Rachael

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:

Have been for two days now in Venice, city of my heart. Lala is loving it, too, mostly because I only make her walk for about two city blocks before I make her sit down to drink something, coffee in the morning, wine and coffee in the afternoon, spritz and wine at night.

She had no idea I’d make her be so social — two engagements yesterday, one yarn involved, of course. The weather is perfect, warm and just a little muggy — we just missed days of rain, apparently.

I’d tell you more, but it’s evening, and that means time for wine and aperol and maybe a little pasta. Then a little more walking, and falling into bed with tired feet and happy hearts. Love to you all. More when I’m home, will most likely post on Sunday.

Ciao ciao.

https://rachaelherron.com/have_been_for_t/

I was online last night, going CRAZY planning. You know, I’ve been good at compartmentalizing stress this year — not worrying or planning the wedding until 4 weeks beforehand, that kind of thing. This Italy/Belgium trip, I didn’t really plan it until last night. But boy, did I plan. I wrote pages of instructions to myself, where this is, where to put that, what to buy, what to pack.

The first day of travel we have to get from home in Oakland on an airport shuttle to San Francisco Airport to New York to Brussels to Brussels Midi to Charleoi Sud to Charleroi Airport to Treviso Airport to Venice. We leave at 4:45am on Saturday morning and arrive in Venice at 10pm on Sunday. The next day. But dude, I have the beer stop in Brussels Grand Place all planned out, so we’ll be fine.

Anyway. After I cooled down and got most things in line and settled, I started browsing online and ran across 43 Folders discussion of Moleskine hacks, and I decided I needed to get another Moleskine, only I didn’t know where was I going to get a new one by the time we leave, when every minute until departure is planned out…..

I got home from work at 7am, and Lala found me in my room, talking a mile a minute, searching for blank Moleskines. I found one, but it’s the larger size, and I wanted a smaller one. I was sure I had one, but I was wrong. Sigh. Resigned disappointment.

Get a call today from my wife, who says, "What kind of Moleskine did you want?"
"Pocket-sized sketch!"
"Do you want a pen?"
"A Pilot G2! Really, truly? You can do that? Get me those?"
"Yes! I’ve got them!"

That is one of the many, many extremely sexy things about Lala. She listens, even when I’m crazy.

And y’all, I’ll see you in about a week. I’ll be back next Friday. Don’t know how I will get you pictures, because said hot wife will still have the camera, because she’s all like, "I’m on tour, I need the camera," whereas she doesn’t understand about YOUR needs, does she? But I’ll get you pictures. Promise.

Be well.

Oh, boy, do I love this sweater.

Specs
Pattern: Central Park, Knitscene (Interweave Press special issue), Fall 2006
Yarn: Araucania Nature Wool Chunky, color 123, ten balls used.
Size: 44 bust
Needles: 5US

It knit up in about a minute, and the yarn was on sale through Webs, and I love it. Fits perfectly. The hood fits, and actually lays extremely nicely, seen here blurrily:

The cables are the easiest in the world — the whole sweater is simple stuff, and if you’ve made anything beyond a scarf, ever, this would be a good next project.

I LOVE the buttons I got at Lacis. They’re from the 30s, and they’re vegetable ivory. Huh. I thought that was just a fancy word for plastic, honestly, but according to wikipedia, it’s the tagua nut from the South American rainforest. Learn something new every day.

 

Did I mention I love this sweater?

 

Welp, I was thinking about taking it to Europe with us, but I just checked Venice’s extended forecast, and we’re looking at a warm 72 degrees, with scattered showers. That’s not heavy wool weather, huh? Looks like the same in Brussels, so we’ll have to rethink the wardrobe. Such a delicious problem.