That's A Moray!

One more thing about Venice.  It’s one of those places where there are sufficient numbers of tourists to support a market for wandering accordion players.  They stand on the fringe of the seating area, play for awhile, and then come in and pass the hat.  They all seem to play from the same songbook—Volare, the theme from The Godfather.  C.C., little biologist that she is, got confused upon listening to the lyrics of That’s Amore.  “Mama, why is that man singing about moray eels, and what does it have to do with the moon hitting your eye like a pizza pie?”

Venice!

Arriving in Venice by boat is pretty fantastic.  We began to enter the canal sometime after 8 am on Sunday, and we all went up on deck to get our first glimpse of the city.  It is a beautiful approach—I felt as though I was floating into a Renaissance painting.

A young man from our hotel met us at Piazzale Roma and walked the kids and I to our room with our luggage, while Alec went to park the car.  He ended up getting lost, and nearly two hours had transpired by the time he got back.  Which meant it was time for lunch. 

I had read about a place to get really good pizza, and it seemed like a reasonably close walk, but then again we had never walked in Venice before.  It is incredibly easy to get turned around, so what should have been a 10 minute walk ended up being closer to a half hour.  It was super hot, and after many promises that we were “really close” which turned out not to be true, Milo finally sat down in the middle of the street and announced that he would not walk another step.  Fortunately there are no cars in Venice, so while his move was dramatic, it was not dangerous.  It turned out that he had staged his sit in a mere block from the restaurant, so we were able to cajole him from his position to a seat at the table.  A big glass of water and a few bites of bread revived him.

Aside from the absence of cars, which means much easier walking with the kids as well as no vehicular noise and pollution, the best thing about Venice is that the canals are everywhere.  And canals, as we quickly learned, are instant entertainment. On our very first walk to our hotel, C.C. and Milo had discovered crabs in the canal.  It is nearly impossible to go to a restaurant that is not right next to a canal, so our kids spent the majority of every meal emptying our bread basket and feeding the fish and crabs.  It worked for all of us.

We spent most of that first day in the general vicinity of our hotel—walking punctuated by stops for meals and gelato breaks.  Venice really is an enchanting city.  But it also feels more than a little unreal.  Virtually everyone on the street is carrying a map of the city, and you are much more likely to hear people speaking English, German, or French than Italian.  The population of Venice has been declining and is currently about 60,000—not very big at all.  And, 15 million tourists visit every year.  I don’t know what the tourist/resident ratio is for other cities, but I would be willing to bet that Venice’s is very high.  Walking around, you don’t see much of the stuff of real life—grocery stores and hardware stores, doctor’s offices and schools.

On Monday we decided to brave the crowds at Piazza San Marco.  I had read on one website about visiting Venice with kids that a Magic Treehouse book takes place there, so I had downloaded onto C.C.’s Kindle and read it to them.  I had hoped I had read my last Magic Treehouse book—they are beyond formulaic.  But it turned out to be a good move because the book features the clock tower and the Doge’s Palace—it may have been hard to get our kids to get excited about sightseeing without the motivation the story provided.

We started out at the basilica—we had gotten tickets online so were able to walk right in.  Well, almost right in.  I was stopped because my sleeveless dress failed to cover me up sufficiently.  It’s a nice dress, really, but I guess there just wasn’t enough of it. The lack of sleeves and the fact that it did not reach my knees obliged me to plunk down 2 euros for a wine colored disposable “cape” and a clashing rust colored square to tie around my waist, sarong style.  I am quite certain that these items were actually disposable tablecloths—a smaller one for my shoulders and a larger size for my legs.  Many of the other female visitors were wearing tank tops, but most were magically pulling scarves and shawls out of their bags to cover their shoulders.  Somehow I missed the memo.

The kids hung in pretty well—they were fascinated by the jewels in the Pall D’oro and the remains of one of the saints—anything involving bones goes over pretty big with them.  They are also quite convinced that the white-robed priest they saw crossing the sanctuary was the pope.  It all started on our first ferry to Croatia.  It seems that the pope rode one of the ferry line’s boats, and the boats all feature a photo of the pope disembarking and waving.  Ever since then the kids think they see popes everywhere, and I can’t seem to get them to understand that there is only one pope, and that he is unlikely to be walking around the streets of Greece, or wherever we happen to be.

