Innocent (Rome - Florence)

What wonders a good night's sleep can accomplish, dear reader. Generally, I judge the time by the light, but in a different country, it's not so easy. What I thought was around 6am, judging by the light creeping under the curtains, was actually 8am and it would be another hour before Jayne stirred. When I pulled back the blockout curtains the light was devastatingly, eye-shielding bright.

The view from balcony by day.

Our two nights in Rome were meant as a recovery period from the flights. Transit time from Sydney to Rome was about 40 hours. As a result we had planned only one excursion, a visit to the Galleria Doria Pamphilj, a palace about a 20 minute walk from the hotel. It is still a family 'home' as such but they have opened the gardens and some of the rooms to the public. It has a interesting history dating back to the days of Pope Innocent X, one of the Pamphilj family members whose power and position cemented the family's place in the Roman aristocracy well beyond his death in 1655.

And that brings us to today's title dear reader, Innocent by Taylor Swift from her 2010 album Speak Now.

Armed with her trusty paper map, Jayne steered us there through the hoards of people. Apparently shoulder season doesn't exist anymore and I am beginning to question if there are any Americans left in the US. I mean, I get why they would want to be anywhere else, but still.

A random church doorway.

The idea was to find somewhere to have a coffee and a pastry on the way to the Palace. Great theory. Possibly the roads we travelled were well worn tourists paths but there were precious few cafés that weren't in the full blast of the Roman sun. Before we realised, we were standing outside the gates of the palace, an hour early. Plan adjusted, we would eat afterwards, something light and have dinner near the hotel in a trattoria.

The courtyard.

We wandered through a courtyard garden, past an elegant (read expensive) eatery and along a corridor to ascend a flight of stairs. Here we found a turnstile which marked the entrance to the palazzo proper. We checked if our entry, an hour early, was permissible - it was. So in we went, armed with our audioguides to tour the palazzo. 

A door latch on the velvet wall paper.

Since the palace is still a family home, only particular sections are open to the public. A walk through the rooms reveals of the opulence and wealth of the ruling classes from the 1600s through till today. The ballroom with the parquetry floor and orchestra stand, the chandeliers, the velvet wallpaper, the frescos on the ceilings, leave you in doubt about the wealth of this family.

The ballroom looking towards the art wings.

The four wings of the private art collection are the crowning glory. They have works of Titian, Caravaggio, Garofalo, and Lavinia Fontana the first self-funded female artist in Europe. Her biggest claim to fame was painting the first female nude.

Each wing had a ceiling fresco and there was a hall of mirrors wing, like a mini Versailles. Pretty cool to have in a family home.

The hall of mirrors.

There were numerous paintings and busts of Pope Innocent X. The most remarkable was by Velázquez and is famous not for the subject matter, but for the realism of the portrait. It went against the usual stylised portraiture of the period. And it is a cracker, capturing the sneering arrogance and impatience of man of power, privilege and position. If looks could kill. Apparently the Pope did not like his portrait, remarking, "it's too real".

Pope (not so) Innocent X

There were so many artworks and fortunately only a few had corresponding information on the audio guide, otherwise we would still be there. The halls were decorated with marble busts and sculptures as well. In the centre was a typical Roman courtyard resplendent with orange trees and cooled by a fountain. A lovely respite from the outside world today, let alone the politics of the Renaissance period.

Beyond the art wings was a museum style hall with more art work, marble sarcophagi and other object d'art collected by family members. It is was well worth the visit for the art works alone, but to put it into perspective in terms of position, privilege and power.

The chapel.

I'm sure the proximity of the palace to the Trevi Fountain was of some use 500 years ago. Not so much today. The crowds! The narrow pavement. It was not fun dodging people and mindless sheep following a rag on a stick. 

