Well, that certainly went by too quickly.

Two Saturdays ago we arrived by train in Venice, and now we’re on another train, headed to Florence. It’s a sad moment saying goodbye to the beautiful city that’s been our home for two weeks, but we’re also ready for the next stage of our European adventure.

The idea was to try living like natives in Venice, so we waited until the almost last possible minute to do the most touristy thing we could think of: a gondola ride. Avoiding the more crowded spots like Rialto or San Marco, we found a friendly gondolier near Frari Church who took us for a lovely cruise through the backwaters of Dorsoduro and San Polo.

The last time I was in Venice I actually fell into a canal (it’s a long story). A gondola ride lets you get almost as close to the water, with far less risk of giardia or tetanus. In fact, it’s an amazingly peaceful experience–Maureen almost dozed off at one point as we slid gracefully through the narrow canals and under hidden bridges, hearing only the sound of water dripping off the oar or gently lapping against the side of the boat.

Well, that and a few “blind curve” warning cries (oooooh-ayyyy!) and descriptions of key landmarks by our gondolier. You can get a sense of the experience—and save yourself €80 to €100—by checking out the brief video below.

As we near the end of our two weeks in Venice, we’ve been looking for things to see and do that we might not have gotten around to during a shorter visit. Here are a couple examples of what we’ve been up to after crossing most of the “must-see” sights off the list earlier in our visit.

Venetian tapas: Cicchetti
Among the oldest eateries in Venice are bacari–tiny hole-in-the-wall taverns (mostly around Rialto Bridge) that serve various small plates of finger foods, called cicchetti, accompanied by equally small glasses of cheap wine. It’s kind of like tapas, but with a distinctively Venetian, rather than Spanish, accent. After spending our first week here gobbling down pizza, pasta, and fish in “real” restaurants, we decided last night to try this quintessentially Venetian dining option instead.

It was drizzling out, which added to the dark and mysterious atmosphere in the first bacaro we visited–Cantino do Mori. We ordered a couple glasses of the house prosecco, and started pointing willy-nilly at barely visible food items (or at least we hoped they were food!) displayed in the glass cases on the bartop.

Are those meatballs made of beef, pork, or something else? (Horse meat is popular in Venice, so we just ate and hoped for the best.) Is that some kind of artichoke spread on those bruschetta? (Nope, it’s anchovy paste, tasty but crunchy with bones and heaven knows what else.) We were beginning to understand why they keep the lights down so low–if you can’t figure out what it is until it’s in your mouth, then you’re already pretty much committed.

Undaunted, we decided to try another cicchetti bar right around the corner, Osteria ai Storti. It was even smaller than Cantino do Mori, but brightly lit. This time, we were better (or at least luckier!) with our selections. Fried olives were salty and delicious, and the artichoke frittata was also tasty. We decided not to push our luck any further, and headed back to the apartment.

The final verdict? Eating cicchetti made for a fun evening that we’ll remember for a long time, and it was great to participate in a Venetian dining experience stretching back to before Columbus’s journey to America (Cantina do Mori opened in 1462). But in all honesty, the culinary highlight of our night was the gelato we had on the way home. Tomorrow it’s back to pizza!

A visit to Padua
Today we decided to leave the surreal environment of Venice for a day in nearby Padua (or Padova, if you’re looking at an Italian map). However you spell it, it’s a major university city about 30 minutes by train from Venice. Emerging from the train station, it was strange to see (and smell and hear) car traffic for the first time in 11 days.

Our first stop was the historic city center, with open markets selling everything from clothes and jewelry to fruits, spices, and meat. We bought a few small items–mostly gifts for friends back home–but I think we disappointed the vendors by not dickering. I guess after all this time in super-expensive Venice, even the marked up starting prices in Padua seemed incredibly cheap!

Our next stop was the Basilica of Saint Anthony. If you know your saints–and after a couple weeks staring at Italian art, many of them are starting to feel like family to us–then you’re probably aware St. Anthony is the patron saint of lost items, handling prayers for everything from misplaced car keys to missing pets.

In an ironic twist, we actually had trouble finding the church. Yes, we got lost on the way to the cathedral dedicated to the saint who deals with lost items. (It’s only the biggest building in Padua, but there’s no need to rub that in.) We did eventually find our way there, and found it to be a pretty amazing place.

It’s emotional to watch pilgrims from all over the world weep at Anthony’s tomb as they ask him to answer their prayers. And it’s disgusting to see Anthony’s 900-year-old, semi-preserved tongue, jaw, and vocal cords in the reliquary. At least the peaceful cloister garden is right next door, where you can stare at the pretty magnolia flowers while you try to get the image of Anthony’s deconstructed mouth out of your head.

After a great lunch (yes, we somehow still had appetites) in the main city square, we hurried to make our 3:00 appointment at the Scrovegni chapel, where late-Medieval (or early Renaissance, depending on how you keep score) artist Giotto’s amazing frescoes are displayed.

Even in a country known for needlessly complex bureaucracy, getting in to see Giotto’s masterpiece requires an amazing level of commitment and patience. First, you need to book your appointment at least 24-hours beforehand. Then you need to pick up your actual tickets at the box office one hour before your scheduled visit. You’ll need that hour to navigate the poorly signed route across the museum campus, because you absolutely must be at the door to the chapel no more than 15, and no less than 5, minutes before your appointment.

You’re not done yet. Before you get into the chapel, you need to enter an antechamber via an airlock (I’m not kidding!) and watch a 12 minute orientation film. Then, finally, you’re allowed into the chapel for exactly 15 minutes before being escorted back out via a different airlock.

All this is nominally to protect the brilliant colors of the frescoes, but it also serves to add a luster of exclusivity to the entire experience. Frankly, after all the rigamarole to get in, the chapel itself could have contained just a bad stick-figure drawing of a teary-eyed clown and I’d still have felt grateful for the opportunity to personally witness such a staggering masterpiece.

But the frescoes actually were pretty darn amazing. And, when our 15 minutes were up, we caught our train back to Venice where we knew exactly how to find that gelato shop ready to put another tasty exclamation point on the end of our day.

Maureen’s sketch of the day.

Why twelve? Because there’s just no way that ten could be enough!

Click through the photo album to see the dozen most vivid memories of our first week here in Venice. Meanwhile, we’ll be out collecting new memories for week number two.

Click any photo for larger view and description.

This one’s a doozy! I could watch thunder and lightning over the Grand Canal all night. (Hopefully you can, too, since I keep posting these videos…)

This is looking out our window in the other direction from the previous video I posted. The building at the right with all the lights is the Venice casino. If only I’d brought my tuxedo…

If it has to move into, out of, or across Venice, then it’s probably moving by boat.

Our apartment has three big windows that overlook the Grand Canal, making it a great place to sit and watch the world float by (something Maureen has been doing a lot of, since she’s been stuck indoors for the past couple days with malaria from all the mosquitos I let in through the open windows–or maybe it’s just a bad cold). Check out the photo gallery below for a peek at just some of the many different kinds of boats we saw this morning.

Click any photo for larger view and description.

One thing that can slow down the canal traffic at least a little bit is rain. We’ve had afternoon thunderstorms the past couple of days, which you can get a glimpse of in the following 1-minute video also shot from our window. Not much lightning from this angle, but lots of dark, swirly clouds.

If strike one was the fiasco at the supermarket, then strike two is what happened at the pharmacy. Or, more precisely, just outside the pharmacy at the vending machine.

There are no 24-hour drugstores in Italy (or at least in Venice). Apparently they rotate shifts throughout the day to ensure at least one is always open somewhere, but this means that each store keeps a very uneven schedule. So many pharmacies have always-open vending machines outside their doors, which primarily contain a truly astonishing array of condoms, lubricants, and other intimate items. (In romantic Venice, love will always find a way!)

We were looking for something much more mundane: nail-clippers. And Maureen had spotted a set way down at the bottom of one of the vending machines, right under the glow-in-the dark, flavored prophylactics. I had just been to the ATM and had a sheaf of crisp Euro bills–mostly €50 notes–burning a hole in my pocket. I needed change, and the graphic under the slot for cash showed the machine accepted everything from €5 to €50, so I carefully inserted one of my large bills as Maureen keyed in the item code for the nail-clippers. A little elevator inside the machine moved up to the appropriate row, the mechanism spat our package onto a tray, and the elevator descended to allow us to retrieve what we’d purchased.

That’s when we learned a new Italian word: resto. It means “change”–as in “maximum change for your order is eight euros.” And we had just bought €5 nail-clippers with a €50 note. Four 2 euro coins rattled into the change box, and the machine began counting down from the one minute we were allowed to add additional items to our purchase. Who needs stress like that on vacation?

We scrambled to find other things we needed. (Feeling frustrated by yet another shopping snafu, it never even occurred to us to purchase something from the wide selection of items that might help us relieve some of that stress back in the privacy of our apartment!) Maureen scanned the merchandise and called out numbers and letters as I frantically entered them on the tiny keyboard, all while the timer continued its relentless countdown.

