The concierge greets us at Hotel Homs, on Via Della Vite in Roma. We introduce ourselves and check in, and I notice that Antonello is quick to wink at the ladies while he chats with the men. I think to myself, a Northern Italian, with his yellowish curls and pale blue eyes. When Frank compliments on the friendliness of the locals, Antonello goes into a rather amusing tale of an encounter he had years ago with an unfriendly American in Washington, D.C. He shares his animated story with us in broken English, his words barely able to escape wheezing laughter.

We stumble around hot and humid Rome for a couple of hours.  Trying to use a map turns out to be no easy task.  We're in a different world now.  It's a good thing that monuments are everywhere, because even though we haven't been able to follow our original plan, we're still doing some great sight-seeing. But after awhile our feet are swollen and we start to feel hungry and tired.  Interestingly enough, the only thing we find recognizable are those familiar golden arches.

“As long as we don’t tell anybody that we ate at McDonald’s—in Rome!” Frank insists, with a smirk of relief.

This McDonalds is different than what we're used to.  Next to every potted fern is a miniature stone replica of a Michelangelo statue. And no tacky, giant plastic Ronald. I love it. I could live here, in Italy, in this McDonald’s. Frank is still embarrassed, but gives in to his hunger and the opportunity to take a load off our aching feet.

The menu for this evening is McRoyales with cheese, fries, and to our delight, Italian beer. Our Morettis are cool and refreshing in their waxy paper cups, and help us to unwind and laugh at the fact that our deodorant fled long ago while we’ve been doing nothing but walking around in circles for hours.

One landmark that we do manage to find, probably because it is right down the street from our hotel, is the Piazza di Spagna. This place is jumping with local students and hip tourists. We have nothing to lose so we blend in and join the fun. Our aperitif involves sipping vodka from a brown paper bag.  The evening spotlight is on amateur musicians trying to articulate the lyrics to Bon Jovi’s Living on a Prayer. We read their lips and see that what is coming out of their mouths is nothing even close to what Bon Jovi had in mind, but listening to it this way, in their beautiful Italian accent, my only question is, how am I ever going to leave this place?

š š š š š š š š š š

Venice can only be compared to itself.

                                -Goethe

May 12, 2001

Venezia is a floating city of terra cotta and sea green.  I knew its ancient beauty would take my breath away.  But our first impression was not the tiny bridges and flowing waterways of the usual traveler’s dream.  Surprisingly, it was the saucy aroma of authentic thin crust pie.  An aroma that beckoned to us the moment we stepped off the train in the Santa Lucia station.

 We indulged in these slices of heaven at a small table outside the order window.  Savoring the experience in slow, languid bites, my taste buds derailed the rest of my senses to a blur.  Suddenly it didn’t matter how long we were on the train, in cramped quarters, surrounded by the clamor of cell phone conversation and stench of cigarette smoke.  All that mattered to me now was a firm and perfectly charred crust. 

Glancing over our shoulders we see the doughy artisans at work, flinging it high in the air, catching it spinning on their knuckles.  Groans of delight escape our lips.  One of our favorite Venice memories is the savory blend of basil, tomato and cheese.

After lunch, we make our way outside of the train station for our first waterbus experience.  Our hotel is somewhere on the other side of the lagoon, and the question is what bus, and in what direction?  The view from all angles looks the same—water, concrete, ancient palaces.  We try to ask for help, unaware of the warp speed at which Italians will respond, once they think you understand their language.

We make an educated guess, hop on a vessel, and pray for the best.  Anxious to see if we’re headed in the right direction, towards Piazza San Marco, we ask a couple seated next to us.  We lose hope when they start to argue, flailing their arms wildly at each other.  Frank nervously gets up from his seat and begins pacing the deck.  I admit that back home we have had many an argument over directions, but right now, I just don’t care.  I try to stop him from pacing by patting the seat next to me, encouraging him to sit down and relax.  Traveler’s anxiety.  I tell him not to worry and that there are worse things in life than getting lost in Venice. 

I sit back as we make our way through the liquid landscape.  Elegant, decaying palaces line the shore in faded hues of orange, yellow and tan.  Stucco facades give way to marble columns, artful terraces, and colorful awnings.  Small, fashionable docks with candy cane pillars emerge from the sea.  The tide buzzes with water taxis and ornate gondolas.  My heart beats in time with the rhythm of the Grand Canal.

We soon dock at Piazza San Marco.  People are everywhere, lingering on arched stone bridges and sipping wine at outdoor cafes.  Life in Venice shimmers in the narrow, watery alleyways, where flowering plants cling to delicate, rusted ledges, and laundry hanging outside someone’s window seems like natural beauty. 

In St. Mark’s square we visit the basilica.  The saint's remains lie in a jeweled and golden coffin.  We stand in a crowd to admire it and  Frank whispers over my shoulder, “If only they would open that thing up and let us have a look, now that would be something!”

Later that night at dinner, determined to perfect his Italian, he mistakenly orders from the French version of the multi-lingual menu, “Spaghetti, avec…” 

Our waiter chuckles and responds with a gracious, “Oui, Oui, Monsieur.”

We top off the evening by wandering into the darkened maze of Venetian alleyways and stumble on a small Irish pub. The bartenders and patrons are no more Irish than we are. Bob Dylan’s familiar lyrics pound through the jukebox.

The dark, stale atmosphere of the place is comforting and familiar, with an unexpected surprise.  On the bar, right next to the deviled eggs wallowing in their murky juice, there is something else.  Could it be – panini?  We stare at them under the display case.  Another taste of heaven – fresh rosemary bread layered with meats, vegetables and cheeses, brushed with extra virgin olive oil and spices, and pressed to perfection with delectable grill marks.  Suddenly I realize that vacationing with a Chef takes on a whole, new meaning.

Tina and Frank in Venice 2001

copyright 2006 by Tina Coviello

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