How To Take Travel Size Nutellas Back to the States...
This morning, Chris and I get up early. We have many plans today because we know today it's our last full day in Venice and although I'm beyond excited for the rest of the trip, Chris and I could both easily spend a month in Venice. The way the city moves, the people converse-it's so special to me. Nothing like anywhere else.
We see Fabio's jolly face when we come out of our room this morning and we tell him immediately how sad we are that we are leaving.
"You sad? But why? Going home...it's nice. And you can always come back."
He's right. We sure can come back.
DONE.
Anyway, while I type today , Chris and I savor another breakfast. Granola with fresh strawberries, coffee Americano (with very little milk and pure sugar-no Splenda! I may just return drinking coffee black...) and a croissant that I didn't realize until I bit into it, has a fresh apple and sugary juice interior that seeps out of the corners and its so rich and abundant, I catch the remaining parts in my hands.
And I know that soon I will eat a small roll with their adorable travel size Nutellas. Oh yeah, you heard right. Travel size Nutellas. Hmmm...can I grab those to take them back to the states or will that just make me look like another greedy American?
And dear God, I could eat bread here all day, everyday.
Anyway, I'm trying to get up to date on my days here in Italy. Today it is Wednesday, May 11th. I'm not quite as behind as I was before, but still, I need to blog about yesterday!
Yesterday's afternoon was a little quieter for me and Chris. Although we were still loving the city, I think it was sort of our hump day and we were both a little more on the tired side. Even still, we hopped on the boat subway (and man, let me just tell you, it's just like the NYC Metro with people shoving and pushing-determined to get to the front and get in the 'car') and go to Murano, the island famous for glass.
It's on the boat that we meet an Austrailian woman who's name is Veronica. Very talkative and friendly, Veroinca tells a lot about Murano and that she's on her fourth week of travelling Italy by herself. Wow, by herself. Impressive. During the conversation she also tells me she was going to a smaller part of the island to get away from people, however, it was funny to me that she basically couldn't stop talking to us--obviously, out of English contact for a while--yet said she needed to get away from people. I can't help but wonder, like I do most people, what her life story is like.
Anyway, Chris and I arrive on the island and window shop for a few hours. It's probably a good thing in the long run, but it's too bad that glass is so hard to travel with and take back with you. We watch glass being blown--which cracks me up because these hard working men are not only playing with fire and glass at over thousand degrees, but smoking cigarettes and laughing at their own private jokes between one another. Something about the whole scene is incredibly attractive and fun. Even admist the swealtering room.
Afterwards, we travel to another island, known as the San Michele. There, again we roam, but this time it's a huge cemetary. Appartenly, here in Venice, this is the ony place to be buried and because of that, the ground is incredibly precious. And you don't buy burial plots--oh no. You rent. Mmmhmmm. You are buried for approximetely ten years, after which, they dig you up and decide how well decomposed you are. They apparently have a rating of whether you are worthy enough to go back into the ground (aka you have not decomposed enough) but if you have been "processed" enough, it's then that you are put into a shelf with hundreds of others and your name is engraved on the outside.
So, your final resting place is actually on a shelf. Neat.
And as creepy as it sounds, I think it's actually quite brilliant.
I think...
After finding Stravinsky's grave, as well as Diaghelev's grave (the famous Russian chorographer whos grave is adorned with ballet shoes), we get back on the boat to San Marco, enjoy lunch and make it back to the hotel to rest and get dressed for another concert.
Last night's concert we sat in the Chiesa (meaning church) San Vidal, in another outrageous establishment inside and out, adorned with floor the ceiling paintings (and Jesus, every ceiling, I mean every ceiling in Italy is out of this world) to enjoy Interpreti Veneziani, an all male string octet.
Honestly, as the music hit the marble floors and walls and rung into our hears, I have to say that Vivalidi's music never sounded so sweet.
The cellist was the most amusing and entertaining (and man, he knew it). Like the pianist from the concert of the night before, I could tell when he really adores a song. He preps his body, like almost he's going to dive into the deep end of the swimming pool, for every dramatic portion of the song. But unlike the pianist, I felt like his emotions and movements were because he couldn't hold it in. The cellist, in this instance, knew it was for a show off factor. Even still, as he came to the center to play his solo and to be accompanied by the other seven, I was beyond impressed with his talent and dedication. He played so feverishly and so intensly and intoxicatingly, his bow started to fray. By the end of the song, determined with every part of his being to make it to the end, he had but half a bow left in his hands.
Oh so dramatic but I'm sure he gets lots of women in bed that way.
After the concert finished (which I never wanted to end-I forget how much I really do love classical music) the audience gives such an applause the group, they return to bow once more, then exit. The appaluse continued and they returned again for an encore, and even after the encore we as an audience clap for another two minutes.
Amazing. Just amazing.
Following the concert, Chris and I enjoy hazelnut, pistaschio, and vanilla gelato (aka a huge bowl of fun!) and as always, end our evening at our osteria with a glass of wine. We were not able to have our usual Montepulciano because they were sold out, so instead we enjoy a dryer more bitter red wine known as Maremma.
As we arrive home to our B&B, the click clacking of our heels, shared giggles from conversing about our favorite episodes of Who's Line Is It Anyway?, and the buzz of the outside lights--is all too much.
