Waiting for the valporetto

the first requirement of a happy life is to be born in a famous city

Although the Queensland country town of my own origins was not as lowly a birth-place as that of our new Governor-General I can't help thinking that Gympie might have failed me in some important way. By contrast Venice must be one of the most famous cities ever. Wherever I went either on the canals or the ponte, or through the campo or piazza I felt as if I had just walked into or out of a famous painting or through the ether of some historical moment. And wherever I walked thousands of other strangers to the city were right there beside me. Last night crossing the Piazza san Marco to reach my hotel a perfect row of cameras and mobile-phones had lined up to seize the one moment, when the figures of the two Moors on top of the Torre dell'Orologio struck the hour. They were lit against the night sky, with a cloudy half moon poised above and it made for a beautiful shot. If my pocket camera had been up to the job then I'd have added my own flash to the line up. Instead I'll share a few other cliché images as those are what emerge no matter what picture I have in mind.











The alternating Vivaldi concerts were a bit of a surprise, I didn't expect to see The Four Seasons exploited in quite such an unvarnished way, especially considering the number of other concerti available.



While sharing the Eurovision choices of these girls on the back of a vaporetto I began ruminating about the young ladies of Vivaldi's orchestra. Perhaps these are two of Vivaldi's inheritors, Vivaldi girls so to speak. But if they were also, like, Valley girls, I couldn't say. Although there are many Valley girls and boys around, and even some with Estuarine English as well, like, I don't know the Italian for 'like'?


I spent an afternoon in Treviso (a little town west of Venice) at the Casa dei Carraresi at a huge exhibition of the Venetian 'view' painters (Canaletto. Venezia ei suoi splendori) and it made a wonderful preparation for Venice itself. There were rooms filled with immense Canalettos, as well as some lovely works by Francesco Guardi and Luca Calrevarisj and many paintings and engravings by other lesser known vedutista (the collective noun for the Venetian view painters I think).

To have a break from the ambulanza and caribinieri of Florence I stayed outside Treviso in a country B & B, La Vigna. It was blissfully quiet, the only sound at 7 a.m. being the birds as they began to stir and a few bicycles going by on the gravel.




Of course there was also the hopeful mewing of cat waiting outside for my breakfast.



In Treviso even quite elderly men and women peddle gravely to and fro, although the very old stuck to the foot-path, not like the daring fellow below. Now that I'm reaching geezer-hood myself the urge to strike out on two wheels again is probably only minutes away. The cottage gardens and Italian signage made me feel quite at home after half a lifetime in Nuovo Farme.





Venice was nothing like my morbid teenage memory of a malodorous place that smelt of floating cats although some buildings are so decayed they look as though anything could go on inside them.







I mostly mooched around on the valporetti, even venturing by accident to the Island of San Giorgio (where Stravinsky is buried), and even further, to the Lido, in the dark. This involved a bit of a Manly Ferry kind of ride out into the open sea . But I also got to the Peggy Guggenheim palazzo the following morning after eating a monumental breakfast of fruit, boiled eggs, different cheeses, croissants, juice, tea and espresso. Peggy Guggenheim lived in Venice for many years and was a great patron of contemporary artists, her collection now open as a Museum in what was once her very charming house on the Grand Canal.






Venice can speak perfectly well for itself I think, and I'm going to let it: