Finding Venice: Part Two

Continued from
Finding Venice: Part One

By now we knew we’d wandered far from St. Mark’s Cathedral, but couldn’t help ourselves. For that moment, if there were crowds around us, boats cruising past, we couldn’t have said. Adam took my hand and kissed it, just like a nobleman, and held my gaze until I blushed.

Clearly, we had a bit more wandering to do.

Turning once to the left and again to the right, we shocked ourselves into a fireworks-worthy, “Oooooohh…” We’d emerged just beside the magnificent Palazzo Santa Sofia, or Ca D’Oro, one of the most ornate gothic mansions in Venice. Back in its newer days, it was covered with scribbles of gold, and hence its nickname; in the present day, it holds time-worn court beside the legendary Grand Canal.

Crossing an especially wide and elegant footbridge, we doubled back into the Canareggio, a whole separate sestiere, or section, of the city.

The light grew pale pink, and the work day appeared to be nearing its end; people spilled out around us in all directions, arm in arm, all alone, old, white-haired, and seated in clusters. We strolled along the Rio de Fosca to the Rio de Girolamo, stopping only to peer in the windows of antique booksellers and silversmiths. Arched doorways led into dark tunnels. Iron lanterns swayed overhead from delicate chains. A middle-aged, bearded man in wire-rimmed glasses, dark robes and a fur-trimmed hat nodded at us as he passed by.

sukkot in venice 300x225 Finding Venice: Part Two

Sukkah in Venice's Jewish ghetto

Just up ahead, we stopped in our tracks: Perched by the water’s edge was a bonafide sukkah. The little house, commemorating the shelters made by ancient Jews wandering in the desert for 40 days and nights, was made of thin wooden boards, its roof draped with leaves; inside were long tables set for a communal dinner and laid with the symbolic harvest l ulav and etrog. I was brought back to my Hebrew school childhood all in a rush, helping to hang our temple’s sukkah with chains of construction paper loops and palm fronds.

On the eve of the Jewish pilgrimage/harvest festival of Sukkot, we had stumbled upon the Jewish ghetto of Venice — which, almost 500 years after its original mandate, was clearly alive and well.

It was officially our third hour in Venice, and time to eat. Retracing our footsteps back to the Strada Nuova and the Grand Canal, we emerged beside a small and sparkling bar with a dark red awning. Inside, its few tables were crowded with young men in crisply tailored suits, ties askew and collars open; the glass and marble counter was arrayed with lavish bowls of cicchetti, the “little bits” of sausage, cheese, sardines, olives and more that serve as the unique tapas of Venice.

Taking a seat outside, lights twinkled on above our heads, and the sun began to dip below the palazzos around us. The sky relaxed to lavender, then gold, shimmering along the water as one shiny black gondola sluiced by another. Strains of a mournful opera drifted over from a cafe across the canal. We ordered prosecco, Italy’s answer to champagne, and toasted my father. Had it not been for his urging, we’d have dismissed Venice as a crowded, moldy tourist trap — and missed this dream altogether.

We wouldn’t make it to St. Mark’s until the next morning, but no matter. Within a few short hours we’d learned the best thing about Venice:

No matter where you get lost, there’s always something well worth being found.