Do you ever suffer this syndrome: on the last day of your hols, it starts to rain, you lose your hotel room key, somebody barges into you in the street and doesn't say sorry, your breakfast disagrees with you? It's Nature's way of saying Back to Work You Skiving Lounger. Although a holiday in Venice is also work of a sort - the endless trudging round churches, the treadmill of lasagnes, the craning of the neck to admire palazzi...
Anyway my last day dawned grey and greasy, not like the bright blue breezy ones which had preceded it. I had planned to visit the Frari on my last morning, to see a painting that was so wonderful it made Henry James come over queer, and another one which Ruskin had said was the best painting ever since the last one he'd quite liked.
However, when I got to the Frari I discovered my museum pass wasn't valid, and I hadn't got enough change for the ten euros (!) admission, and I couldn't find a bank, and I began to think my breakfast had disagreed with me, and when I went back to the monastery to get my case, I discovered my boat bus pass had expired too. Oh soddit! The painting that had made Henry James come over queer would have to wait.
Then, on the bus to the airport, it clouded over and began to rain, and by the time we got there, it was sluicing down, and the flight was delayed for two hours (thank God! One's appetite for taking off in pitch black thunderstorms is limited). And then we were delayed for another hour as they worked their way through the delayed schedule, but at last we were on board, only 3 hours late, and thinking, oh well, we'll be in Bristol in a minute. But then, in mid-air, the captain made an announcement which began with the word UNFORTUNATELY. This word should be forbidden, especially at the beginning of a sentence, when in mid-air.
Apparently the crew had been working for too long and we had to divert to Brussels to pick up another crew. On arrival at Brussels (well, Charleroi, actually. Hadn't used that word since O level geography) we had to wait an hour for the fresh crew to arrive. There was a bit of whinging. One woman reproached the tired crew saying she often worked a 14 hour day. But I secretly supported Ryanair in all their decisions so far- although one cannot, of course, say one supports Ryanair out loud in polite society. One does not want a tired pilot. Or indeed a tired steward, flinging scalding tea about in a listless fit.
Eventually we arrived at Bristol five hours late, and despite having gone to the loo at Bristol airport, I still had to stop on the drive home for a pee, and it was at one of those petrol stations which is also a supermarket, and I bought loads and loads of grub and still the woman wouldn't let me use their toilet, and I had to look ever so old and desperate and kind of terminal before she relented.
And so ended my journey to the most exquisite, scintillating city on earth: humiliated in a toilet in a filling station.
It was bloody marvellous though.
Monday 26 May 2014
Thursday 22 May 2014
The Blues in Venice
I'm staying in an ecclesiastical guest house just behind the church Gesuati, and I knew that Tiepolo had gone bananas there, all over the ceiling, so I nipped in for a look. I'd been practising looking at ceilings at home but had seen nothing more than a few beautifully-constructed spiders' webs. In the event I didn't need to crane and totter - there was a mirror sensibly provided in the aisle: you gazed down into it and saw the ceiling reflected. Or that was the idea. What you actually saw, in the foreground and blotting out the Tiepolo, was your own nostrils. Mortified to be reminded that after so many decades, my nostrils still do not match.
Eventually I tore my eyes away from my own shortcomings and admired the sky blue vault with its swarms of cherubs. I think I'd like a cherub for my next pet. You could take it to the park and fly it round like a boy with a model plane. I'm sorely tempted by the winged lions, too - not as a pet, but as a means of transport. Alternative to, say, a Ferrari.
Tiepolo paints good babies. Jesus appeared to be waving to the angels, but closer inspection revealed he was brandishing a rosary. At first I took it for a teething aid. But I'm a novice when it comes to rosaries so its esoteric mysteries are beyond me. However, I do know a good light blue when I see one, and I have to say Tiepolo excels. In fact if he'd been at Cambridge he'd have got a Blue for blue.
Then, in search of dark blue, I entered the Accademia. After suffering a brisk interrogation as to my antiquity I was awarded a massive discount, and I had the place all to myself, no matter what the guidebook says. It was mainly the Bellinis I had come to see, and they were there, the Madonnas and babies, and the Marian robes were quite the best of dark blues ever. You only have to see a Bellini next to somebody not quite so good to realise how superb he is. Giovanni, that is. His dad and his brother just don't quite have it. The expression of these Madonnas is extraordinarily dreamy and detached, and they look somehow very modern girls - one can imagine them not-quite concentrating on their physics homework.
