Arrivederci means “until we see each other again,” and that finality lingered around us when we woke up early that morning.  No high water siren last night, and we wanted one last walk in Venice before braving the airplane trip home later in the day.

 It was foggy this morning, too early for the boatloads of tourists.  We’ve learned that secret over the years, that the tourists don’t get up much before ten and disappear after dinner, so that you have the run of a town during the night and morning hours.

I think I must have some thirty pictures of this serpent with the umbrella heads; it’s fascinating every time I see it.  At night, the umbrellas light up.

Rialto Bridge.

Rialto Bridge with vaparetto.  The vaparetto has a large number of people on it–I guess working Venice is up and around, just not the shop owners.

Heading into San Marco square.  It’s amazing how quickly we could get there with no one out on the streets.  We have one tiny wrinkle in the day’s plans: we have to buy a separate ticket for our vaparetto to the airport, as it’s run by a different company.  This was discovered last night, too late to do anything about it, so we figure we’ll walk until 9:00 a.m., head over to the ticket agency, rush back to the hotel and hopefully make the right boat to the airport.

Some tourists have arrived, standing on the high water walkways in San Marco square.  The fog makes this place seem other-worldly, mysterious.

 I looked past the gondolas, to the vaparetto stop, and poked Dave–”Hey! I think I see the ticket agency.”  ”It won’t be open.” “Let’s try it anyway.”  Lo and behold, an outlier: there was one ticket window and it was open and we were able to buy the tickets.  Big Relief.  Traveling is just so many moving parts.

We walk back up through San Marco.

Hoping it is faster, we jump onto the vaparetto at Accademia, and enjoy one more ride up the canal. The fog is beginning to break, and we look for Dave’s favorite building.

There are several cross-canal routes, done standing up on a traghetto.

We see the “red” building from last night, and a boat appears to be loading giant loud speakers, or some sort of musical equipment.

Now you know as much as I do.

A foggy shot of Dave’s favorite building, with the golden mosaics on the front.

Our stop at Ca’D'Or comes up and we’re off.

It’s named for this building, which used to be ornate, apparently.

From here, we walk to our hotel, eat one more of those perfect breakfasts, gather our things and head towards the Fond. Nuvo stop, where we caught the vaparetto to Burano yesterday.  This morning, though, we join a crowd waiting for the airport water bus.  Suitcases get thrown (and I mean, thrown) in the front and passengers go down three steps to sit in the belly of the waterbus.  We had the usual chaos at the Venice airport (the usual Italian bureaucracy has prevented the airport from expanding, and there are signs posted everywhere to let you know), then a flight to Frankfurt, then to Dulles, Washington, then LAX.  We arrive back to our home around 3 a.m., and even though we both were able to snag rows of seats on the Dulles to LAX leg, and sort of stretch out for some sleep, we are tired.

I could put the usual pithy quote about travel in Italy here, but  will spare you.  We do have the desire to go to Italy again, but next time, we’ll try to avoid All Saints Weekend, rainy weather, bad pillows (the only flaw in the Venice hotel), and remember to always bring the granola bars.

Arrivederci!

We leave from the Fondamente Nova vaparetto stop, which is on the backside of the main islands, and head straight out past Venice’s cemetery, on an island all its own.  First stop is Murano (glass making) with our final destination for the day Burano (lace making).

We join the throngs of other tourists, load up (we race to the back to get an outdoor seat) and head out past the cemetery, on its own island.

We’d first been to Burano in 2009, when on a tour with our friends to Murano, then Burano.  But the tour guide was in cahoots with the glass-making people and we spent an inordinate amount of time captive in the glass maker’s shop, and only 20 minutes on Burano.  We wanted to reverse that today.

Deliveries–everything’s by boat.

We approach Murano and its “furnaces,” or fornaio.  Each building is a different glass maker.  Murano also is a series of islands like Venice , albeit a smaller cluster.