We had spent over two hours in the palace. It was beer o'clock and time for a light snack before we went back to the hotel. There were plenty of places and most of them were busy or were serving bain marie food. No, no, no. This is Italy. I wanted proper food. Fortunately we stumbled across a small café with tables in a side street in the shade. In the end we sat inside and had a pizza and a beer. I ordered 'grande' for the bira because we'd been walking all morning and on our feet in the palace, expecting a 500cl glass of Moretti. Instead we scored 1 litre. My bad. Or good. it's a perspective thing.

Refreshing.

The capricciosa pizza was very tasty, but lacking olives and artichoke. I know these things are regional, but the olives are a must. Also, I'm a purist. There is only one true style of pizza, Napoli. If you have an hour to kill, I'll bore you with the stylistic differences.

Someone is getting married.

On the way back to the hotel we checked out Roma Termini for a café for breakfast in the morning while we await the train to Florence. As the afternoon disappeared, we contemplated a trattoria for dinner, but ultimately found it unnecessary. We adjourned to the bar for a glass of wine. It was happy hour (of course it goes for two hours) and it was quiet. The staff decided we should eat the bruschetta and pizza slices that would normally be shared with the other patrons. Dinner sorted!

Another day ends.

Early to bed to pack and be fully rested for a transit day.

Roma - Firenze

Once again I slept late. I'll blame the time change. We were packed and out of the hotel by 10:30am for a train at 12:10pm. The walk to Termini is about 5 minutes and when we arrived, we were shocked. There were people everywhere. It was a seething mass of humanity, some of it more seething than others. We witnessed a number of frayed tempers in the heat and chaos (no, it wasn't Brad).

The pre-chosen café was a zoo. There were people and bags jumbled everywhere - no vacant tables and people occupying tables that hadn't been cleaned for a while. The queue to order food for take-away was out the door. Hmmm. Not such a good choice, like thinking Pauline Hanson is the answer.

Downstairs we went because there were other options there. None, however, offered anywhere to sit and eat. In an effort to gouge every cent out of the real estate, available space was given to stores like Sephora and Mango. There were no seats or benches anywhere. The result was hundreds of people, milling around with luggage, hoping to find some respite.

The take away shop we selected had bench space and six stools and we scored. So we sat there and had a light brunch before we ascended to the departure level and waited for our train. PSA: do not turn up to the station more than 20 minutes before your train is due to arrive.

In an interesting manoeuvre, our train was arriving early and departing 5 minutes earlier than our ticketed time. Cheeky. We made it on board, stowed our suitcase above our seats and Jayne was almost wiped out by an ignorant American woman who couldn't wait and pushed past her while she trying to put her backpack in the rack. I mumbled words of insult loud enough for her husband to hear as he followed her down the aisle. Something I'm sure he regrets now.

The Frecciarossa move at speed. The fastest I noted was 248kmh and we were in Firenze at the scheduled time of 1:46pm. Santa Maria Novella was also crowded but not like Rome. We wheeled our bags down the platform, I lost another tyre, and then we were out into the Firenze sunshine.

The hotel is a mere 4 minute walk from the station on via Nazionale. With a grand name like that, you'd think the footpath would be wide, but no. Barely enough room for two people. Tour groups with their long straggling lines made it difficult to get into (and later out of) the hotel.

At check-in, they apologised for not upgrading me but assured me they had provided some extras. Whatever. The room is plenty large enough with a lounge area and desk. We unpacked as much as we intended; living out of packing cells, as I have often remarked, is a game changer. After a brief rest, it was time to brave again the Florentine sun and reacquaint ourselves with the local area. We are not far from where we stayed last time we visited, almost 10 years ago.

Where we stayed last visit is circled.

Jayne had researched places to eat so we went for a wander around to see where the Medici Palazzo was located so we could go straight there after breakfast tomorrow. The restaurants are all very close by, one that is famed for its paninis. I'm not sure I'll be attempting their signature Florentine panini. The 'hero' of the roll is meat. Allegedly. The second stomach of the cow.

