After crossing the border into Italy, stopping off for a gelato in the impressive port town of Trieste, we arrived in Venice.  Beautiful, surprising, mesmerising, confusing, fairytale-ing, floating and thoroughly enchanting, Venice.  Having said all that, we can’t help getting a sinking feeling about the place and we’re lucky to be able to see such a jewel of poor engineering, or creation of groupthink, without needing scuba gear……….. Yet.

Our apartment was lovely, in the perfectly named Campiello del VIN, complete with balcony over a canal (or unclaimed ocean), which was nearly impossible to resist to actually venture to see the city, and we thankfully reset the “days without a bidet” count in style with a ‘his’ and ‘hers’ selection. Now we just need to work out how to use them.  It’s kind of a tough question to ask someone who’s home you’re borrowing.  There was a small issue with rising damp on the level below us, which I suspect will be difficult to remedy and the damp will probably take umbrage at that comment, insisting it’s having its own descending house issues.  Fair enough, seeing the damp was there first.  There were also giant door/shutter things over the windows, whereas I was obviously hoping for blinds…to see what all the fuss is about.

Despite the cost of rental (and everything else) in Venice, actually purchasing such an apartment outright would be surprisingly cheap, but you’d hate to see the strata fees in a place where the sinking fund has never been more literal.   How much vino had the bloke who one day, sitting in a boat said, “hmmm…this is a nice spot, stuff it, let’s build here”….had. Or the ones that came along later and said “wow, that shack looks malto awesomo, let’s build heaps more…out of marble”. Our second tour guide (the first we abandoned because he just waved his hands around for 20 minutes…wasn’t really a surprise) told us that the timber in the mud, used for the “foundations”, petrify in that anaerobic environment (she didn’t say anaerobic though). However, I imagine the most petrification occurs a few centimetres above the sea level in the minds of the current home owners. (Ed’s note: There may have been a joke in it being a city built on sticks now with an economy based on selling selfie sticks, but I think we can all agree that that wouldn’t have worked. Just like the “no gunfights on the more than O.K. Canal” one wouldn’t have either. So glad we took them out.)

What every bride wishes on her romantic, honeymoon in Venice came true for Lea as two oil men from Copenhagen (Aussie, Craig and a Brit mate) came down to join us on a very Venice slow food (and quick booze) tour.  Quite useful for us, as they helped us realise why English speakers can be so hated.  Thanks guys.

We had gelato for breakfast (with whipped cream), ate cheese with Prosecco on our balcony (maybe more than once), watched hundreds of gondolas and their unhappy, extorted customers pass under said balcony (no vino in hand, when will they learn? Tell me quando?!  Quando?  Quando?), subsequently caught a €2 gondola across the Grand Canal, saw Peggy Guggenheim’s house (who’s art collection is really coming along), bought 2 x orange scarves because Lea (heathen) hadn’t covered up enough for the Basilica, Lea also got charged a bridge tax (paid via a kiss upon crossing any bridge), walked the bridge of sighs (no tax), Lea learned there are 391 bridges in Venice, we saw talented amateur painters creating priceless keepsakes of their trip (rather than a satirical travelogue…), watched the sun go down over St Mark’s from the roof of a hostel (thus proving us real backpackers…even if it wasn’t our hostel) listened as a man  played beautiful music from wine glasses (our new favourite instrument, I’m sure we could at least be good at helping with the tuning…a little higher, a little lower…) and touched a bronze horse on St Mark’s (which isn’t a euphemism, but probably should be).

We will miss you Venice (and your quiet reliance on history books rather than opening countless Marco Polo stores as evidence of his birthplace, sorry Korcula), please don’t leave us.