We are going on to Burano, a fishing village, or so the story goes.  They also make lace here, a dying art, as it’s time-intensive and the best kind is done by hand.  We land in Burano, and everyone gets off the boat.  Most head straight ahead, but at our first opportunity, we take a left, away from the crowds.  When we were here before, we were captivated by the colorful houses–technicolor, brilliantly painted houses.  The tour guide that time told us that it was a way for the fishermen to find their way back home in the fog, since there has been fishing there since the 6th century.  But now Wikipedia notes that “the colours of the houses follow a specific system originating from the golden age of its development; if someone wishes to paint their home, one must send a request to the government, who will respond by making notice of the certain colours permitted for that lot.”

Whatever the original reason, the houses are like being in another world.  This post is mostly just pictures of these houses, as there’s really nothing I know about them. I could tell you someone famous lives here or there (and they probably do), but if I’d known that would it have changed how we interacted with this amazing colorful island?  I think not.  So, scroll, quickly or slowly, and enjoy the houses of Burano.

Now, doesn’t it make you want to head to Home Depot and repaint your house?  We were saved from that urge by the fact that we’d done it last year.  Around every corner was a new sight, a new color.  We saw the young man on his scooter, and Dave helped two lost Asian tourists who were trying to find their way to the vaparetto.  We wanted to get lost, so were relieved not to see crowds.

The acqua alta barriers (flooding of high water) on their doorways were really high, and we found the one below pretty interesting, marking the years the aqua alta was highest.

The fact that we’d arrived during “siesta” probably accounted for the deserted streets, as we could hear the sounds of dishes and people talking inside their houses, but no one was around.

We turned right and here seemed to be a main canal.  The reflections of the houses on the water captivated us; please enjoy endure the following similar photos as I couldn’t choose just one.

A young couple walked by and we snagged them for our Christmas card photo.  Believe me, I was dying to digitally erase those white dots, but I restrained myself.  If I had really thought I would put this on our Christmas card, I might have put on some lipstick or something. Dave always looks good.

We cross over the bridge and down the other side is a woman who is working on making lace by hand.  I’m sure this piece will sell for thousands in the shops.  We avoided the shops because, after reading Brunetti, we’ve learned that most of the lace goods come from Asia.  I would have loved to have taken a completed piece of real Burano lace home with me, but I’ll have to be content with this photo.

What I loved about this photo was the way the washing lines were propped up mid-square with two sticks.

The fabulous Dave.

I think this shrine on Burano was one of my favorites: the blue wall, the tiled Saint Fatima, the white flowers in the green box.  Perfect.

I also liked this one–these colors were magnificent.  We were really glad it was a bright sunny day, for although we got shots of people’s laundry (including those black undies near the fuse box in the photos above), the sun lit up the houses like they were illuminated from within.

It was now late afternoon, and the Tourist Crankies were setting in because we hadn’t eaten since breakfast and regretfully forgotten our Emergency Granola Bars back in the hotel.  We were approaching the main town area and looked at several restaurants but then reconsidered because we wanted to beat the crush back to Venice so we could enjoy our last evening there.  We’d had such a lovely time by ourselves photographing the colorful houses, that we decided just to head for Venice.  There was a crush at the vaparetto stop, but we were early, so did get a seat on the way home.  I found one granola bar in the bottom of my backpack and we shared that, then we both dozed on the way home, awoken when a rogue wave splashed in through the vaparetto windows, drenching the couple next to me.  I didn’t get wet at all.

I was able to get a better photograph of the church part of the cemetery this time, the whole building glowing in the setting sun.

Gondola practice?

Then there was this curious sculpture placed out in the lagoon as we neared Venice. The only thing I could find about it (in English) was that it was a representation of a poor fisherman saving Venice through the appearance of celestial visitors.  Or something.

Back on Venice, we stopped for a small snack in a local shop, then walked home, passing this (closed) church.  Near our hotel is this water spigot/fountain that we mostly see filled with pigeons.

But today there were two boys, filling water balloons.

We refresh, but since we are still hungry, we head out, turning right onto the main drag up through Cannaregio, kind of like we are following their line of red dots (which is direction to Ca’ D’oro vaparetto stop, but in the same direction as we are headed).  Strada Nova is crowded, with shops still vending and people still shopping, a real party and lively atmosphere.  We stop to buy some chocolates to take back with us and some torrone (but it’s not as good as the one by San Zaccharia).

This was a view down one side canal toward the Grand Canal.  We keep going, cross a few more bridges, then wander off to the right, up over two small bridges and see a small restaurant on the canal.