But it was Carpaccio who really wowed me, with his series about the life of St Ursula. Poor Ursula organised a kind of school trip as part of a pre-nuptial agreement, and she and her hundred girly friends were massacred, I forget by whom. Apart from the rather horrid painting of the massacre, all the other pictures were just fascinating and filled with extraordinarily pretty boys. Anyone interested in beautiful men should instantly scrutinise Carpaccio's Miracle of the Thingummyjig near the Rialto. That boy on the left with his back to us - was there anything ever more camp? And the gondoliers, bless them with their jazzy tights and shoulder length curly hair. Cripes! Who needs HRT?
After having these unworthy thoughts perhaps it was only fair that I should have gone out and paid £36 for fish and chips - though it was sea bass, and filleted at the table for me, etc etc. It's back to street pizzas tonight /- though I have a feeling that also means grazed knees. One does hope not.
Eventually I tore my eyes away from my own shortcomings and admired the sky blue vault with its swarms of cherubs. I think I'd like a cherub for my next pet. You could take it to the park and fly it round like a boy with a model plane. I'm sorely tempted by the winged lions, too - not as a pet, but as a means of transport. Alternative to, say, a Ferrari.
Tiepolo paints good babies. Jesus appeared to be waving to the angels, but closer inspection revealed he was brandishing a rosary. At first I took it for a teething aid. But I'm a novice when it comes to rosaries so its esoteric mysteries are beyond me. However, I do know a good light blue when I see one, and I have to say Tiepolo excels. In fact if he'd been at Cambridge he'd have got a Blue for blue.
Then, in search of dark blue, I entered the Accademia. After suffering a brisk interrogation as to my antiquity I was awarded a massive discount, and I had the place all to myself, no matter what the guidebook says. It was mainly the Bellinis I had come to see, and they were there, the Madonnas and babies, and the Marian robes were quite the best of dark blues ever. You only have to see a Bellini next to somebody not quite so good to realise how superb he is. Giovanni, that is. His dad and his brother just don't quite have it. The expression of these Madonnas is extraordinarily dreamy and detached, and they look somehow very modern girls - one can imagine them not-quite concentrating on their physics homework.
But it was Carpaccio who really wowed me, with his series about the life of St Ursula. Poor Ursula organised a kind of school trip as part of a pre-nuptial agreement, and she and her hundred girly friends were massacred, I forget by whom. Apart from the rather horrid painting of the massacre, all the other pictures were just fascinating and filled with extraordinarily pretty boys. Anyone interested in beautiful men should instantly scrutinise Carpaccio's Miracle of the Thingummyjig near the Rialto. That boy on the left with his back to us - was there anything ever more camp? And the gondoliers, bless them with their jazzy tights and shoulder length curly hair. Cripes! Who needs HRT?
After having these unworthy thoughts perhaps it was only fair that I should have gone out and paid £36 for fish and chips - though it was sea bass, and filleted at the table for me, etc etc. It's back to street pizzas tonight /- though I have a feeling that also means grazed knees. One does hope not.
Wednesday 21 May 2014
Beware of the Doge
I had to visit the Doge's Palace today. It loomed like a gigantic duty. Luckily thanks to my prepaid pass I jumped the queue and earned the fleeting hatred of people of many nationalities. I was soon admiring the courtyard and especially the statue of St Theodore, often mistaken for St George, because they both tend to stand on crocodiles (don't try this at Whipsnade). His head had been replaced some time in antiquity by that of a much younger man. He should be so lucky.
I trudged up the Golden Staircase. These Doges were old blokes. Scarcely a single Doge was under 70. How did the poor old guys cope with the staircases? The Doge was always elected, and his son could not inherit the post. The only one who tried to establish himself as a despot was beheaded, and it was the longest surviving republic in Europe. They say the stability was because young people were excluded from power. I think Billy Connolly would make an excellent Doge if the post were to be revived.
I realised I was, in a slightly absent-minded way, thinking of the Doge as a kind of Pope, until I came to a room containing portraits of Doges' wives, and for a split second I felt briefly shocked.
After the wives' room came a succession of ever more sumptuous and swaggering public rooms. Stupendous is putting it mildly. You could have fitted three tennis courts into the final and most grandiose chamber. It was adorned with a vast fresco of Paradise, started by Tintoretto at the age of seventy seven, and finished by his son, and starring five hundred saintly persons. Somehow I had imagined Paradise would be a bit more fun and involve more in the way of resort clothing.
But most disturbing was the way all the Doges had themselves painted with the Holy Family. I know Venice is still the most beautiful city in the world, and back then it was the most powerful, too, but really! Doge after Doge was shown gate crashing various events in the life of Jesus. You couldn't even be quietly crucified without having a Doge bustling up and taking a selfie.
It seems a bit of a liberty, really. I can't imagine the Mayor of Wotton-under-Edge going in for that sort of thing.
After the Doge I had to go off in search of a plaster. I thought nothing could be worse than my fallen arch until I acquired my blister.