It was still warm and we hadn't had a hydrating beer so we did the Florentine thing and opted for a limoncello spritz in the shade.

Limoncello spritz anyone?

After that, it was back to the hotel and then off to dinner, 300 metres away at Osteria Dei Medici, where we dined al fresco on bruschetta, topped with creamy burrata, followed by pici cacio e pepe. It's a hard life but someone has to live it ...

Alla prossima.

Kodachrome (Madrid - Hong Kong - Sydney)

After a few early mornings, we finally had a later start. Our tickets for the Prado listed an 11:15am entrance but before that, we had to download the audio guide. Of course, dear reader, this meant downloading another app with which to listen to the guide. Do you see where this is going? Have you been with me since the Gaudi Park in Barcelona? Correct. I was duped into purchasing tickets from a third-party web site. Again. That was not evident until we arrived at the museum, so as usual, I’m getting ahead of myself.

We left with enough time to arrive at the Prado at our appointed time, but not with enough leeway to stop for breakfast. Hardly an unusual occurrence for us when we travel. Had we not experienced the indulgence of the APT cruise and the Matt’s Produce food and wine tour, we would have come home significantly lighter.

We made it.

As expected, the line to purchase tickets for immediate entrance, stretched from the ticket office around the side of the museum building. A smug smile as we strolled past, around the corner to the entrance for ticket holders where there was no queue. To be fair, we did have to ask where the entry was - Spanish signage, as I have mentioned, is structured for the intuitive only. If you need a sign, it is invariably not there. I’m sure there is a philosophical discussion to be had around this. I think therefore I am. Do I need a sign of there is one present?

No queue for us.

Through security, I grabbed my camera and an extra battery just in case there was an issue like I had at San Lorenzo. Headphones on and map in hand we tried to decipher how the museum was laid out. I’m sure someone believes it was logical. My perspective? It was designed by a committee after a long lunch and several bottles of Pedro Ximénez.

We found the first headphone symbol with a number and went to our audio guides. No deal, as they say. Back out to the foyer area and a quick chat with one of the helpers made me realise I had been sucked in again. Our audio guide was not their official audio guide although the tickets were good.

One thing I have learnt about the major tourist attractions in Spain is that there are many, many sites that masquerade as the genuine site. We ended up with a guide that probably had notes on less than a third of the artworks when compared to the official guide. Not happy Jan. To exacerbate the problem, there were two voice overs, both British, who couldn’t pronounce simple words like ‘annunciation’ or ‘Titian’ or ‘typified’. The male couldn’t even follow the punctuated script in front of him.

The next shattering realisation was that there was a strict, enforced, absolute rule of no photography. I spent the whole day with my camera slung over my shoulder, as useful as an ashtray on a motorbike. Which of course is the tenuous link to today's title, Kodachrome by Paul Simon from 1973.

The only photo I was allowed to take inside the museum - inside the museum cafe.

Nonetheless, we had an audio guide and three floors to cover. The no photos rule turned out to be a bonus. It meant no endless selfies, so some tour groups moved on faster than others. For you, dear reader, it means a shorter post than usual because I have no photos to illustrate our experiences.

The short story is that the Prado houses a wonderful collection of European art from the 12th century through to more contemporary pieces. There is one solitary painting of Picasso's from 1943 that sits uncomfortably in contrast with the works around it. Perhaps the pained look on some of the saints' faces is because they have to look at Picasso's Buste de Femme all day.

Goya before his depressing 'black' stage.

Around 2 pm, the constant standing and walking on an empty stomach was taking its toll and we hadn’t even completed the first floor. A quick espresso and something to pump up the blood sugar levels saw us back on the circuit in no time, realising that we needed to pick up the pace if we were going to make it home that night.

We walked from the Prado to head for dinner just after 6pm. We had been on our feet for almost 7 hours with an audio guide that was clearly deficient. If we’d used the official audio we might still be there. There was still a queue at the ticket office, a longer one than in the morning; it snaked all the way down the side of the museum.

