Archives for September 2006

The Whoreshoes continue to take Belgium and Holland by storm:

I don’t know who took these, but these pics are great, aren’t they? What a hot banjo player they have.

Camilla IS that cute.

Ain’t they just the cutest?

I can tell you, though, I’m ready for Lala to get home. I’m suddenly this single mother to all these animals. Poor things, I’m gone for 15 hours at a time at work, and then when I get home, I go to bed. They’ve really done remarkably well for all that. Only one shredded newspaper so far, and one Miss Idaho accident. I expected worse. Now that I’ve said that, when I get home, I’m sure I’ll find worse. Yipes.

https://rachaelherron.com/the_whoreshoes_/

of Venice for you today. (Sorry they’re lo-res — best I can do from where I am.)

Don’t you love the scenery in Venice?

So you think about it.

You glance at it.

You glance away.

You look back, looking harder.

You think, why, that looks just like…..

Yep.

A cruise ship. Wow.

Hey, I’m knitting Italian yarn! Thought you should know. I’m making another Debbie Bliss Lara, because I loved the last one so much — what incredible construction instructions! — and I finished that super-quick cashmere one. I even took pictures, although it may take me a while to get the pics up. Still want to finish telling you about the trip, and I’m working too much to do so right now. But soon, dearest-darlings.

Now, shut your eyes. It’s 0441hrs, and you should be sleeping.

I have heard from Lala! God bless the internet. She says all is well, that the gig at Antwerp Prison (really) was awesome, and they were on Belgian TV. I haven’t really told you how it works: They got booked by this company that brings talent into the Benelux area. They were set up in a house in the country, and they are given food and drink. They have a driver named Ludo who comes about 5pm every day. He picks them up, drives across the country for two to four hours (because you can get to Holland in about a minute from Belgium). He takes them to the gig, and then he transforms into their sound guy. Since I was at the first (really, really fun) show, I’m here to attest that anyone who can set up sound that well on the first night, using plugs and amps normally used in another country with different voltage, now, that’s cool.

They make 30% of what the company makes on the shows, and they get the full proceeds from all sales of swag and CDs (they have a new one out that they took all copies of with them — I’ll let you know when it’s ready for distribution here). They have been playing every night, and they’re kicking ass. Three nights ago they played with the legendary Wanda Jackson. Dude. They’re rockstars.

And she emailed me (Lala, that is, not Wanda Jackson, although that would have been cool), which was good. Because I miss her. And having never really missed anyone in this way, in the shared-house-life way, I’ve decided it’s for the birds. No fun for Rachael.

Also, I’m a moron. I decided, the first night, to get into our bed on HER side. Just for the sheer FUN of it! Wild antics in the Hehu house. While the rockstar’s away and all. So I jump up, WHEEE! and oh, shit! I hit the bedframe SO hard that I have posted a picture, but made it a pop-up
, for the squeamish of you. It’s a damn good bruise, high upper thigh. Getting into bed. Lord. Bruise is here

Back to Venice! Because I’m dying to show you more photos.

This lady, defying her role as “local color in a Venetian window,” waved at us, making us see her as real. Which I loved.

There aren’t many cats in Venice anymore, not wandering the streets as they used to, anyway. Not too many years ago, they were all rounded up and placed on an island nearby. Now, most cat owners keep their cats inside, fearing another round-up, but we did say hello to this big brute.

Look who we found!

This is John and Alan, and they’re from Portland. And we heart them. John’s been a Dear Reader for YEARS and I was SO excited to get to meet him in person. We met up under the Accademia Bridge, at one of my fave outdoors eateries, and we wasted a great portion of an afternoon drinking and talking about yarn and cactus and all manner of wonderful things. I love it when two couples click, when the two Planners start teasing the two Spontaneous ones, you know.

Then, of course, we went on a mini-yarn crawl. As far as I’ve ever been able to tell, Lellabella is the only yarn store in Venice. I’d already been in once earlier in the day and learned that my limited Italian does indeed include almost everything one needs to know to have a conversation about the fashion industry in Italy. But when we went back, it turns out that John’s is even stronger, since he knows how to conjugate verbs. Fancy.

Because I will be asked, have been asked for years, here are the shop specs:
Lellabella
San Marco 3718
Tel: 041 522 5152
Oh, look! I just noticed, they have the CUTEST url ever: yarnshopinvenice.com
It’s such a nice little store, and they ONLY sell Italian yarn.

Directions:
Walk toward Campo Manin from the Rialto, and it’s just over a bridge on your right hand side, the block BEFORE you reach Campo Manin. It is technically on Calle della Mandola (aka Della Cortesia) but don’t expect that to help you. Addresses mean just about nothin’ in Venice. You’ll find it.