Out front there’s a guy out front in a spiffy suit, hawking to tourists — hawking to people just like us, who are tired and hungry and ready to eat even though it’s not even six o’clock in the evening and a real Venetian wouldn’t be caught dead sitting down to dinner.  Of course there was the chalkboard with the requisite three courses, the menu with the six languages.  We shrug and say, why not.  It was a good choice.

First up, they bring us an aperitivo.  No thank you, we said, we don’t drink.  Shock.  Amazement. Incredulity.

Instead, a plate of some delicious polenta topped with bolognese sauce was brought to our table for a “starter.”

Dave had pasta with cheese, which looked like to me it was leftover spaghetti pressed into a mold, then cut and lightly baked, then broiled (?).  I think this is a good idea, especially if grilled vegetables are added to the plate, then a drizzle of vinegar.

My pasta course was spicy spaghetti with vegetables.  I had never thought to ramp up the spiciness on spaghetti before, but it was delicious.

We both chose the salmon, again, with grilled vegetables.  And the Italian way — the salad at the end of the meal (below).

He tried to offer us an after-dinner drink again, but again, we declined.  No dessert? He asked?  No, I said.  I prefer to have some chocolate.

So they brought us each this delicious treat, on the house.

We really enjoyed talking to the owner, as we were the only ones in the restaurant for most of the meal.  He grew up in Venice, but after marrying, moved to Maestre, but still runs the family business.  We talked about the aqua alta (he was in early that morning, sweeping out, vacuuming, washing down our tables and chairs), as this was his livelihood.  I’d go there again in a heartbeat, as the food was delicious (and the owner spoke English).  He said he moved out to Maestre because it was really hard to raise a family in Venice–not even a place to play soccer.  We say goodbye, but are not ready to say goodbye to Venice yet, so we hop onto a vaparetto and ride down the Grand Canal.

This is when you know you are really on the Outside, Looking In.  It’s when you see a building on the Grand Canal all lit up in exotic red, with boats of the glitterati stepping up onto the private loading dock and entering this building.  It looked fabulous to all of us peons on the vaparetto.  Even the drivers were pointing at it.

Rialto Bridge

The Fish Market, after dark.  The action happens here in the early morning.

Santa Maria della Salute

We get off at San Zaccharia, buy our last wedge of torrone to take home, then walk slowly back to our hotel through the streets, and the happy tourists, and the business-like Venetians, back through the chilled air, Dave and I together in Venice for one last night.

Coming up: one more post before we say good-bye to Italy.

Water overlapping a doorway, across the canal from our hotel

Late in the night, we hear the aqua alta (high water) sirens go off.  A website tells us the following:

So, first a siren is used to alert everyone of the high tide alarm.Next, a signal indicates the expected level of high tide – this signal has between 1 and 4 notes.

1 long sound (8 seconds) on the same note = 110cm level of high tide
2 sounds in an upward scale (4 + 8 seconds) = 120cm ” ” ” ”
3 sounds in an upward scale (4+4+8 seconds) = 130cm ” ” ” ”
4 sounds in an upward scale (4+4+4+8 seconds) = 140cm and above

But we are sleepy and tucked in our bed in our perfect hotel, so can’t quite distinguish the sounds.  It is interesting, though, to think that all around you the sea is rising, covering sidewalks and plazas and streets.

Breakfast is a smaller array, fitting for a smaller hotel (only five rooms, with one on the canal–no, we didn’t get that one).

The breakfast room is cheery, and the woman who is running the breakfast brings us fresh-fresh-fresh croissants with chocolate, another warm roll and some hot cocoa.

Just outside is that waterlogged door at the top of this post.  We enjoyed the picturesque setting for our breakfast.  I always love the little “trashcans” that Europeans put on the breakfast tables to hold the trash you might generate (the silver tin).

The cocoa is served in a double-walled glass mug.  It was the best of the trip, I’d say.

Lingering effects of the aqua alta in the night

Over breakfast the reality of the high water does change our itinerary for the day, as we’d planned to jet right out to Burano, but read that when Venice has high water, Burano will have it worse.  Since we don’t want to borrow the boots from the hotel, we decide to see some churches in the morning.

A high water barrier in a doorway.  We saw many of these.