A queue as far as the eye cold see.

My Amex card regularly delivers little presents to us (unpaid advertisement) like $200 off a meal while you’re travelling overseas. Happily one of the listed restaurants was less than a 10 minute walk from the museum. We were seated, perusing the menu in no time.

It was a seafood restaurant so we ordered prawns and octopus, a side of asparagus and a bottle of Albariño. Sadly the octopus was overcooked and Jayne left it all to me. Since Amex was picking up the bulk of the bill, we also ordered dessert and my favourite Spanish accompaniment, two glasses of that thick, luscious Pedro Ximénez. Aside from breakfast, it was the cheapest meal we had at $74 AUD including tip, after the Amex contribution.

The streets were coming alive as we walked back to the hotel to pack for the long trip home.

Titian's Last Supper from San Lorenzo.

The night was punctuated, as usual, by the comings and goings and discussions of the other residents on the floor of our hotel. The number of people who conduct all their conversations with outside voices is amazing. Anyway, there would be payback tomorrow morning as we dragged our suitcases down to the foyer at 8am before the sun rose.

The guy at reception unlocked the car park lift for us and the first step in a very long journey was taken. The drive to the exit was negotiated safely and then the exit door creaked and groaned after I pushed the exit button and stuttered to a stop. Here we go, I thought, transit day drama. I leant out and pushed the clearly signposted exit button again and the door miraculously opened - we were free. It would have been nice if the entry to the car park had been as clearly marked quipped Jayne.

Titian's St Jerome in Penitence from San Lorenzo.

Our route to the airport was a circuitous one because we needed to fill up the tank of the hire car. How many petrol stations are there on the lead in roads to the airport in Madrid, dear reader? None, actually. Why? Spain. Things are not what you might think they should be at times.

Anyway, tank full, we set off again into the Madrid morning peak. We had programmed Google to take us to the rental car return as Google suggested. Except it listed Terminal 1 and we were departing from Terminal 4. The journey to this point had been punctuated by the usual trauma of driving on unfamiliar roads in heavy traffic. As we neared the turn off I had cold feet and headed for Terminal 4 instead of the mapped route to Terminal 1.

A marigold to break up the text.

As we approached Terminal 4, it was again decision time. Do I take the road to arrivals or departures? Rental car return was at arrivals. I chose departures because we were leaving the country. Incorrect! It was a drop-off area only. A quick trip around the area and its numerous round-a-bouts had us shortly driving into a car spot at the Europcar rental, just prior to the 9:00am deadline. Key handed over, mobile phone signed, I’ll never get used to the lack of paperwork, and we headed for the terminal to check in.

This would be the next test. I couldn’t check in online because some of Jayne’s details were missing. This is not usually a problem, but booking through a third-party agency to get cheap Business Class flights meant I didn’t have the details. We were third in line when the desks opened and they called all the Business Class ticket holders straight to the attendants. Nice. We were sitting in the lounge in no time. It seemed an easy transit but we were both on edge and keen for a glass of cava. Not today, they had red or white wine or beer. Coffee and croissants it was; the bubbles would have to wait until we were on the plane.

Boarding happened on time and we left as scheduled. Double thumbs up to Cathay Pacific. The champagne was delightful and the meals okay. The plan was to sleep on this leg and stay awake on the next so when we arrived home, we would be ready to sleep. No, it didn’t happen. Jayne binged movies and I wrote the blog posts.

Another text breaker.

We landed in Hong Kong on time but the process through security was ludicrous. The queue stretched almost as far as the line to get into the Prado. We were directed to another area, about 500 metres away where at least there was no queue. 

Drappier champagne in the Cathay Business Lounge helped calm the nerves. Once again, comparisons with our national carrier are not flattering. The food offerings here were amazing but we did not have the time to explore them. Separate breakfast bar, noodle bar, teahouse and a bar for alcoholic beverages.

