The Runaway Cook

The morning is still young, my swim suit is on, map in my hand, Norwegian at my side and get with my backpack on his back. We are headed to the beach today, but not until we have picked up our breakfast and lunch at a market that is said to have exceptionally fresh fish and produce.

Just inside a large brick building with wide open walls, is a sea without water. My eyes can't stop staring at the glossy creatures laid out shaved ice. So many suction cups and so many scales! From prawns and shrimp to giant fish and octopus, there's so much of everything, even bins full of snails.  It's hard not to just buy a fish with the sound of the Grand Canal swishing next to us.

Our goal is to make a picnic today so we must press on to the produce. Every stone fruit you could imagine is here. Cherries, nectarines, round peaches, flat peaches, purple plums, and even these amazing little oblong yellow plums. All these Italian grown stone fruits are spectacularly delicious and my absolute weakness, even more than gelato and pasta. The hazy skin of a plum and the bright red of a nectarine beckon my euros and leave my fingers wet and sticky from their sweet juice. Needless to day my breakfast today was a peach.

Men behind the tables yell in multiple languages convincing locals and tourists alike that their food is the best. Remember no touching! Just tell the person behind the table "for today" or "for later" and they will give you what you need. But if you are eyeing what seems to be the perfect peach out in front they'll let you grab it.

Today I'm doing all the talking. Peter and I pick out fruits and I dig through out pooled euros and get what we need. Then the precious bags get slipped into the backpack and we move to the next table.  Everything is going pretty smoothly and then I see them, grape tomatoes on the vine. More red than a tub of grandma's lipstick these little orbs look fantastic. I ask to see them and am offered a taste. The skin taught skin popped from the pressure of my teeth. Sweet and sour juice explodes over my taste buds and I buy two bunches. More than I need but I just can't help myself. Indulging in tomatoes isn't really an indulgence is it?

Next we step into a cheese shop, Casa Del Parmigiano . Here cheese is practically a food group on its own. Hanging in the doorway are long plastic garlands to perhaps ward off pigeons. Two small graying men stand behind two conservative-looking, clear cases of cases filled with rows of cheese. Four bookshelves hold rounds of hard cheeses accompanied by a couple of prosciutto legs hanging from the ceiling. Today Camembert, Asiago, and salami are the winners. Sweet smiles come from behind the counter and accented laughs give way to a ciao as we step out the door.


Our pack is getting full but we have got to get some bread. I'm thinking focaccia or something with a crust that crackles. Just a few steps away is a little bakery with exactly what I want. Peter and I pick out bread perfectly crisp baguettes.


The backpack is full and now it's time for the beach. Until next time my friends! Now where are those tomatoes?

The skinny streets of Venice

After a brief check-in with the strangest hostel-own I've met to date, Peter and I are off to see as many sights as we can that are listed in his revered travel book.  We also have a map with special locations highlighted. Peter's philosophy is to cross reference with his guide and forget about all the sights that aren't in his book. "It must not be important" he reasons. I giggle and go along with it since there are too many X's on the map to get to in one afternoon.

"How about you take the map and I'll read the book!" he says with that strong Norwegian, decisiveness. I agree and find that navigating these itsy-bitsy streets is pretty fun. With all the tiny roads and landmarks that amount to small fountains in widening parts of the street, it's little exciting to feel like I know where we are going.

Peter seems to be blindly following me so that too feels pretty good. I did get a little confused a couple times but with some gentle arguing we figured out where things were. I'm not sure how many bridges we crossed during the trek, somewhere close to 50 I think.

Our stops included chapels, shops, piazza, sainted squares, and famous bridges. The paintings in these chapels seem darker, in color and theme, than those of other cities. The very small church, San Rocco, had large dark paintings lining the walls and thick red drapes in the windows. What I remember most are the hanging lamps and wooden crucifix that seemed haunting. Perhaps it was a combination of the sun setting and the drapes keeping out the light or maybe just the strikingly gaunt look of the body, but I just can't seem to get that sculpture out of my head.  

Venice is gorgeous from above. The turquoise water is a pleasing contrast to sienna-colored roofs and gray stone streets. I can see San Giorgio Maggiore and the dome of the Santa Maria della Salute church. To top that off the sky is as perfectly blue as the water and there's just enough breeze to make me not want to go back down that elevator.  Eventually Peter tore me away from the view and we walked on.

To the left are the steps of the station and that bridge is the one we crossed to get to the hostel

Walk to far from the steps of the strain station and you fall right in. Shimmering and sloshing in its winding path, the Grand Canal more than grand. It's magnificent and surreal. Walking over these bridges every few feet and skipping along the seams of water and stones, I feel like I'm merely floating on the pearly green water.

My hostel happens to be just across from the train station, which means crossing a very tall bridge over the canal. I'm perfectly fine with a small hike up and down, but at this point my feet are half-dead, torn, and worn out more than my shoes. That, and the fact that this very large suitcase of gifts and belongings is as heavy as a middle schooler are going to mean trouble for me.

Luckily I am meeting my new friend from Norway who goes by "Peter" (an easier version of the norwegian counterpart)  has been patiently waiting for my train to arrive. I think I was more happy to see him standing there with is silly hat and dark shades than I was to eat my dinner that evening. I admit that one of my dreams is to have someone actually waiting for me at an airport or train station. Believe it or not, with all this traveling and even flying back and forth to school I rarely see someone waiting at the edge of the steps. So this occaision was more than a relief. To top that, this strapping man took my load of stuff and carried it over the Grand Canal and up the stairs to our hostel. What a peach!

At this point, I have officially entered heaven as he continues to tell me his "plan" for us. He explains he has scouted out Venice and the attractions a bit and states, "Tonight, we see the city and tomorrow we go to the beach."

I am floored at how prepared my buddy is. All signs of exhaustion have left me as well as my plan of a long shower and early bedtime. I mean who wouldn't want to take a late afternoon walk on the water?


Photos from other sources: http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1308/917931481_56bc104728.jpg
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