Walking the high water walkways–moveable platforms that criss-cross affected areas.

We step out of our hotel to see this: a cobbled street, still wet from the high water, and lovely vine growing across, bringing some greenery to the brick walled passageway.

Just down from us is this market.  When we’d passed by it late in the day, none of this was out, and then *poof* in the morning it all pops out.

We are so happy to see the sun, and enjoy how it lights up the Venetian buildings.

Walking in Venice is always a series of ups, downs, take a right–no, left–through that plaza, up those stairs, down those steps, so even getting out and getting around is an adventure, a lovely adventure.

And while we’re walking, I snapped a few photos of shrines.  I noticed that the coin slot for this one had been filled with cement.

I’m a sucker for this rich cornflower blue, no matter how it is used.

The flag of Venice, with its Lion.

Behind me is what’s known as the jewelbox church, as the marble slabs on the outside of the building are in many colors.  It’s a perfect little church and when we first came to Italy, we could go in with no charge.  Now they will sell you a “church tour” ticket for about 15 euro each ($20 bucks) that lets you in there, plus four other churches that we’d never heard of.  We pass.  Here’s some photos of the outside.  It’s in tight quarters, so hard to get the whole vista.

Must be laundry day.  I rather think we saw so much laundry hanging out because of 1) we were in less-touristy venues, and 2) the sun was out so the clothes could get dry.

What we do a lot here: study the map.

We spot the Civil Hospital–Yay! we’re almost there. We’re actually headed to the St. Peter and St. Paul church, which is right next door.  From Wikipedia: “The Basilica di San Giovanni e Paolo, known in the Venetian dialect as San Zanipolo, is a church in Venice, northern Italy. One of the largest churches in the city, it has the status of a minor basilica. After the 15th century the funeral services of all of Venice’s doges were held here, and twenty-five doges are buried in the church.”  Now you know.

You don’t see much graffiti here in Venice, but here’s some.

The exterior doorway.  There was a modest fee, and then we were free to explore the church.  It’s cavernous, with many chapels, funerary monuments in the walls, and the sun was streaming in, lighting up the church.

I love this shot of the ceiling that Dave took.  He does “landscape” or big picture shots really well.  Somewhere along the line, between here and Burano, his camera developed a problem with the sensors and so went out of commission.  I remember when we used to travel and had only one camera.  Travel is much nicer now that we both have our own, as our photographic interests compliment each other: I like the details and he likes the bigger picture.  After Burano, we shared my camera, but only had a day before we left.

A side chapel.  The ceilings were wonderfully ornate, but I kept taking pictures of the floors, as they were interesting-to-me interlocking patterns. (I won’t bore you with photos.  Okay, maybe one.)

Back to the ceilings.  Do you think they built scaffolds and did all the plasterwork and painting while laying on their back, or made it down on the ground and then affixed them to the ceiling?  I vote the latter.

Beautiful, subtle colors of the aged glass.

What is this?  A layered image of a painting in a chapel and the chapel’s glass door reflecting the stained glass window on the opposite wall.  It’s also a sign that the tourist has Church Sights Fatigue and needs to get out and walk around the town.

From the sacred to the utilitarian.  This clutch of boats has all kinds: construction, delivery, personal water boats.  But we turn left out of the church and head to San Francisco della Vigna, a church I’d read about on a blog I love to read: Venezia Blog.  The writer of that blog is living my fantasy, of having a home in Venice.  But it’s only that. . . a fantasy, not real.  But I wouldn’t mind if for a month or so.

More glowing buildings.

After walking for a few minutes, passing delivery people, a postman and residents, we come down this narrow calle and can see the front doors of the church.

Because Dave’s camera is on the fritz, we didn’t get an overview of this quiet church, done in grays and blue-grays, but here’s one (below) from the web:

This is the first church that Palladio built in Venice, and it reminded me of Santo Spirito in Florence (except for the garish touches of red in the above photo–I don’t remember those when we were there).  I made a beeline for the Virgin and Child Enthroned, by Fra Antonio da Negroponte, a painting described as the most beautiful painting in Venice that most tourists never see.  I’d agree.

I spent several coins keeping that light going, trying to get a photo of this.

I love the putti swimming in the celestial waters above the Madonna’s head.