We were late leaving for reasons that weren't explained. The flight was uneventful except for a few minor bumps and the fact that Jayne did not receive her selected main meal again. Not what we'd been told to expect with Cathay.

Almost nine hours of flight time with minimal sleep again. In Sydney we were forced to wait 20 minutes for our disembarkation bay because it was blocked by an Emirates A380. Our bags were out early, well done Cathay, and customs was a breeze. Can anyone tell me why, in Sydney, we still need to fill in those ridiculous 'arrival cards' when everything should be available in digital format?

Our pick-up was a few minutes later than expected but we were at home by 10:30pm. All up, door-to-door we spent 32 hours in transit with less than an hour's sleep.

And that, dear reader, is a wrap. There will be another blog in March when Dave and I tackle the Tarkine again. The big trip in '26 will be a return to Europe, Tuscany with Matt's Produce and a cruise down the Nile on the way back to Australia. I still need to fill in the bit in between. Stay tuned.

Until next time.

Bus Stop (San Lorenzo de El Escorial via Madrid)

I was certain I would not adjust to dawn being at 8:30am, dear reader, especially when we had an Uber booked for 8:00am to take us to the bus interchange. The Uber was dead on time and I had my first ride in a BYD Seal. Very tidy. We were at the interchange in a little over 10 minutes. That provided the first challenge of the day. Moncloa is not just a bus stop; it stretches underground and has buses arriving and departing for all points. Here's another lesson for Australia: an extensive public transport system with regular connections take cars off the road.

After perusing a notice board, Jayne decided to do the feminine thing and ask directions. Luckily she did, because our bus to San Lorenzo de El Escorial was leaving from the terminal across 8 lanes of roadway and downstairs from gate 11. Sounds confusing but it was easily found with a bus waiting for us. We paid the €6 for two tickets and perched ourselves on the back seat. Happily, a few stops into the 45 minutes journey, a pair of seats over the wheels became available and we gave up bouncing around for a smoother ride.

The sun was rising over Madrid as we climbed the hills towards San Lorenzo. We arrived at the interchange around 9:15 am and it was a refreshing 10°. Out came Google maps, searching for a nearby café that was open. After a slight orienteering error, we arrived at a very popular, cosy little establishment and settled down for the usual double espresso, accompanied by tomato tostados and a muffin.

Our tickets for San Lorenzo listed entry at 10:30am but we decided to test the system and arrive at 10am when the doors opened. Tickets scanned, in we went, through security, dropped the backpack in the cloak room and commenced our tour via our audio guides.

Looking up from the first courtyard.

And what is San Lorenzo I hear you ask, dear reader? So glad you're interested. It is a former monastery in the hills above Madrid and has a Basilica at its centre and was a royal palace at one time. One of the other major attractions is the library where it holds the Speyer Gospels that date back to the Holy Roman Emperor Henry III. They are written in gold ink. It also contains some serious artworks by Titian, among others. The whole site was declared a World Heritage site by UNESCO in 1984.

The library.

We dutifully followed our audio guide,  commencing with the library and monastery apartments and then on to the Basilica. The dome of the Basilica dominates the entire palace precinct. I've got to hand it to the architects, every time I think "another bloody church or Cathedral" I walk in and am awestruck. They got me again this time. The soaring dome, the side altars, the reliefs on the ceiling ... you get the idea.

The altar.

The dome.

From there, we walked through the royal palace and the mausoleum. There were separate rooms for the royal babies and the kings and queens. At some stage, my camera battery gave up the ghost. The spare battery was in my backpack in the cloak room. I never thought I'd be grateful my phone can also be a camera but here we are.

Corridor with frescoes.

The young royals.

Then it was out to the pool and garden. The pool is now more of a pond for frogs. Lots of frogs. The gardens are typical of the earlier time period when they were created. Manicured hedges, orange trees for sweet scent and they over look the countryside back toward Madrid.