That’s how we wound up with the sorry array of items pictured above. Toothpaste and dental floss. Band-aids. Razors. Two kinds of moisturizing lotion. None of it even remotely necessary, since we already had most items in our toiletry kits.

Oh, and that little white pouch in the center of the photo? That’s the sleeve the nail-clippers were supposed to come in. We got the very last package in the machine–and it was empty.

Venice has to be among the most photographed places on Earth. I’ll add these pictures to the pile…

Click any photo for larger view and description.

It’s easy to get lost in Venice. The maze of alleyways (calli), passageways (sottoporteghi) and bridges (ponti) can easily disorient even those with the best sense of direction. But if you keep wandering, you’ll eventually encounter a yellow sign pointing toward one of the major landmarks–Ferrovia train station, Rialto Bridge, or San Marco.

Alas, there are no helpful placards for those times when one gets lost in Venetian culture, rather than geography. Our first such moment came less than an hour after we arrived on Saturday–at the local grocery store of all places. You’d think a couple of Americans could figure out a supermarket (after all, we’re the country that invented the damn things) but you’d be wrong.

We had just checked in at our apartment (more about it later), and had to kill some time while the cleaners turned it over from the previous occupants. So we decided to get provisions at the Coop market in nearby Campo San Giacomo Dell’Orio. Everything was going just fine until we got into the checkout line with a basketful of cheese, crackers, wine, cereal-and a couple of apples.

Now, in America, you just throw your produce on the conveyor belt with everything else. The cashier weighs it for you, punches in the magic code, and moves seamlessly on to scanning the yogurt or whatever’s next on the belt. Experienced checkers can ring up almost anything you throw at them without breaking rhythm even a beat.

That’s not how it works in Italy. As we’re now painfully aware.

I was watching the register and trying to figure out how to ask for a plastic bag, when the apples rolled to the front of the conveyor belt and everything ground to halt. I swear, I even heard the record-scratch noise like in the movies. The cashier stared down his aquiline nose at the two orbs–one Golden Delicious, one Fuji–then oh-so-slowly dragged his disdainful gaze away from the fruit and up to my face. Then he unleashed a stream of utterly incomprehensible (to me, at least) Italian.

I knew we had done something wrong, but I didn’t know what. I vaguely remembered reading something in one of Rick Steves’ guidebooks about not directly handling the produce at a street market, but that didn’t seem to make sense at a supermarket. The best I could manage was a stammering “non parlo Italiano?”

I didn’t think his expression could get more scornful than it already was. But I was wrong. He mumbled something in quasi-English, and I recognized the word “code.” I looked at Maureen, in line behind me and said, “we need the code number for the kind of apple!” Alas, I was only partly right.

Maureen hustled back toward the fruit section, while I just shrugged and smiled like an idiot at the growing line of shoppers waiting behind us. The cashier said something else I couldn’t understand, picked up the apples, and gestured with them toward the back of the store. The woman who was next in line amplified his message with one word–perhaps the only English word she knew: “Go!” So I went, sprinting after Maureen. I thought I heard a groan of frustration behind me, but kept moving.

I had the bright idea (or so I thought) of snapping photos of the chalkboards next to the two kinds of apples we’d bought, and we ran back to the front of the line, which now seemed to snake most of the way down the aisle behind the register–a half-dozen or more Italian women, their eyes shooting flaming arrows of malice in our direction. I showed the cashier the pictures on my phone, and he dropped the apples on the conveyer belt in frustration.

“You need to give weight!” the woman behind us in line said, with the same disgusted tone of voice she might have used to tell her toddler not to pee in the sink.

“Forget the apples,” Maureen said. “We don’t need them.” I nodded at the cashier and made a dismissive wave toward the fruit. He picked them up again, holding them as if they were radioactive, and set them to the side. The bill came to just under 30 Euro, but I handed him two 50 Euro notes. He stared at me like he couldn’t figure out how I had the intelligence to put my pants on before I left the house each morning, then returned one of my bills to me along with a handful of coins. Clearly wanting to put our transaction behind him as quickly as possible, he began scanning the next customer’s items.

Our purchases had piled up at the end of the register, but there was no way I had the nerve to ask for a bag at this point. So Maureen and I silently loaded the items into each other’s arms, and slunk out of the supermarket.

Or we would have, if we’d been able to figure out right away that you have to push a button next to the exit to open the sliding doors. Maureen noticed the button eventually, but not until we’d stood stupidly in front of the door for several seconds, waiting for the non-existent electronic eye to notice our presence, and feeling the very-existent evil eyes of the entire supermarket burning holes in our backs.