So we get there and start chatting Monica up. I want yarn, but they can’t find enough of a certain color so THEY OPEN THE STOREFRONT. Look, Lala and Alan were being boys outside and took photos:

Could you just die? We had the best time with the boys, and we’ll look forward to doing it again sometime…..

Also, while I’m thinking about it, you have to know that this season is about yarn, people. Thank goodness.

This is from a Benetton window:

Yarn tree. Yow.

And yarn boots-toppers!

There were other windows FULL of cashmere sweaters with huge cables as central motif, and lacy cashmere dresses, but did I get pictures? No. I’m a Bad Knitter. I was heading to coffee/wine/spritz/prosecco, no doubt. No time to spare….

This is a dark photo to follow, but it’s worth including. Trattoria da Bepi is just around the corner from my hotel, and I’ve loved it for years. A good place to go to avoid tourists (I love that I can say that and completely ignore the fact that I, of course, am one. I don’t count, thanks). This time, however, we were settled into the room I am usually settled into, and we looked around to find we were in The American Room. Augh! The horror! What where all these crude people doing near us?

You know how when you’re only eavesdropping on your countrymen, you just HATE them? Oh, we were so annoyed. We couldn’t help listening to these two couples sitting together discuss the state of their camera’s SD card. I kept rolling my eyes.

Then, as it goes, we got into some conversation with them, and it turns out that they were great. They weren’t couples, they were one gay male couple (Lou and Larry, from Brooklyn) and Larry’s mom and sister. They confirmed that yes, this place was now in Rick Steves’ guide, therefore the new American interest in it, and by the way, they thought we were from Park Slope, were they right?

That is why we were laughing so hard. We look like Park Slope dykes. I was immeasurably flattered. Brooklyn, represent.

And a real photo:

After this, we headed out for the uber-cool internet café I used to patronize, the one open 24 hours a day, with an attached bar and where all the cool Italian kids hung out. Mom, you’ll be saddened to know it now closes at 11pm, and there’s no bar, and it just looks like a big white room and a young nervous-looking guy taking photocopies of IDs. Very sad. So we went there, it was too late to use the internets, so we sat at an outdoor gelato place and drank spritz.

They must have been GOOD spritzes, because:

#1 – We are drag queens:

#2 – We are international models, seen here in our ads plastered in the vaporetto docks (plastered might be the right term here)

I actually think Lala does that very well.

Okay, I am off to take the dogs to the beach and start my 72-hour work week. I will be working from 6pm tonight (Tuesday) until 6pm Monday night, with short 12 hours breaks in between, on a three hour commute, which makes me sad for not only the obvious reasons, but because I can’t see when I’m going to get you more pictures! It’s not something I can do at work, because the pics are on my home computer, and as it is, I’m pre-posting this one on Tuesday afternoon to go up on Wednesday morning. And I’ve got to run, like, now. So, I’ll throw you more as soon as I can, okay?

Ciao, ragazzi!

We traveled from Belgium to Venice on RyanAir, which shall hereafter be known as the Greyhound of Europe. Lala mentioned that she knew in her head that it was a plane, but later, when she thought of it, she saw a bus station. It’s true, they herded us like cattle (SO much worse than Southwest) and crammed us in, and made us check our catapults (the nerve!):

But, you know what? It’s cheap and it got us there. We flew into Treviso, and we were still so far away from our destination….. By that time we’d been on a shuttlebus, two planes, two trains, one bus, another plane, and we still had another bus and a boat to look forward to. All in one 35-hour day. Thank god for my nap.

When the bus pulled in at P.leRoma in Venice, it was about ten at night and raining. We got a good little drenching as we walked to the vaporetto (bus-boat) that would take us to our hotel. Lala doesn’t remember this part at all, and was surprised when I told her about it the next day. Venice on a Sunday night is usually rolled up tight. Our food options were limited — I really didn’t want to subject us to a long sit-down dinner, but quick food at that hour can be hard to find. We dropped our bags in the hotel (Hotel Bernardi-Semenzato, my favorite place), and I marched Lala out again. What a trooper she was. We found pizza and beer and took it to sit by the canal near S.Santo Apostoli, an illegal little night picnic, which made it that much nicer.

The rain had stopped, but the canals were still slap-slapping with waves. We ate, and then we made the short walk to the Rialto, where I said hello to my city, and we kissed over the water.

The next morning, after an amazing sleep, we woke to patchy blue skies. I took her immediately out for coffee, because I am a good wife.

Heart-happy.