But the one the priest wanted us to see was Bellini’s Virgin and Child with Saints.  I’m standing on the steps to this side chapel, as the priest was mopping the floor.  I thought of how our congregations back home clean our church, but I’d never seen it in a Catholic church.  This made me suppose that this was a poorer church, as it didn’t charge admission.  That’s one reason I was happy to donate my coins to the light box on the other painting.

Ceiling medallions in nave.

This was the “gift shop,” a side chapel filled with postcards, magazines and newspapers.  I bought three postcards of the glorious Madonna.  One adorned our refrigerator for several weeks after our trip.  The painting is huge, tall, so the postcard didn’t do it justice.  Such is life.  I find that often when I get home from a trip, with the sights and memories fresh in my mind, all my photographs are fairly disappointing.  They are so puny, so lifeless, compared to what I saw.  But after a while the two–my memories and my photos–seem to come to a point of balance, of stasis, and I now, several months later, I find they do an adequate representation of our trip.

Just for reference, this church is in Castello (upper right), just over the border from Cannaregio (upper left).  Our hotel is in Cannaregio (sited at about where the “r” is in Cannaregio).  That notch in Cannaregio on the upper side of the island is approximately where we will catch the vaparetto for our trip to Burano. We’re getting antsy now, and really want to get to Burano, so we retrace our steps to pick up a few things at our hotel.  Some of the sights as we quickly walked back:

Looking left out of the front door of the church.  Apparently this courtyard stood in for the Police Headquarters in the German television series based on the Guido Brunetti novels.

This little girl made us homesick for our granddaughters.

Next post: Burano.

Marble Sign next to Convent Door

We’d been reading about the Acqua Alta — high water — that had flooded Venice this year, and seen the photos of tourists wading up to their knees in San Marco plaza, so we decided to stay a while longer in Padua to do some shopping.  That would have been a great idea, but it was All Saints Day, November 1st, and most all of the shops were closed.

So we stopped and listened to some street musicians, had a sweet at a fancy cafe, then walked back home. . . in the drizzle, packed up and headed to the train station, where we grabbed some lunch and caught a train.  There was some discussion about that, as the train that was supposed to be on our track wasn’t, yet there was one on the track behind us and everyone seemed to be going over there.  Of course we can’t understand the announcements over the garbled loud speaker, although we pretend to listen and try to catch something, anything, of what was said.  In the end, we boarded the train behind us and hoped to play Dumb Americans if it didn’t work out.

Venice Train Station.  Notice the woman leaning over taking a drink?  She’s wearing rubber boots that go to her knee.  Nearly all the “real” Venetians had some of those on.  We queued up for the vaparetto pass (long lines) avoiding the few puddles that were on the pavement, and bought ourselves a 3-day pass.

We caught a vaparetto down the Grand Canal to our stop at Ca’ D’Oro , and then a short-didn’t-get-too-lost walk to our hotel.

Hotel Alla Vite Dorata, Cannaregio, Venice, Italy

Looking out to the small side canal from the breakfast room.

Breakfast room.

We checked in, dropped the bags, and like true web addicts, checked to see if we could get on the internet–PERFECT!  Happy, we went out again.

We could see evidence of high water: the elevated walkways, puddles, damp pavement, and the vino guy sweeping out his shop (notice the soggy bottoms of his barrels).  Apparently Cannaregio has less high water than San Marco, and in addition, the hotel was up two steps, and we found out later that this was done expressly to cut down on high water problems.  We watched people bringing empty bottles to this shop, then taking away filled ones.  Maybe that’s one way they get their wine?

We are pretty happy to be here: Venice is familiar and it’s not raining, even a bit of blue sky.  This was just down the street from our little five-room hotel.

We walked down the shopping street for a while and found a quilt shop–unbelievable prices, so I didn’t buy any fabric, but it was still fun to see.

We saw a lot of these, and remembered the Guido Brunetti novel where these purse sellers figured prominently into the plot line.

Several street merchants sold these glowing lights; this shot was taken on our return home.

True Venetians.  The city is mostly overrun with tourists like ourselves, and those who live and work in Venice are dwindling.  There was just enough language that we could communicate with so we understood that they were residents.  They obliged me with a photo at our vaparetto stop.