The war room,

and ceiling.

All up, we were there for almost 4 hours. The fresh air and the more relaxed pace with less invasive tour groups was a most welcome change.

The frog pond.

The next challenge was getting the bus back to Madrid. Foolishly, we assumed that it would leave from where we were dropped off. Partially correct but without the assistance of a friendly off-duty bus driver, we would have been stranded until we worked out the vagaries of the situation. 

Part of the gardens.

We walked directly back to the bus interchange where we were dropped off hours earlier. There were very few people around, although in the area beneath us there were several buses. I walked forward to the railing that stopped stupid people falling over the edge and there was a sign in Spanish, who’d have thought, that translated as, ‘not beyond this point’.

The view back to Madrid.

That made sense, so I returned to the waiting room/information area. The information office was closed because it was Saturday afternoon. There was a scrolling timetable that had either of the buses we could catch back to Madrid leaving at times that were not evident on the online timetable, like in five minutes. It’s a bit like the Spanish Inquisition with the time schedules, no-one expects the Spanish Inquisition and we weren’t expecting a bus for about thirty minutes.

Another perspective.

As the five minutes counted down, an off-duty bus driver arrived and spoke to us in Spanish. Obviously, we didn’t understand him, but he knew we were waiting for a bus and he communicated to us that the bus would not stop here. Weird, we were standing directly outside the waiting room opposite where we had been set down hours before. Urging us to follow him, we crossed to the other side of the building and walked towards the ‘no go’ railing. Were we being lured to our deaths, dear reader? Were our kidneys about to be harvested? Can you tell I’m killing time and writing this on a plane?

A chapel in the Cathedral. Interesting.

Two of the above can be answered in the negative. On this side of the building, there was a ramp leading down to a row of buses waiting for passengers. Was there a sign? From the gods, or any bus authority? No there was not. Spain (read that in an exasperated voice). He generously walked us to the 664 bus to Madrid and saw us safely on board. The engine roared to life as soon as we were seated and the bus pulled out and drove around the circular drive up to where we had been waiting moments earlier. Passing some other unsuspecting potential passengers, we sailed out onto the street toward Madrid. Cheers to you, unsung hero, I raise my glass to a person who went above and beyond for a couple of unwitting tourists.

An original Titian.

The 664 was the quick bus and it was soon on a freeway heading back to the city. The traffic was congested at times, but otherwise it was a smooth trip. And the bus (non) stop inspired today's title. A classic by The Hollies.

Back at Monlcoa, we opted to walk back to the hotel, given there were no time constraints. There were a few photo opportunities in the area, a triumphal arch and some space age building beyond it, but ultimately there was effort involved in dodging traffic and people, so I opted out. It was downhill, mostly, back to the hotel and we passed many interesting looking patisseries, cafés, the usual stuff until I found a supermarket and popped in to purchase a bottle of Brut Nature Cava for Cava Sunday. Some traditions, dear reader, are worth preserving. Others, like the monarchy in Australia or the Union Jack on our flag, not so much.

Cava in backpack, we continued our walk to the hotel. We refreshed ourselves and waited until a civilised Spanish dinner time before walking to a local restaurant. To do this, we had to negotiate Plaza del Calleo where there were the usual queues of people and (this time) a marquee in the middle of the square. The explanation for these phenomena remains a mystery.

We scored an outside (tourist) table, an excellent people watching place because it was a pedestrian thoroughfare. Opposite us was a churros restaurant/café, whatever the term, which ensured Jayne’s fascinated and undivided attention for most of the evening. She was quite disbelieving of the amount of churros and corresponding chocolate that was consumed by people she thought far too thin to be able to do so and maintain their figure. Not to mention that it would soon be dinner time for these people.