As you walk around the basilica, for which entry is free, you have the option to plunk down 4 euros here and 4 euros there to see the chalice collection, the big horses on the roof, the gold and jewels.  Once Alec gets going, he wants to see it all.  Milo was super thirsty and I was starting to get hot in my tablecloth schmata—whatever it was made of, it was not breathable.  So we moved quickly through the mosaics and made our way out to the piazza again.

We got some lunch, after striking out at three places that we had targeted that were closed for August, and then hit the Palazzo Ducale.  It is impressive and overwhelming—sort of a Who’s Who of the Italian renaissance.  And hot.  It was a broiling hot day and we didn’t spend a minute of it in air conditioning.  The palazzo has an impressive arms and armor collection, and we spent more time there than any other part of the place because C.C. has recently become fascinated with knights.  I think it is a consequence of her interest in dragons which is somehow connected to her dinosaur obsession. In any case, we looked at a LOT of swords, crossbows, helmets, daggers, and shields.  The kids were also fascinated by the prisons.

Alec really wanted to go to the Peggy Guggenheim museum, but the kids needed some down time and, frankly, so did I.  After a very long and crowded water bus ride back to the Dorsoduro, we revived ourselves with a little gelato, picked up our laundry, and went back to our room.  Our air conditioning had not worked for the first day, and we were beyond ecstatic to find our room to be chilly as an ice box.  I commanded the kids to strip down and take a cool shower, then set them up with the Rocky and Bullwinkle videos I had downloaded—I really like Rocky and Bullwinkle, and it seems to have stood the test of time.  I stood under water as cold as I could manage and then just lay flat on the bed until Alec returned.

We had promised the kids a gondola ride, and decided to take one to dinner.  Milo, in particular, beamed the entire ride.  It was the perfect time to go—out of the direct sun, just as the shadows were beginning to fall.  As we pulled up next to our restaurant, one of the waiters opened up a canalside window, and we exited the boat through the window, which was pretty cool. 

We ate at Osteria la Zucca, a restaurant Jody and Matt had recommended from their trip to Venice two years ago.  It was perhaps the best meal of our entire trip.  While not a vegetarian restaurant, la Zucca is a place that celebrates vegetables.  We shared an outrageously good pumpkin flan—its creamy texture underscored by the crunch of toasted pumpkin seed sprinkled on top, as well as carrots cooked with curry and yogurt, and spinach with butter and sesame.  I had a fabulous vegetable lasagna and Alec had a duck confit with apples.  It was a truly outstanding meal.

Today, we wound our way through several neighborhoods before getting on a water bus to take us to the Biennale. It was much, much cooler today, so perfect for lingering in the gardens. 

I really enjoyed much of what was in the central pavilion, and the kids dug right into the Norma Jeanne installation, which started out as an enormous block of Play Doh in stripes of red, black and white to evoke the Arab flag but which is now a room covered with the Play Doh creations of visitors.  A sign on the wall invited visitors to do what they wished with the Play Doh, and to either take the creations with them or leave them in the room, but not to leave them in other parts of the biennale.  We left the kids there for awhile to play, and when they met up with us, Milo had an enormous block of the stuff which he wants to bring back to Brooklyn.  It has made it back to our hotel room, but Brooklyn?  I don’t know.  We saw a lot of the show, but by no means all of it.   Not surprisingly, much of the art was overtly political—the Egyptian artist, Ahmed Basiony, died while documenting the uprising in Cairo in January. The American pavilion, an installation by Allora and Calzadilla, comments on war, capitalism and consumption.  We all liked “Algorithm”, a piece that consists of a pipe organ in which an ATM machine is incorporated—the organ plays loud, churchy cords when you take money out.  We stretched the kids as far as we could, and then retreated back to the hotel for a little rest before dinner.

After we got our mojo back, we walked to the Jewish ghetto, found a playground for the kids, and ate dinner in Canareggio.  Once again our top restaurant choices were closed, and we ended up having a truly mediocre meal, which is always unfortunate in Italy.  There is much more to do and see, but it’s time to get back to Barcelona.