Finally we are here.  Finally we were on a boat headed down the Grand Canal.  The sun was behind us, making the water dark and lighting up the buildings in front of us, and yes, the Rialto Bridge is still here.  Everything is still here, and it feels lovely to be out on the vaparetto taking in the sights.  Dave and I can’t stop grinning like the pair of happy tourists that we are.

Rialto Fish, and sometimes, Produce Market.

I’m always in love with the hues and rich burnished colors of the buildings, as well as the interesting shapes of the windows, the tiny patios and big balconies, the rich heritage of Venice.  I don’t think you go to Venice to see something new; it’s always about the old, and perhaps the art and the food.  But always always it’s about the Grand Canal and the water.

Wouldn’t this little glassed-in room be a great place for a study? Although you might not ever get any work done because of looking out the window constantly.

The wooden span of the Accademia Bridge.

Detail at top of building as we round the corner to see San Marco Square and the Doges Palace (below).

We are headed one stop further away from San Marcos — down to San Zaccharia.

We cannot believe the crush of tourists everywhere.  We’ve been several times to this city — from December over the Christmas holidays to June in mid-summer — but we’ve never seen it this bad.  We also had a hard time getting rooms in a hotel and we did this four months from departure date.  Someone in the paper shop later that night finally explained to us that all the countries that are Catholic have these days off from school and work, so everyone took a weekend holiday. . . to Venice.

We remembered how to get to this church, San Zaccharia, for I wanted to see the Bellini Altarpiece.  They’ve improved it with a light (.50 euro) and I gladly contribute as it’s easier to see.  My photo was a bit blurry, even with the light, so here’s one from the web:

Across the courtyard, a shop selling soaps.

We walk on, headed to the torrone shop.  The best kind ever is purchased here, in Venice, and it doesn’t really keep.  I did bring some home in my suitcase, and it was all gone within a few weeks after being home.

I love how this gondoliers is pushing off of the post with his foot; many of them use such resources to keep the boats from jostling or hitting each other.

See that golden sign up there that says “Per Rialto?”  We learned to follow these toward our destination as we wended our way through the labyrinthian Venetian streets.  Yes, we had a map, and sometimes it even helped.  Mostly you accept that getting lost is part of the experience.

I love the small shrines tucked into the walls, and I determined I would try to photograph more of them on this trip.  Notice the small door with the barely visible coin slot underneath.  Coins for alms, for an extra miracle?

We’ve arrived with the thirty billion other tourists at San Marco square at twilight. The pink light made the marble glow.

It is a lovely evening.

We linger in San Marcos plaza, watching the street vendors pitch the toy of the moment: a whirring, spinning light which they launch high up into the air–a flying globe of wonder, which drops back down to the plaza, sometimes where it was supposed to.  The bells begin to chime and we are surround by the voices of the crowd, the pealing sounds from the bellower, the excitement that everyone feels for being out in the beautiful twilight, in beautiful Venice.

We start walking toward home, up and over and avoid the tourists.  It’s made a little more difficult by the presence of the aqua alta walkways that go right up the middle of the “street,” cutting down the available walking space.  And of course, we have to stop for pictures like this one.

Dinner Stop.  And yes they had a menu in seven different languages, but we are near San Marco, so expect this.

This was the best part of the meal: a moderately delicious bowl of minestrone.  And the waiter spoke English to us and the two other American couples in this place.  I’m pretty sure the Italians come much later, if at all, to these touristy spots.

After dinner, more winding ways back to our hotel.  I have to say it feels like a big party out here, with lots of people, lights in the shops, action everywhere.  We stop at Il Papiro, a favorite paper shop of ours, then push on.  We found another shop, Paolo Olbi.  That’s Mr. Olbi up there, wrapping up the purchased folios for me to carry home to America.  I rather like this shop–better than Il Paprio, I have to say.

A shrine with the face worn off, just under the Rialto Bridge.

Where the gondoliers shop?

The view from Rialto Bridge at night, looking San Marco direction.

When we see this beautifully lit Murano glass chandelier, we recognize where we are–two more turns and we are home to our hotel.

