How Do You Make A Venetian Blind

If life were a coffee commercial, I'd have made this trip with my overly attractive and leggy fiancée - and actually, this would be a flashback, and duh, we'd be drinking coffee, probably in our large suburban home. But it's not, I didn't, and we aren't.

On the contrary, this trip starts at quarter to 5 in the morning (I've already been up for an hour) and I'm in the surprisingly bustling Dublin airport, sitting on a none too comfortable metal bench, next to the better part of a German rugby team, who, collectively, smell like the inside of the Bushmill's factory - I'm fairly certain an errant spark could set them ablaze. And where am I headed on this overcast Dublin morning? To Venice, of course. The city of canals and espresso. In what was a case of a fare that was too fair to be passed up (a 70 euro round trip flight with RyanAir - they're practically paying me to go). Yes, a nice romantic weekend with myself on this fine May bank holiday weekend.

The flight itself was uneventful, and I was able to sleep through most of it, head back, mouth agape, doing my best to catch any stray flies. Upon landing, I was greeted by beautiful, sunny Italian skies in Treviso (the main reason the fare was so cheap - it's a city that's about an hour bus ride north of Venice). The bus ride was a nice introduction to the Veneto Italian landscape, which doesn't look too dissimilar from Northern California wine country - slightly rolling, a fair number of large estates, generally pleasant.

The bus deposited me and the parcel of pale skinned, blue-eyed, Irish couples that constituted my fellow travelers at the Piazzale Roma, the one and only bus stop in Venice. From there I made my way to the ticket counter to try and figure out how to catch a bus to my hostel, which, due to poor planning, and late booking, was a 15 minute bus ride out of the city. With nary a lick of Italian, I managed to get the right ticket, and get on the right bus. What I wasn't able to do, was identify the right bus stop. And instead, took the bus to the end of the line. Whoops.

I had asked the bus driver to let me know when we got to the correct stop, or at least I tried to anyway. But he didn't really speak English, and I don't speak Italian, and me repeating the name of the bus stop incorrectly, and successively louder, didn't really seem to help him understand what I was asking. But, when he saw I was still on the bus at the end of the ride, I think we both realized something had gone amiss.

We had another chat, and this time, I think we both got our messages across, and at any rate, he pointed me out at the correct spot, and all was well. (As a note on Italian bus drivers, and Italians in general, it's true - they're a fairly good looking people. This bus driver was wearing Gucci sunglasses, and looked like he was ready to go clubbing, and on the whole, the public transport people were surprisingly well put together).

I'll spare you the details on my accommodations, as they're really weren't much to speak of - basically a canvas cabin (the less imaginative might call it a 'tent'), in an Italian RV park that I shared with a guy who was asleep for nearly the entire time I was there. I thought he might have mono, or dengue - but then he finally came around on the last day, and he was actually a real nice dude from Perth who had been drinking for weeks straight with his Aussie mates in the UK. Consequently, he needed to sneak off to Venice to give his liver a break.

So, at any rate, after getting to the campsite, I made an about face and headed back into Venice.

And Venice was beautiful. What with the unique architecture, and its striking angles caused by narrow streets and tilting spires, all highlighted by luminous canals, it constituted a veritable wet dream for the amateur photographer. I nearly developed tendonitis in my clicker-finger.

The first day I walked all over the place. A confusing proposition at first, but one that got easier after I found the major tourist attractions: Ponte Rialto (a bridge), San Marcos Basilica (a church), and the Accademia (a museum and a bridge). Using these three features (as well as the Grand Canal) it was fairly easy to triangulate my location by looking for these ubiquitous yellow signs that were always trying to point you in the direction of one or the other of these locations. Thus, if I were trying to get back to the bus stop, I knew I had to be walking away from San Marcos and the Accadmia, and if I was north of the Grand Canal, I needed walk toward Ponte Rialto. At any rate, it made sense at the time.

And although I enjoyed my time in Venice, I'm not sure one such as myself can fully appreciate the place without the gift of a uterus, or at the very least a companion that was equipped with one. I say this because it became readily apparent after passing the umpteenth designer handbag store (positioned snuggly between a haberdashery specializing in haute couture, and a shop which sold pink riding gloves exclusively), that shopping was an important part of the city's draw, and one in which I was completely disinterested. Yes, yes, I know it's a stereotype and I apologize for any offense. But Venice had enough designer handbags, sunglasses and shoes to sufficiently bury the entire cast and production crew of Sex In The City (something which, admittedly, I might enjoy visualizing a bit too much).

The food in Venice was decidedly hit or miss. The pizza and gelato were delicious, and if you are not planning to spend a significant sum on a really nice meal, I suggest sticking to this fair. I made the mistake of sitting down in a nice open square, at a restaurant that had outdoor seating, and was seemingly reasonably priced, and lucky me, a menu in English. Yes, I realize that this screams tourist trap, but I was hungry and not thinking straight. So I sat down, and after a meal of lukewarm shrimp with the main-vein (or as my Dad calls it, "the poop-shoot") still intact, wilted, slightly browned, lettuce, and a glass of red wine so cold I'm sure it came out of a box in the freezer, I was forced to grab a slice of pizza and a gelato from a nearby stand to wipe away my disappointment.

And now for a non-sequitor:

One thing I found surprisingly fun about Venice was the location of their public toilets. These were all cleverly tucked away in back alleys, but there were signs up above arches, and on the sides of buildings, pointing you in the direction of the hidden 'WC's. As it cost about a $1.60 to set foot in these public restrooms (which were pleasantly clean), and since I'm a bit thrifty, I really wanted to make these trips count, if you catch my drift. Consequently, I would only start to look for them once I had been sufficiently primed by multiple cappuccinos, etc. thereby making the search a sort of high-stakes version of Where's Waldo?

Oh, and the answer to 'How do you make a veneitan blind?' You poke him in the eyes.