The plaza was even more crowded on our return trip, although the marquee had gone. In its place, amongst the throngs of tourists and shoppers, were hosts of the beautiful people. Suits, dinner gowns, it was like a red-carpet experience. They appeared to be arriving for the cinema. Yeah, I don’t get it either, dear reader. Maybe it was an opening night, but I’m not convinced, I think it was just the place to be seen to flash your wealth. Sad really.

Anyway, in Spanish street walking style, I took no prisoners as we made a direct line for the hotel.

That was a very big day on our feet.

Until tomorrow.

Island of Lost Souls (Venice)

And today dear reader I hit the wall. I have had enough of the crowds, the lack of consideration for other people, the endless tour groups stampeding over anyone and anything who get in their way, the pushing and the shoving and dawdlers who block the entire alleyway while they look in shops or chat or just stand there indecisively. It is time for some space and that will happen soon enough. It is Sunday and we begin the long trek home on Tuesday. But let's begin with our last conclusion.

The Biennale is on, expect the unexpected

The fireworks never eventuated. Well they did, but not for us. We lasted until 10:30pm and gave up and went to bed to be awoken by sound of explosions at 11:30pm. The rumoured 45 minute display was just that, rumour. Obviously they commenced at 11:30pm to conclude at midnight. We both acknowledged the show had commenced with a weary sigh and drifted back to sleep. Fireworks are a bit passé for any Sydney-sider.

And I have nothing to say about this

When we emerged in the morning light, the evidence of the previous night's party had pretty well been erased. Except for the occasional smell of urine in the narrower alleys. Very reminiscent of Paris on a Sunday morning at this time of year. We ventured to our local Campo for breakfast - the usual, coffee, brioche and OJ. Not the cheapest but not the most expensive either. I paid and went to pick up my change when I noticed that amount on the counter was more than I had given him. He had given me change for 50€ not the 20€ I gave him. He looked somewhat surprised when I told him he'd given me too much money, but was grateful to put 30€ back in the till.

It was time to make our way to the Church of Santa Maria della Saluté, but before we reached our destination we came across the Gallerie dell'Accademia, San Marco. This was reached via a 'temporary' wooden bridge which has resisted its temporary nature and stands today, much like the temporary demountable classrooms of Australian schools. The Accademia was quite deserted so we detoured and spent a few hours there. I had tried to book tickets online earlier in the week, but that proved as difficult to negotiate as the alleyways of Venice or a ticket machine at an Italian train station. It was a bonus to find this museum so crowd-free. I imagine it was due to the late night festivities and fireworks.

The ancient race of ninjas

Another sign that we are nearing the end of our trip: the Accademia had a sameness about it to many other works of art we have seen over the past few weeks. More works by Tintoretto, Titian and Verenese. All special and spectacular in their right, but also similar to so many others. This is not a criticism, these artists and the many they influenced had a profound impact on the world.

Old or new?

What do you prefer?

There was also an exhibition of the work of Philip Guston, responding to the work of various poets such as Yeats and Eliot. The juxtaposition of his work next to the classics is puzzling. Well it is to me. All it does is to serve to highlight his lack of talent. I'm sure an art critic would tear down my comments, but his child-like renditions of feet, or scratchy depictions of every day objects against the work of Titian? Please. What was most interesting in this particular exhibition was the number of people who managed to repeatedly encroach on the alarmed spaces in front of the exhibits - all very clearly marked on the floor by lines and/or railings. As we moved through the spaces, we continuously heard the alarms being set off and actually observed one woman who set the thing off three times in less than a minute before her friend worked out it was her that was causing the alerts. Mind you, none of the security staff seemed remotely concerned or responded in any discernible way so may be they shared our opinion regarding the artistic merit of the works.

From the Accademia we walked down to the point occupied by the Church of Santa Maria della Saluté. It has views back across the Grand Canal to the San Marco area and down towards the main pier where the big cruise ships berth. It is certainly less crowded on this island and the views in large part are interrupted only by water craft, pylons and pontoons.

