Saturday, June 8, 2013

Normally, I like itineraries. It’s the sense of order, I suppose, that appeals to me. But this year, everything is different. Because of the Odd Year Curse and its corollary complications, I was forced to rearrange large chucks of travel at the last minute, and the days have never quite fit back together again. It’s time to throw everything aside and wing it.

My original plan was to go to Vicenza for the day by train to see the Teatro Olimpico and some Palladian villas, but now that I’m here in Italy, I don’t much feel like it. I’m in the mood for lazy exploration, and no city invites that more than Venice.

After breakfast, I walk down through the market again and across the Rialto Bridge, stopping at Antica Murrina to buy myself a Murano glass necklace, with a matching bracelet and earrings. I buy jewelry every time I’m in Venice—it’s too hard to resist—and this set, with its unusual combination of coral, tan and purple beads, is destined to be one of my favorites.

When I reach Piazza San Marco, I circle around the perimeter, peeking in the shops that line that the arcade, then I turn past the Doge’s Palace and join the wide promenade known as the Riva degli Schiavoni. It’s crowded with bodies this morning and with souvenir stands selling T-shirts with slogans like “Keep Calm and Love Venezia.” When I reach the Bridge of Sighs, it’s difficult to push past the bottleneck of tourists taking pictures, but I need to press on. I’m heading for the Arsenale, the city’s naval shipyard, which is the site of still more art exhibits for the Biennale.

It’s a long walk back under the heat of the summer sun, past a pair of cars sunken into a makeshift beach with striped umbrellas perched overhead, but I’m determined to see a performance piece I read about in The New York Times. It’s by an Icelandic artist named Ragnar Kjartansson and it features a small boat, described in the newspaper as “a cross between a Viking ship and a gondola,” slowing sailing back and forth with a cargo of professional musicians.

Much of the art I’ve seen at the Biennale has been forgettable, and some pieces have been memorably ridiculous. This is simply memorable.

There is a captain onboard commanding the rudder of the S.S. Hangover, and a five piece brass ensemble playing the same haunting piece of music in repetition. A sign nearby introducing the piece says that the procession “alludes, perhaps, to the sixteenth-century Venetian tradition of Theatres of the World, among many other of the city’s floating festivities.”

It’s the “perhaps” that I like. The interpretation is open and loose, and there may be none at all. One article I read likened it to a funeral dirge and to sailors “crossing the bar.” All I know is that it’s a moving spectacle, and I’m glad I made the effort to see it.

The walk back to Piazza San Marco through the quiet canals and alleyways of Castello is long and confusing, but intensely beautiful. There are rainbows of laundry hanging everywhere and flower boxes resting on sills. Aside from an occasional dog on the street, or a cat perched high in an open window, Venice seems entirely mine and mine alone. It’s nice to be far away from madding crowd, if only for a moment.

It’s my last night here and I have yet to linger and hear to orchestras play. In the mood to celebrate, I settle in at Caffè Florian and order a club sandwich, a plate of Parisian style macarons, and a vividly red, non-alcoholic drink called a “Skywasser” that passes for an exotic cocktail. The bells in the campanile are chiming the bottom of the hour, and the band is warming up.

A mother and daughter from Florida are sitting next to me and we strike up a conversation, which is pleasant enough at first, but the daughter doesn’t understand why I’m sitting facing the orchestra, rather than watching the people milling about the piazza. Frankly it’s what I always do and it never occurred to me to do otherwise. I was a musician myself for many years and I like to watch the orchestra play. I think it must be strange indeed to perform night after night to the backs of people’s heads, but the daughter doesn’t understand. “But why would anyone DO that?” she whispers loudly.

As the sun begins to set, I walk west through Piazza San Marco and follow the meandering streets all to the way to the Accademia Bridge, where I board a vaporetto for home. I haven’t ticked many boxes on this trip, and I’ve barely used my Venice Card at all. I’ve never felt less inclined to visit churches and museums, but it’s been a deeply satisfying visit nevertheless. The Italians call this wondrous city of canals and bridges La Serenissima, or most serene, and rightly so. I arrived here on a water taxi four days ago struggling under the weight of things, and I leave in the morning for the bustle and excitement of Florence, more at peace with the world than I have been in a long while, and ready to embrace whatever opportunity awaits.

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

With this morning’s mist, the streets of Paris have the soft focus of a Camille Pissarro painting, which I suppose is apt since I plan to visit the Musée d’Orsay later in the day, a museum best known for its collection of 19th century Impressionist art. But for now my priority is an antiques fair that’s currently underway in the elegant neighborhood of Saint-German-des-Prés. When a quick look at a street map shows me that it’s just a few blocks west of Gérard Mulot’s decadent pâtisserie, I add that to my list as well. Tomorrow I leave for Belgium, and I’ve awakened with a renewed commitment to make the most of the time I have left in the city, whether the weather cooperates or not.