I trudged up the Golden Staircase. These Doges were old blokes. Scarcely a single Doge was under 70. How did the poor old guys cope with the staircases? The Doge was always elected, and his son could not inherit the post. The only one who tried to establish himself as a despot was beheaded, and it was the longest surviving republic in Europe. They say the stability was because young people were excluded from power. I think Billy Connolly would make an excellent Doge if the post were to be revived.
I realised I was, in a slightly absent-minded way, thinking of the Doge as a kind of Pope, until I came to a room containing portraits of Doges' wives, and for a split second I felt briefly shocked.
After the wives' room came a succession of ever more sumptuous and swaggering public rooms. Stupendous is putting it mildly. You could have fitted three tennis courts into the final and most grandiose chamber. It was adorned with a vast fresco of Paradise, started by Tintoretto at the age of seventy seven, and finished by his son, and starring five hundred saintly persons. Somehow I had imagined Paradise would be a bit more fun and involve more in the way of resort clothing.
But most disturbing was the way all the Doges had themselves painted with the Holy Family. I know Venice is still the most beautiful city in the world, and back then it was the most powerful, too, but really! Doge after Doge was shown gate crashing various events in the life of Jesus. You couldn't even be quietly crucified without having a Doge bustling up and taking a selfie.
It seems a bit of a liberty, really. I can't imagine the Mayor of Wotton-under-Edge going in for that sort of thing.
After the Doge I had to go off in search of a plaster. I thought nothing could be worse than my fallen arch until I acquired my blister.
Venice, May 2014
I've been in Venice for more than 24 hours now, and the worst problem was finding Bristol Airport - a place I've driven to many times. I like to creep up on Bristol Airport from behind, a trick which is difficult to pull off. If you haven't the nerve to drive like a thing possessed through the city (the recommended route), and you're inclined to slink furtively along country lanes, you'll find that the presence of Bristol Airport, even only a couple of hundred yards away, is resolutely denied by the rural sign makers.
I drove I know not where, and reached the point where I gave up hope of catching the flight and started to make plans to hole up in a quaint inn in Somerset and just pretend to be in Venice. Tempting, but not as tempting as actually being there.
Eventually, I stopped and asked a woman pushing a pushchair and talking on a mobile. She directed me, accurately and compassionately, and after that it was plain sailing - always allowing for Ryanair. Ryanair is certainly the Cinderella of airlines. My flight wasn't even mentioned on the departures board, the check in for Ryanair was situated in a gloomy cavern, and I had to walk twenty miles to
the departure gate, as if something shameful, and possibly infectious, was being attempted.
The flight itself was the usual mixture of terror and boredom. The stewardesses had holes in their tights and were chewing gum, but hey! They got us there safely, and the sense, on landing, of a tyre blowout proved illusory.
Next it was the bus from Treviso airport to Venice - some 30 kilometres of modern buildings, fields of maize, the occasional interesting old villa stashed away among evergreens. Then suddenly (but not really suddenly enough) we were barreling along he causeway that connects Venice to the mainland by road'n'rail.
And then we were disgorged out into Piazzale Roma - the hub, or possibly the hubbub, of the Venice transport system. As I'd already prepaid a museums'n'transport pass, thinking myself very clever, I was annoyed to find I hadn't printed out the right page at home and was compelled to pay an extra 7 euros for the privilege of getting on a vaporetto and reaching my digs at Zattere.
The boat surged out into the Lagoon, and a brisk wind reminded us that this was still only mid-May. I didn't care. I was in a trance of delight, even gazing rapturously at docks, cranes, industrial buildings and a truly monstrous cruise ship. No, I'm lying about the cruise ship. A gigantic beehive with its thousands of cells.
The boat reached Zattere, by the Church Gesuati, its facade as white and icy as wedding cake, and I trundled my case down a pleasant lane beside the church and easily found the lovely monastery guesthouse where I am staying. It's like a university hall of residence really, only without the sex and drugs. I was welcomed by a friendly young man, who didn't offer to show me his dog (memories of the 1960s - suspect it was a specialist chat up line for English girls).
My room is on the fourth floor and has three windows with lovely views of rooftops, churches, the lagoon, and hundreds of wheeling screaming swifts. I flung the windows wide open and left them like that - a tedious English affection, I realised later.
Already lame from my trek at Bristol airport, I nevertheless went out and limped about, down to the Accademia with its arching humpbacked bridge like the spine of a giant dinosaur, up and down the Zattere quayside until I was completely Zattered. I stopped for a coffee, and watched the world go by - dogs, boats, etc. I had a tuna and egg sandwich so soft I had to ram it into my mouth with both hands as it disintegrated. I had a lemon and mulberry ice cream constructed as a towering edifice which threatened to engulf me. The waitress was St Ursula by Carpaccio - or something. Blond crinkly hair. Many Venetians are blond. I saw a waiter today who looked like Boris Johnson.