Looking back across the water to San Marco

Walking around the other side of the island we went down to Chiesa del Redentore to cross the pontoon bridge that is there for the Festa del Redentore. It is only there for one weekend a year and that is when the festival is on to commemorate the redemption of Venice against the plague through the intervention of the Virgin Mary, the patroness of Venice (in most artworks we have seen, Venice is represented by the blonde Queen of Heaven). The walk across the bridge is meant to be an experience reminiscent of either being on a boat or drunk, whichever best describes the rocking sensation that  is exaggerated by the wash caused by frequent boat traffic in the channel. This reminds Venetians of the precariousness of our earthly existence and the need to be grateful for the intervention of Mary to keep Venice safe. We walked across the bridge to the church just in time for midday mass.

The pontoon bridge

Then it was time to get hopelessly lost again. We staggered back across the bridge - swaying and moving with the waves and mapped our route back to the Accademia where we needed to cross on the other temporary (since the early 1900's) bridge back to the main island. Somewhere, somehow, we missed the Accademia; we think perhaps we walked around the back of it and down the other side and missed the bridge. We wandered happily until we realised we weren't where we were supposed to be. We were geographically embarrassed. We were lost. Hence today's title, Island of Lost Souls by Blondie. We couldn't find any of the nearby streets on a map, we were lost on an island of lost souls. In a moment of dejà vu, I thought it would be a good idea to follow the signs to Piazzale Roma, which we did for a while. Until we decided to locate Piazzale Roma on the map and saw that it was miles away from anywhere we wanted to be and it appeared to be a transit terminal of some sort.

No idea where this was, but it's where gondolas go to die.

Back to the drawing board. Then I lucked onto Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari, a ginormous church that would have to be on the map. It was. Wow. We were way off course and a long way from where we wanted to be. So, it was time to retrace our steps and find that elusive bridge near the Accademia. This time we were successful and thought it prudent to stop for a drink, a bite to eat and a rest. Semi-accidentally we located one of the cicchetta osteria's that was recommended to us but we couldn't get a seat so went around the corner to a cafe and took up a position people watching and enjoying a birra alla spina with a panini.

And that is Venice.

It was then, dear reader, that the crowds started to get to me. We were following a circumlocutious path home, as one does in Venice and the paths seemed to be narrower and the maddening crowds larger and the mindless tour groups more plentiful. Unusually, we did not pass a shop where you could buy wine so we had to back track and head towards San Marco and the area behind the square. Not good at this time of the day because the day-trippers were all still here. Eventually we found a shop that sold wine, Jayne made a quick purchase and we made directly for the apartment. Time to rest and recuperate before dinner at Da Jonny's at 7pm.

Dinner was beautiful once again. Tonight we shared a bowl of mussels and clams followed by gnocchi with red sauce and prawns and Jayne had rib-eye fillet and I had cuttlefish, finished off with desserts and coffee. Service, atmosphere, food, everything was perfect. We sat outside which meant we got to watch many a confused tourist wander past, not once, in many cases twice and occasionally three times. Not all of them were amused by their geographic dislocation. Sitting eating delicious food with a glass of wine - I was vastly amused. Although the call of the night goes to the older French lady who stopped to ask directions to the station and how long it would take to get there. Our waiter happily pointed to map and showed her the route to take and said it would take about an hour to walk there. Off she went only to return about 10 minutes later, a face like thunder, ignoring the directions she had been given. When we told the waiter, he laughed, shrugged his shoulders and said, "It is Venice".

Then is it was back to the apartment to sit in the altana and listen to the sounds of Venice changing gears into a more relaxed pace once many of the tourists had returned to the mainland. That's a happy thought with which to conclude this post.

Fun fact: The two most common sights in Venice?

1. People walking with a map in hand or sitting at a cafe with a map open, trying to work out where they are or how to get some where else.
2. People walking with the mobile phone in hand, following google maps.