Venice Photos

Milo's Fruit Fiasco

On January 1, Alec announced that his new year’s resolution would be to eat more fruit, and he invited Milo to join him.  You need to know that, with the exception of apple sauce, Milo eats no fruit (and virtually no vegetables).   He accepted Alec’s invitation, but added:  “I’ll bet Greece has very good fruit.  I’ll start eating fruit this summer in Greece.”  Alec agreed to this compromise. So you can imagine that Alec and I were pretty excited when we finally arrived in Greece and made that first trip to the market with Milo.  He asked us to buy watermelon and apples, which, he declared, would be his first two fruits.  He asked for some apple slices on his dinner plate.

But then, when it actually came time to put the apple in his mouth, and the rest of us were leaning forward, holding our breath . . . he couldn’t do it.  Or he wouldn’t. I think we’ve been hornswaggled, that the little minx just bought himself seven months of not being badgered by his parents.

We’ve tried most of the obvious tactics. We’re good role models.  We always have a variety of fruit and vegetables on hand.  Milo even grew vegetables at his school in Barcelona and loved selling them in the schoolyard, a la Alice Waters’ Edible Schoolyard.  But try them?  He is more of an entrepreneur than an omnivore.

If I could do one thing over as a parent, it would be to capitulate less to the demands for kid food—hot dogs, grilled cheese, macaroni and cheese, and all kinds of nuggets.  C.C., although she eats a very healthy and balanced diet, has no desire to take risks where food is concerned.  Like most parents of my generation, we have gotten ourselves into a situation in which we cook not one, but two or three dinners.  My parents would never have been so gullible.  Where did we go wrong? 

When we have had breakthroughs, such as the curry noodles Milo has come to love, they have been the result of going to places we really want to eat that do not have kid food.  And somehow, our kids don’t starve.  Although I have been grateful for every bowl of spaghetti Bolognese we have encountered on our travels, I sometimes wish the dish had never been invented.

We have no desire to have power struggles over food—although we did set up an unfortunate face-off between Milo and a tiny piece of mango in Mesta that lasted more than an hour.  We clearly lost the battle.  So we have resorted to a time-tested strategy that we probably should have implemented years ago.  We put something on Milo’s plate at every meal—a grape, a cherry tomato, a slice of cooked carrot—and he does not get a sweet unless he eats it.  He’s eating a lot less dessert these days.

The beginning of the end of the journey

A night in crisp sheets and an extra pillow to put beneath my knees to support my back did wonders for my constitution.  Alec took the kids down to breakfast early and they were back before I even woke up.

The Aegeon Beach Hotel is one of those places where there are lounge chairs and umbrellas set up on the beach for you.  We felt luxurious ditching our mismatched, salt-stiffened towels for the spiffy blue hotel ones, and sitting up off the sand in comfortable chairs.  We had the morning to hang out and swim, and go for one last snorkel in the sea, the Temple of Poseidon watching over us from a nearby hill.

Although we had to check out of our room at noon, the hotel folks were kind enough to let us use another room to shower and change before we left.  We grabbed lunch at the taverna next door and then hit the road.  One last Greek salad, one last order of fried cheese—it’s good stuff.

We had a 3 ½ hour drive from Sounio to Patra, where we would board our last and longest ferry.  We arrived in Patra early enough to stretch our legs in the square and get some pizza for the kids.  A local newsstand stocked a huge range of magazines and newspapers in English, which made me unreasonably happy—I picked up The Economist and People to catch up on the important and interesting news of the day.

Our boat was scheduled to depart at midnight, but we were able to board at 9:30, so we schlepped our stuff on board (including a few bags of food Alec insisted on stopping at the market for on the way) and got settled into our cabin.  We have a window which, although it is salt-encrusted, is a luxury.

There is something romantic about traveling by sea, and the fact that we are getting somewhere while we sleep—instead of driving for days through Albania and Macedonia, which Alec tried to convince me would be a good idea for awhile there—is terrific. In reality, however, the room is pretty much like a Motel 6 room, except with bunk beds and a smaller bathroom.