All too much and yet, not enough.
Till the next post, arriverderci!
Love love,
Adrienne
We see Fabio's jolly face when we come out of our room this morning and we tell him immediately how sad we are that we are leaving.
"You sad? But why? Going home...it's nice. And you can always come back."
He's right. We sure can come back.
DONE.
Anyway, while I type today , Chris and I savor another breakfast. Granola with fresh strawberries, coffee Americano (with very little milk and pure sugar-no Splenda! I may just return drinking coffee black...) and a croissant that I didn't realize until I bit into it, has a fresh apple and sugary juice interior that seeps out of the corners and its so rich and abundant, I catch the remaining parts in my hands.
And I know that soon I will eat a small roll with their adorable travel size Nutellas. Oh yeah, you heard right. Travel size Nutellas. Hmmm...can I grab those to take them back to the states or will that just make me look like another greedy American?
And dear God, I could eat bread here all day, everyday.
Anyway, I'm trying to get up to date on my days here in Italy. Today it is Wednesday, May 11th. I'm not quite as behind as I was before, but still, I need to blog about yesterday!
Yesterday's afternoon was a little quieter for me and Chris. Although we were still loving the city, I think it was sort of our hump day and we were both a little more on the tired side. Even still, we hopped on the boat subway (and man, let me just tell you, it's just like the NYC Metro with people shoving and pushing-determined to get to the front and get in the 'car') and go to Murano, the island famous for glass.
It's on the boat that we meet an Austrailian woman who's name is Veronica. Very talkative and friendly, Veroinca tells a lot about Murano and that she's on her fourth week of travelling Italy by herself. Wow, by herself. Impressive. During the conversation she also tells me she was going to a smaller part of the island to get away from people, however, it was funny to me that she basically couldn't stop talking to us--obviously, out of English contact for a while--yet said she needed to get away from people. I can't help but wonder, like I do most people, what her life story is like.
Anyway, Chris and I arrive on the island and window shop for a few hours. It's probably a good thing in the long run, but it's too bad that glass is so hard to travel with and take back with you. We watch glass being blown--which cracks me up because these hard working men are not only playing with fire and glass at over thousand degrees, but smoking cigarettes and laughing at their own private jokes between one another. Something about the whole scene is incredibly attractive and fun. Even admist the swealtering room.
Afterwards, we travel to another island, known as the San Michele. There, again we roam, but this time it's a huge cemetary. Appartenly, here in Venice, this is the ony place to be buried and because of that, the ground is incredibly precious. And you don't buy burial plots--oh no. You rent. Mmmhmmm. You are buried for approximetely ten years, after which, they dig you up and decide how well decomposed you are. They apparently have a rating of whether you are worthy enough to go back into the ground (aka you have not decomposed enough) but if you have been "processed" enough, it's then that you are put into a shelf with hundreds of others and your name is engraved on the outside.
So, your final resting place is actually on a shelf. Neat.
And as creepy as it sounds, I think it's actually quite brilliant.
I think...
After finding Stravinsky's grave, as well as Diaghelev's grave (the famous Russian chorographer whos grave is adorned with ballet shoes), we get back on the boat to San Marco, enjoy lunch and make it back to the hotel to rest and get dressed for another concert.
Last night's concert we sat in the Chiesa (meaning church) San Vidal, in another outrageous establishment inside and out, adorned with floor the ceiling paintings (and Jesus, every ceiling, I mean every ceiling in Italy is out of this world) to enjoy Interpreti Veneziani, an all male string octet.
Honestly, as the music hit the marble floors and walls and rung into our hears, I have to say that Vivalidi's music never sounded so sweet.
The cellist was the most amusing and entertaining (and man, he knew it). Like the pianist from the concert of the night before, I could tell when he really adores a song. He preps his body, like almost he's going to dive into the deep end of the swimming pool, for every dramatic portion of the song. But unlike the pianist, I felt like his emotions and movements were because he couldn't hold it in. The cellist, in this instance, knew it was for a show off factor. Even still, as he came to the center to play his solo and to be accompanied by the other seven, I was beyond impressed with his talent and dedication. He played so feverishly and so intensly and intoxicatingly, his bow started to fray. By the end of the song, determined with every part of his being to make it to the end, he had but half a bow left in his hands.
Oh so dramatic but I'm sure he gets lots of women in bed that way.
After the concert finished (which I never wanted to end-I forget how much I really do love classical music) the audience gives such an applause the group, they return to bow once more, then exit. The appaluse continued and they returned again for an encore, and even after the encore we as an audience clap for another two minutes.
Amazing. Just amazing.
Following the concert, Chris and I enjoy hazelnut, pistaschio, and vanilla gelato (aka a huge bowl of fun!) and as always, end our evening at our osteria with a glass of wine. We were not able to have our usual Montepulciano because they were sold out, so instead we enjoy a dryer more bitter red wine known as Maremma.
As we arrive home to our B&B, the click clacking of our heels, shared giggles from conversing about our favorite episodes of Who's Line Is It Anyway?, and the buzz of the outside lights--is all too much.
All too much and yet, not enough.
Till the next post, arriverderci!
Love love,
Adrienne
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