On a bench in front the church of Saint-Sulpice, I begin an impromptu picnic with a buttery croque monsieur aux courgettes, which is a sandwich on grilled toast made with ham, cheese and paper thin slices of zucchini, and end with a Palerme pastry, a moist pistachio cake ringed by triangles of dark chocolate. I really will miss Mr. Mulot.

The antiques dealers won’t open their booths until 11 AM, so I take time to see the church first. Much of the exterior is still covered in scaffolding, as it was two years ago, but the inside is ornate, dark, and pleasantly quiet. Saint-Sulpice is best known for two features: a massive pipe organ, and an understated obelisk mounted against the wall, and from which a brass line extends, inset into the marble floor. It’s a gnomon, an astronomical device that Dan Brown erroneously refers to as a “rose line” in his novel The Da Vinci Code. The hoopla over the book and the movie seems to have passed, though, because there are few tourists milling about, and none that seem remotely interested in the Priory of Sion or the Holy Grail.

It’s raining lightly when I step back outside, but the antiques market is slowly coming to life under a temporary collection of open tents. The things I see are beautiful, but mostly well outside of my price range, including a captivating oil-on-board portrait of a woman in green that looks like a character in a Jane Austen novel. I’m determined to find something, but it takes several rounds until I do, mainly because the showers passing overhead are forcing the dealers to cover and then uncover their wares time and time again. There is a woman doing her best to push the water off the sidewalks with a broom, but it seems like a losing battle. In the end, I negotiate a discount on a trio of items with a sweet woman who doesn’t speak English, by pointing and jotting down numbers on the back of an envelope. I walk away happy with a silver pocket watch, a gold bar pin, and a stunning garnet and pearl lavalier. For the first time in days, I’ve truly enjoyed myself.

The Pierre Hermé pâtisserie is just around the corner at 72 Rue Bonaparte, so I jump at the chance to try a few unusual flavors of macarons—wasabi and grapefruit, and olive oil and vanilla—both so light and fresh they melt in my mouth.

I walk from the pastry shop north to the banks of the Seine, then turn west towards the Musée d’Orsay. I’ve been to the museum before, but a new exhibit has prompted me to return. It’s called “Voir l’Italie et Mourir,” which translates (rather morosely) into the phrase “See Italy and Die.” In the context of The Grand Tour, it displays Italian photographs, prints, and paintings from 19th century. Its effect on my mood is dispiriting and unexpected, because here I am in Paris—one of the most wonderful cities in the world—and all the while I find myself heartsick for Italy, wishing I was there basking in the sun.

Still, by the time I leave, the weather is starting to break. It’s only 4 o’clock, so I head to Montmartre for the view and a relaxing end to the day, and smile when I see a picture of Barack Obama stenciled onto the metal wall of the elevator at the Abbesses metro station. I circle by the artist’s booths in Place du Tertre and wander the back streets surrounding Sacré-Cœur until my legs tire, then ride the little tourist train down the hill to Pigalle, past an elderly couple in the street playing a lively folk tune on a violin and accordion.

To celebrate my final night in Paris, I’ve planned to attend a classical music concert at Notre Dame Cathedral, and even dress for the occasion by wearing the new silk scarf I bought on the Île Saint-Louis. There is a choir performing Monteverdi’s “Vespers to the Virgin,” but by the time they start to sing it’s after 8:30 PM and exhaustion is starting to set in. Either the music is lumbering and fuzzy, or my brain is. I’m not quite sure which, but after watching a flood of people sneak out the back midway through, I suspect it’s a little of both. Feeling guilty, I do the same, but relish the rush of cool air on my face when I reach the door.

It’s after 10 PM when I settle down to supper and order a chicken club at Le Depart Saint-Michel. I pull out a copy of Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast, which I bought days ago at the Shakespeare & Company bookshop just around the corner. The street lights are dimmed by the red awning overhead, and the night air has chilled enough to warrant the use of an outdoor heater, but I’m in the mood to sit awhile and read.

In the 1920s, Hemingway and his wife lived for a time on the Rue du Cardinal Lemoine, not far from the apartment I’ve rented these last nine days, and he spent much of his time sitting at cafés such as this, likely with his chair facing out, watching the world go by. The title of his memoirs comes from this famous line: “If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.”

In spite of that sentiment, it’s actually a deeply melancholic book, and while I read it once long ago, tonight I seem to appreciate it more, especially when he describes how “the sadness of the city came suddenly with the first cold rains of winter, and there were no more tops to the high white houses as you walked but only the wet blackness of the street.” This may be the middle of June, but my Paris has been unseasonable indeed.

I read on, skimming passages here and there, until I reach the final page: “There is never any ending to Paris and the memory of each person who has lived in it differs from that of any other. We always returned to it no matter who we were or how it was changed or with what difficulties, or ease, it could be reached. Paris was always worth it and you received in return for whatever you brought to it.”

Hemingway is right, of course. And I will come back someday, too.