When we woke up this morning, we were in port somewhere.  I left the room to get some tea, only to find much of the floor space outside occupied by people sleeping on blow up rafts, sleeping beds, fold-up lounge chairs, and beach towels.  One guy had spilled out of the common room in which his family had settled, his large, hairy belly protruding into the hallway on the way to one of the coffee shops.  The ship folks seem to keep some of the lounges sleeper free, thank goodness.

There is a pool on board, and the kids have been swimming, messing with the new art supplies we brought with us, and playing in the room.  I’ve nearly finished my fall syllabus.  We sleep on the boat again tonight, and arrive in Venice early tomorrow morning.

The very bad ferry

Lemoinya cried when I hugged her goodbye.  We brought her a box of food that we couldn’t bring with us, and she insisted on giving me a bag of almonds, and a chocolate bar for each of the kids.  Her face is the color and texture of a baked apple, her whole life etched onto her face.

Alec has asked me to report that we did not, in fact, have too much food left over.  I guess he has been reading my past posts.  Perhaps I’m just in denial about how much we eat.

We boarded the ferry in Mesta Port, and before we even got going it became clear that the ride would not be as smooth as those we had had on our previous boats.  I know that I get seasick, having once practically overdosed on a seasickness medication you apply as a patch while in the Galapagos.  So as soon as I felt the rocking in the pit of my belly, I took motion sickness medication.  Our kids have never gotten sick on a boat before, and we did not want to medicate them without good reason, so we took a chance.  We weren’t out of port an hour before the summer bronze drained out of C.C.’s face and she began to turn green.  I ran to the bathroom with her.  She got sick, and C.C. does not handle the kind of discomfort she was experiencing well.  She was really wailing there for awhile.  We got her to keep some Dramamine down, and she calmed down in front of a movie.  Meanwhile, my medication kicked in and I could not keep my eyes open.  There were no couches for stretching out, so I spread one of our fleece blankets on the floor, laid down on it, and covered myself over with the other.  I was knocked out for about an hour. 

Two television sets were set in the wall in the front of the lounge where are seats were located, and they blared for the entire voyage.  I asked one of the stewards if they could turn them down—it was clear no one was watching them.  He seemed to agree, but then it never happened.  So we were subjected to years-old episodes of The Nanny and Janice Dickinson’s Modeling Agency.  I tried reading aloud to Milo but I was no competition for Fran Drescher.

When we finally arrived in Lavrios, after 9 pm, we were all tired and snappish.  We have gotten along remarkably well given that we have no spent nearly 5 weeks together, 24/7.  But sometimes you just have a bad day.

Perhaps Alec was prophetic when, months ago, he reserved us a room for the night at a rather nice beachside resort, the most expensive hotel of our entire trip.  We needed it.  We put the kids to bed and went down to the restaurant for a bite to eat, after which I filled the bath with hot water and bubbles, and sank down into it.  Our Mesta bathroom had a tiny shower and, like many of the Croatian and Greek bathrooms we have had the pleasure of using, had its hand-held shower head mounted at waist height.  Great for the environment, but not so effective for relaxation.  And really difficult if you want to shave your legs.  My butt kept bumping into the olive green shower curtain of unknown provenance.  So the bathtub was a real treat. 

When I was 4 years old, my family took a 9 week camping trip.  My sister Leslie was 8 (Jody was not yet born).  We had a VW camper and we did a complete lap around the continental US.  We had a portable Coleman stove and a cooler for food, and ate only twice in restaurants.  We didn’t stay in a single hotel. When the fish were biting, we stayed put for awhile.  When they weren’t, we kept driving.

Perhaps this early experience predisposed me to think nothing of a 6 week road trip with Alec and the kids.  When I mentioned our plan to a friend in Barcelona in the spring, she seemed surprised—“Wow, that’s a long time!” she replied.  I wondered, for a nanosecond, if maybe we were crazy.  I’m convinced that we are not crazy, and it has been a great trip.  But I admit that recently I’ve been wondering whether my mother every got any alone time during that entire 9 weeks. 

Photos of the Day