We let ourselves in with our key, and there’s another Murano light in our hallway.  We check our emails, get ready for bed, which includes pulling the shutters on the window slightly shut, and head to bed.  The only unfortunate thing in this nearly perfect hotel are the pillows: one is a slab of foam about the size of a bread box and the other is longish pillar of foam about 5″ in diameter.  There were some more regular-looking pillows but they had fancy pillowcases on them, so I thought they were decorative.  It’s when you travel you realize how much you like your own bed, your own pillows, and your own home.  But it is grand to be in Venice!

I left off after that first night in Bologna, at the place that had a giant golden tortellini hanging outside its door. The next morning we went to the breakfast area in Hotel Porta San Mamolo and saw this:

It’s really easy to become a glutton when you see a spread like this.

I took one piece of this but it was coconut cake.  Not a favorite. I swallowed my bite and gave the rest to Dave.

Our choices.

The breakfast room.  I just want you to know that our breakfasts at home look like this.  Every day.  Right.  This room is a courtyard between the three buildings that has been renovated into a warm and cozy place to dine, as long as you weren’t caught in the draft between the two doors.

For lunch that day, after bebopping around Bologna for a while, it was like someone rang an invisible gong and all of a sudden all the trattorias on the “food” street were packed.  To the brim. When last in New York City, we’d wandered through Eataly in midtown Manhattan and after ducking in and out of several lunch places, we went upstairs in Eataly — in Bologna, Italy.  The waiters were moving at warp speed, as shown in this photo.  We snagged a table for two after only about a ten-minute wait.  We felt blessed, frankly.

After placing our order, we looked around.

We were on the second level in a small alcove with pasta on one side of us for sale and vinegars on the other side.

After lunch I would pick out a vinegar, trying really hard to approximate what I’d seen in the farm and have it wrapped up in bubble wrap and carry it in my suitcase all the way home.  It arrived safely, and I pull it out and feel like I’m in Bologna again.  Plus, I loved the heart-shaped dollop of sealing wax on the top.

Dave’s dish was some kind of circular noodles, with pork, leeks, and vegetables.  As usual, we played the game of what we thought we ordered was not what showed up on the table.

I ordered Taglierini Bolognese, of course.  After all, we were in Bologna.  The noodle could have been tagilatelle, though.  I didn’t quite get which one.  Apparently they only serve the Bolognese sauce with this thin, flat noodle.  Mine was divine.  I could have it again tomorrow, if I were in Eataly.  In Bologna.

That night we tried a couple of places for dinner, but they were already booked up.  We had been warned by the hotel concierege to make our reservations early, but did we listen?  No.  We like to keep our options open, which meant that we only had one option for dinner: Osteria Le Mura across the street from the hotel.

We were the only ones there at 8:00 p.m.  We came in, and no one was around–we called out–and finally, from the back the owner/chef? came out and seated us.

He brought around the chalkboard, which was our menu and patiently went through EVERYTHING on the menu. He tried to sell us on one of the 46 euro fish, but we didn’t quite have that in mind.

We must have waffled a bit too long, because he said “momento” and returned with this, showing us our fish possibilities.  Um, that doesn’t really help, but at least we know this is fresh fish. I think we ordered the pink one.

Bread basket with the requisite vinegar and oil for our salad.  The bread in Italy runs the gamut from very good to eh.  This was eh.

Really terrible picture of our fish with vegetables.  Maybe I should take this down, but here it is.  We didn’t have any dessert, but after paying, walked across the street and went to our room.

Here’s a few more sights and sounds of Bologna food: first, a celestially decorated frozen yogurt shop.

A cautionary sign near the tomatoes.

An array of artichokes, like a wedding bouquet.

Sinewy radicchio.  All of these vegetables disappeared back into the shops during the afternoon lunch break.  Actually the whole town about dried up and disappeared.  They take their afternoon lunch hours very seriously.

I’d read in one of my Guido Brunetti books about fave, an almond-flavored small cookie that is only sold around All Saints Day.  I exclaimed excitedly over this basket in one of the shops.  We bought one in the morning, and one in the afternoon.  They were delicious.

This was our last meal in Bologna–warm ham and cheese sandwiches, purchased from the train station.  This is one of those times that the bread was amazing–a foccacia with just the right amount of saltiness.