I like how that middle picture above makes it very clear that roads are waterways. If you’ve never really thought about it, there are NO cars in Venice. No bicycles. No rollerblades. The only things allowed with wheels are on carts, strollers, and wheelchairs. There are narrow walkways for people, and canals for boats. That’s it. You hear the garbage boats in the morning, honking, and it sounds like being at home, except for that occasional slap of water.

We were at dinner one night, and I asked Lala what she thought of my city. She said she loved it, said all the right things, and then she paused and said, “It was kind of like meeting your best friend, me coming here. Only more important, maybe.”

It was true. Had she not liked it, had she not reacted in exactly the right way, I would have been devastated, I think. Venice means so much to me. I was introducing my two women, and hoping against hope that they got on. They did.

An illustration: in Venice, they drink a local thing called a spritz. It’s made with white wine, a splash of soda water, and aperol, an orange, bittersweet alcohol (and sometimes campari, but I prefer the aperol). I told her about it, we ordered it, and the next time we sat somewhere, she suggested it. A small thing, but huge to me.

When I go to Venice, I find myself drawn to people-watching. They ARE the city, in so many ways.

Of course, sometimes the sheer gorgeousness of the city takes over and you have to take the normal tourist pictures like this (click for bigness):

There are dogs everywhere in Venice, even on the crowded vaporetti (this Westie was tucked in the luggage area up front):

Police boat:

From the Accademia, looking east:

And tell me, where would we really be without the gondoliers hawking their gondola rides?

I have never been, and will never be, rich enough to afford a ride like that. They start at about a hundred dollars, and that’s the low rate.

However, if one has the cojones for it, find a traghetto stop, which is the locals-only version of the gondola ride. It takes you across the grand canal, stopping to let taxi-drivers off boatside, if necessary. The locals stand. If you get on first, they’ll take pity on you and let you sit on the only seat.

It’s such a low-draft boat that it rocks quite wildly as the two men push it across the canal, veering between the taxis and heavily-loaded transport boats, dodging buses and other tourist gondolas. Magical and scary.

And we went across on one, for less than a dollar:

Good GOD, I was thrilled.

Some random prettiness.

Mom, recognize our red boat?

The windows could be their own city, really.

Venice ladies!

And a gent.

I am so happy.

I just liked him:

Big colored glasses are very in among the elderly Venetian ladies, and I think we could all take a tip.

See?

We really did just wander. It was another way that Lala proved herself as magnificent traveling companion, that she was so easily able to adapt to this mode of travel. We’d walk a bit, find a coffee shop, have a coffee, watch people, talk, write, sometimes I’d knit. Nothing better, really.

Tomorrow, another Venice entry in which we encounter Art, meet the Boys, and Knit.

Where do I start describing the European tour? I guess I start at the beginning. I have so many things I want to write about, but I think I’m just going to lay them out here, as they come to mind. I’ll do up to Venice today, and more tomorrow. How’s that? For the love of vino, go pour yourself a coffee and put on your favorite song.

Music is so important on trips, isn’t it? Especially when you’re by yourself, which I was for two days. If anyone’s interested, I made an iTunes iMix of what was hot on my iPod this trip. They’re not really so much traveling tunes, and for the most part they’re not Euro-styled tunes, either. They’re just what my brain wanted to hear while looking out train windows. (If you download anything from that list, get “I Hear Them All” by the Old Crow Medicine Show – those kids can write songs. This song, I swear, they will be known by this song in thirty, forty years. They might be our Woody Guthrie, or at least this song might be. I love it.)

So, let me start by saying, traveling with a banjo is a bitch. It is not, I repeat, NOT like traveling with a guitar which weighs about as much as a butterfly’s wing in comparison to that behemoth, the banjo (I know this because later I picked up Emily’s guitar, and it almost flew out of my hands). And Lala was so worried about traveling with it, since dude, if it were tossed around and damaged by baggage handlers, where would she have gotten a quick-like replacement banjo? And she lurves her banjo, natch. So there was stress around carrying it. Luckily, American Airlines let her gate-check it for the first two flights, from San Francisco to New York, and then to Brussels.

Also, she had to bring her lap-steel guitar, so it made sense to bring a suitcase big enough to pack it into, so she was only carrying three things, a suitcase, her banjo and her carryon backpack. It really did make sense, although I wanted to hurl the gigantor suitcase over ever bridge we crossed. That sumbitch was HUGE. We took turns carrying either the banjo or dragging the suitcase that ate Oakland. I am a saintly wife for that, I’ll tell you.

In Brussels, a good 15 hours after we started traveling, we got on a train and headed for Brussels Central Station. You can see Lala is starting to get tired. Our bodies said it was night, but it was  suddenly seven in the morning.

We had a whole twelve hours to kill in Brussels before our flight out that night to Venice, so we wandered. Y’all know that’s what I do, so we started early.

