travelers for centuries; tourism is not new. Yet some would say it's been kept artificially alive by mass tourism now.

We gratefully visited after the season for large cruise ships. The island seemed crowded enough to me, and I can't imagine what it is like in peak season. In fact, we arrived during a 24-hour national strike, which made the trip from the airport to the island a circus. Once on the island though, it is possible to walk anywhere and even find quiet, empty side alleys in the medieval city. Venice is really at its best at night, when the romance of the lights on St. Mark's Square and its Basilica obscure the scaffolding and detritus of the day. We partook of the "free" orchestras on the Square by listening at the edges. Rick Steves once again came in clutch, with his free audio tours on the vaporetti and of St. Mark's Square. Won categorically vetoed the thing-to-do Venetian gondola ride, on account of its expense (120 euros for half an hour), and I suspect also to avoid being the subject of gawking by hundreds of other tourists.

All restaurants in Venice are meant for tourists, they say. There just aren't enough permanent residents to sustain the industry. Yet we had a lovely gastronomical experience with the cicchetti, or Venetian tapas. I'm partial to the seafood ones: baccalà mantecato (creamed cod), sarde in saor (sardines with onions and vinegar), calamari many different ways. We would begin a late lunch/early dinner at a bacari for cicchetti and ramato, a copper-colored wine made from Pinot Grigio grapes. This was then followed by a gelato crawl: we'd hit up one gelato place for 2 scoops, then slowly walk towards another gelato place - we'd finish our scoops just in time to order the next 2 scoops! 

Back to travel being both a privilege and a pain. I eagerly await the next adventure. It’s a privilege to experience how big the world is, and how similar we are to one another. The privilege is in the small human interactions, the little smiles of understanding that transcend languages, the breakthroughs when someone says “here it is the same.” It’s looking at a knödel and realizing that it’s a dumpling (every culture has figured out how to wrap meat in dough in a delicious way). It’s seeing the Alps with my own eyes, and having those peaks etched into my memory. And it's arriving home - grateful that I can even call a place home - to my own bed, in a small rural American city, with exquisite memories of a marvelous trip.