For some reason, we thought that eating at BREK cafeteria in Padua would be a good experience–after all the guide  book that came with our Padua Tourist Card said it would be great.  Bad idea. Imagine high school cafeteria does Italian food.

Dave was the enthusiastic champion of eating here (we were tired and hungry and it was close by), but after he tasted my entree, even he agreed that it was pitiful.  On the way home, we sampled some  of previously-purchased chocolate and mine, again, was “icky,” as I wrote in my journal. Maybe we were just tired–tired of traveling, tired of fighting the internet at our hotel (it never did work properly), tired of the rain, but just like home where some meals are just cheese sandwiches or their ilk, some meals while traveling are equally forgettable.  This was one of them.

These pictures show our breakfast choices at this hotel.  While it looks like quite a spread, I think we’re homesick for our hotel in Bologna.  The girl running the breakfast behind the counter stared at us the entire time, like we were some captured species in a zoo (we were the only ones there).  At one point, she stepped outside on the balcony leaving the door open and smoked a couple of cigarettes, which “perfumed” the entire breakfast area.

This was a really strange hotel.  We took to calling it Hotel California, if you know that song. We walked over to the marketplaces and enjoyed all the sights of the markets.  See the regular Padua post for more photos.

We’re still talking about this veritable vegetable with a fractal design, apparently known as Romanesco broccoli.

And one stall’s version of prepared foods: bags and bags of different kinds of grains mixed with dried vegetables.  I liked this presentation where you could see all the flavors and ingredients, and found it more enticing than our boxed-up supermarket foods.

Before coming to Italy, I’d done a bit of homework and looked up a couple of restaurants.  We made our way to one for lunch, Enoteca Ristorante La Corte dei Leoni.  We stepped in out of the rain, and felt like we’d come back to civilization.

You’ve got to understand: we’ve been in rain about 90% of the time since we’d arrived in Italy, and the warm red wall, with the fireplace that contained a painting, and lovely place that was oh-so-different than last night’s dreck-at-BREK was like heaven.

Luckily, the waiter could translate the menu. I wrote down what he said so he wouldn’t have to repeat it.

This is the Insaltona Vegetariana, with lettuce, greens, tomato, apple and other stuff, which I have no idea–I think they were squash seeds.

I ordered the pork with mushrooms and roast potatoes. I think Dave had the exact same thing because we only have pictures of these two items.  But for dessert, we chose differently:

I had the Panna cotta with fig and apricot in chocolate sauce.

Dave had “Sugolo di uva fragola con yogurt magro, which we thought was panna cotta with grapes.  No, it turned out to be grape panna cotta in yogurt sauce.

In the back we found Guido Brunetti’s newspaper that he reads–we love that we read so many of those mysteries before coming back to Italy.  The waiter tells us about the special Halloween menu–it’s all pumpkin.  I laugh, and we decide to make reservations and return here for dinner after seeing Scrovegni Chapel.

I paused to take a photo of their fall display in the courtyard.  Apparently in the summer, people gather to come and have a lazy moment or two with some wine and live music.  but now, we dash through it to get to Scrovegni on time.

Another display was there when we returned, along with a lit Jack-O-Lantern (which didn’t photograph well).

The special Halloween Menu.

First up is a pumpkin flan, which was pretty interesting.  And no, I can’t remember what that dark thing on the top is.

Dave had the culatello, which is one reason why I wanted to return here so badly.  I’d heard about this cured meat–kind of like the Ritz Carlton of cured meats.  It was really tender and delicious and reminded me of prosciutto in terms of texture.  But it was oh, so, amazing.

Next course for me was the pumpkin risotto, which I had Dave help me eat.  It was a lot.

Dave had a salad, with that really great vinegar.

He had some kind of spaghetti carbonara for his entree.

Mine was medallions of roast pork with pumpkin sauce.

I’m wearing the necklace I’d purchased from the market–pumpkin-colors all around!

For dessert, these two little sweet treasures.  Your guess is as good as mine.  The restaurant is on Via Pietro d’Abano 1, in Padua, and is on a side street just north of the Piazza della Fruta.  Our last meal in Padua was another really great focaccia sandwich, again in the train station, as we waited for our train to Venice, but I have no photos of that.  You’ll have to imagine it.