It being my first day, I experienced many of those infantile moments which result when so many basic mundane things are foreign. I thought I'd summoned the lift, but I had instead switched out the light. In the supermarket I selected the wrong kind of trolley, reserved for the war wounded. When waking along alleyways I failed to give way to ginger cats. That sort of thing. Good job there's not a Doge these days or I'd probably find myself in the Doge House.
Eventually I limped home and, after surfing the web pointlessly about nothing in particular, I switched out the light, leaving all the windows open in my foolish English way.
Woken at 3 am by barrage of Mosquitos ("zanzare" in Italian - great word).
Tossed, turned, cursed and swatted till approx 5.30 am when I finally fell asleep again, to the Dawn chorus (alas suspect some of these songsters are in cages but at least the swifts are free range).
Henceforth my windows will remain closed. A pity.
I drove I know not where, and reached the point where I gave up hope of catching the flight and started to make plans to hole up in a quaint inn in Somerset and just pretend to be in Venice. Tempting, but not as tempting as actually being there.
Eventually, I stopped and asked a woman pushing a pushchair and talking on a mobile. She directed me, accurately and compassionately, and after that it was plain sailing - always allowing for Ryanair. Ryanair is certainly the Cinderella of airlines. My flight wasn't even mentioned on the departures board, the check in for Ryanair was situated in a gloomy cavern, and I had to walk twenty miles to
the departure gate, as if something shameful, and possibly infectious, was being attempted.
The flight itself was the usual mixture of terror and boredom. The stewardesses had holes in their tights and were chewing gum, but hey! They got us there safely, and the sense, on landing, of a tyre blowout proved illusory.
Next it was the bus from Treviso airport to Venice - some 30 kilometres of modern buildings, fields of maize, the occasional interesting old villa stashed away among evergreens. Then suddenly (but not really suddenly enough) we were barreling along he causeway that connects Venice to the mainland by road'n'rail.
And then we were disgorged out into Piazzale Roma - the hub, or possibly the hubbub, of the Venice transport system. As I'd already prepaid a museums'n'transport pass, thinking myself very clever, I was annoyed to find I hadn't printed out the right page at home and was compelled to pay an extra 7 euros for the privilege of getting on a vaporetto and reaching my digs at Zattere.
The boat surged out into the Lagoon, and a brisk wind reminded us that this was still only mid-May. I didn't care. I was in a trance of delight, even gazing rapturously at docks, cranes, industrial buildings and a truly monstrous cruise ship. No, I'm lying about the cruise ship. A gigantic beehive with its thousands of cells.
The boat reached Zattere, by the Church Gesuati, its facade as white and icy as wedding cake, and I trundled my case down a pleasant lane beside the church and easily found the lovely monastery guesthouse where I am staying. It's like a university hall of residence really, only without the sex and drugs. I was welcomed by a friendly young man, who didn't offer to show me his dog (memories of the 1960s - suspect it was a specialist chat up line for English girls).
My room is on the fourth floor and has three windows with lovely views of rooftops, churches, the lagoon, and hundreds of wheeling screaming swifts. I flung the windows wide open and left them like that - a tedious English affection, I realised later.
Already lame from my trek at Bristol airport, I nevertheless went out and limped about, down to the Accademia with its arching humpbacked bridge like the spine of a giant dinosaur, up and down the Zattere quayside until I was completely Zattered. I stopped for a coffee, and watched the world go by - dogs, boats, etc. I had a tuna and egg sandwich so soft I had to ram it into my mouth with both hands as it disintegrated. I had a lemon and mulberry ice cream constructed as a towering edifice which threatened to engulf me. The waitress was St Ursula by Carpaccio - or something. Blond crinkly hair. Many Venetians are blond. I saw a waiter today who looked like Boris Johnson.
It being my first day, I experienced many of those infantile moments which result when so many basic mundane things are foreign. I thought I'd summoned the lift, but I had instead switched out the light. In the supermarket I selected the wrong kind of trolley, reserved for the war wounded. When waking along alleyways I failed to give way to ginger cats. That sort of thing. Good job there's not a Doge these days or I'd probably find myself in the Doge House.
Eventually I limped home and, after surfing the web pointlessly about nothing in particular, I switched out the light, leaving all the windows open in my foolish English way.
Woken at 3 am by barrage of Mosquitos ("zanzare" in Italian - great word).
Tossed, turned, cursed and swatted till approx 5.30 am when I finally fell asleep again, to the Dawn chorus (alas suspect some of these songsters are in cages but at least the swifts are free range).
Henceforth my windows will remain closed. A pity.
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