First, smile for the camera! This is also what I do.

Immediately, we wandered into Grand Place, through the grand square and out the back side into the – could it be? – the gay district.

Why, yes, it was. Of course, it was early in the morning, but we could see that such an area existed, which greatly cheered us.

This also cheered us:

Folk dancers from somewhere or another. In Grand Place, they were having a folk festival, and all countries appeared to be represented by someone. These were girls, maybe twelve and thirteen years old, wearing these heads. They were on their way to dance in the square a block away, but running across them in the streets as they WENT to dance was more alarming than the dance turned out to be. I found them grotesquely and eerily beautiful.

Of course, seeing that kind of thing in the morning leads to harder things. The coffee we’d had really wasn’t working that well for us, so by 11am or so, we were seated in the square with this in front of us:

Yes, a beer sampler (with a watch that you can’t read to prove the time of day). And friends, the beer really IS better in Belgium. That second one from the left is ten percent beer. Dude. And the cherry beer was insanely good, and I generally hate flavored beers, and all things cherry in particular.

We had lunch.

Lala had lamb, because she hates sheep (it was GOOD), and I had the Brussels Mussels:

Note the sweater! Came in handy, y’all were right.

This was my view from where I sat, looking at the window in the building in front of me:

Lala, looking at the pedestrian street behind me, had a different view: we noticed as we sat there, having our early lunch, that a certain type of male did a certain thing as he walked by. The males of about forty to fifty years old, with families trailing behind or next to them, all did the exact same thing: looked over at us, gaped, and then looked wistful.

This fellow did the same, and then sat down. He spoke French, so I don’t know exactly what he was saying, but I could imagine. We were great pals.

So we puttered around Brussels. We’d walk, and then sit and drink more beer or coffee. We were setting the tone for the rest of the trip. I don’t think we really saw anything of Artistic Merit. We were going to go to the Beer Museum, but really. Did we need to? I thought not.

From the journal:
I’m sitting at our third café this morning (we keep moving around the square), with Lala, who is sketching. We’re tired but happy. A brass band is playing while a streetcleaner drones by. The cleaning truck is a lurid green with red stripes, and the workers wear the same color green shirts, bright orange pants, and amazingly tall green and orange striped boots. It’s wet and cool. The brass band just played a rousing rendition of YMCA. I was the only one in the square doing the arm motions.

Following this entry is a little sketch of the view in the square. Which I won’t show you, because I’m a writer, not an artist.

Can we please jump out of Europe for a moment? I just want to tell you where I am. I’m listening to the Kings of Convenience in our living room. It’s damp and foggy out, still early morning, the sun coming up over the eucalyptus trees down the culdesac. The dogs don’t understand jet lag and have no idea why I’m up this early. Harriet is snoring on the couch to my left hand, Miss Idaho is sleeping on a pillow to my right, and Clara is curled up like a tiny little puppy on the other sofa. She actually got up on the sofa, got off, went and found her blanket, pulled it up with her, arranged it, and then fell asleep on top of it. Clara makes her own bed. Border collies, damn. All are snoozing, and fall is coming, and there’s knitting later today while I watch the Amazing Race. I miss Lala like hell (I don’t like having her SO far away – it’s worse than if she were just in Idaho, say). But this is a mighty fine place to be.

I adore you, you know. The big You, the readers you, the ones I know from commenting or from blogs, and the ones I don’t know, the faithful lurkers. I thought about y’all while I was gone. I wanted to tell you about it. Those of you who read all the time, who will read all these silly words, this is for you.

Sappy me. It’s that damn Old Crow song, it’s playing now. I’m really trying to get you to listen to it, can you tell?

Okay, back to Brussels. We collected our luggage from the train station, and trained an hour south to Charleoi, where the small airport that serviced RyanAir was. We struggled off the train and onto the bus that took us to the airport.

By now we’d been up for 24 hours. We were tired. What to do? More beer!

Lala likes the Belgians.

People, this is my blog. Therefore, you generally see the photos that are flattering, because I get to choose. That’s just the way it goes. However, you have to see this. I was very tired. I went like this:

And then a second later, apparently, I went like this:

I was out for at least half-an-hour. I don’t know how Lala stayed awake to watch the bags, but she did, and that 30 minute nap got me through the next eight hours of awakeness on our trip to Venice, which shall be the next chapter.

And I’m sooo tired. Got in last night, after traveling for 25 hours straight, and slept most of eight blessed hours. Now up, and have a million things to do today, but I thought I’d drop a line to say I’m safe, well, and happy. I will write more tomorrow, when time permits. I have a ton of pictures to show you.

But for right now, the dogs MUST go to the beach, they say, so this will have to do: