The Night of the Rising Tide

Summer came and went, and soon enough, I had returned to Venice for the second semester of Uni. I had a new apartment, new friends and new routines for the last half of the year. Or, so I thought…

There are many pleasures to living on the island proper of Venice.

The novelty of running for the boat instead of the bus does not get old, watching the ochre sunsets seep darkly into the waves of the navy lagoon is truly a thing of beauty, and the delight in finding hidden a hidden pasticceria around the knobbly corners of labyrinthine streets is second to none.

However.

There has always been a darkly mythic quality to this city. Whether you have seen it glittering in a film, visited it through the pages of a novel, or actually trudged through the winding streets yourself — you will know that there is a Stygian edge to Venice herself.

Tales of death, of disease, of violence, of murder, of theft, of lost love and lust — they abound in fiction and history books alike. This is a city alive with pain, alive with pleasure. This is a city that has been wronged.

On the morning of Monday 11th November, sirens resounded across the island. These were not the clinical electronic warnings we have in Australia — these were eerie notes that wafted out of speakers installed for this very purpose; to signal the forthcoming acqua alta — the high water to come. They rise in pitch, like a macabre musical exercise. They are the same notes Venetian civilians heard back in 1945, when Allied aircraft bombed their harbour. My Italian professor recounts a tale in which her grandmother heard the sirens for the first time since the bombings — how her elderly relative shivered and wept at the sounds that had once promised death.

The water began to rise at 9.00am. My apartment, on the ground floor, next to a canal, was secured — metal shields, reinforced with rubber guards, to the height of 90cm, were screwed to the front and back doorsteps by my landlady some months before. These are common in Venice, and are put up before big storms or high tides. The forecast had said to expect 100cm of water above sea level – which would reached a height of about 10cm on the ground closest to canals.

The water began to seep under both doors, and for four hours, I trudged back and forth between them with a mop and bucket – pouring litres of salty brown canal water down the drains.

I called the property manager, and asked him to come and inspect the metal shields. When the water receded, he arrived, and pronounced the rubber to be old. He promised someone would come to fix it – perhaps on Thursday or Friday. Everyone has the same problem, he said. I vowed to keep mopping, to put towels across the threshold, I worried about property damage and my deposit out loud — he simply shrugged, and told me to place bricks under the legs of the couch and table — his nonchalance alarming me somewhat. I reminded myself of the cavalier Venetian attitude to life, love, patience and business, and continued about my exciting day of homework, laundry and reading in bed.

Struggling with persistent bronchitis and a clinging month-old fever, I went to sleep early. I woke up, reaching for my phone to view the forecast for the day. 145cm at 11.00pm. Sighing and resigning myself to a day of mopping, I opened my bedroom door, crossed the apartment, and saw this:

The water entered under both doors in glassy sheets, and had begun to crawl into the hallway, threatening the my bedroom, the bathroom and the kitchen. I began to clean immediately – rain, wind and 9 degrees outside; me in shorts, a singlet and wellies inside. Hours passed, and finally the tide receded – 1.00pm to 6.00pm where I showered, ate, worked and sent apologetic emails to my professors for that day’s absences.

7.00pm saw me back in bed; tired, sick, headachy and ready to return to normal life. I had placed towels at each door, weighted down with bricks and plastic sheeting. I knew that the water would be high around 11.00pm, so I napped intermittently, understanding that I could be sluicing water from the house long into the night. I woke up every 15 minutes or so — my heart racing, ears craning — sweaty with a fever. Sometimes the sirens woke me up, sometimes an overly large wave slapping against the stone walls outside. I checked the forecast at each interval, hoping desperately that it would go down — that I could succumb to sleep instead of stress.

At 9.30pm, I received a text message from the property manager:

‘Go in hotel immediately! The meteorologic forecast is ‘orribile. Half a meter of water! Best.’

At that point, the sirens wailed again — like some sort of sadistic pan-piper was trying to charm Venice out of watery ruin. Just a bit of water, I thought. Italians are so dramatic, I pronounced, sniffling and throwing yet another revolting tissue into the bin beside my bed.

I checked my phone. The forecast had risen to 160cm. I groaned, pushing it away from me, rolling out of bed, preparing myself for another bout of mopping, when I heard buzzing. My landlady was calling from Moscow:

‘Darling, how are you? Such terrible news about the water – we are watching the forecast.’

I assured her that I had cleaned all day, that I had secured the doors as best I could. We chatted for a while about Russia, about Milan, about travelling. I was drawn from her small talk by an odd sound coming from outside my bedroom door. An acquatic, slapping sound. Inside the house. Faintly, I heard her say:

‘At least the bed is dry, darling. You get some rest, stay in the bedroom, and we’ll talk in the morning.’

I agreed, and stood, hanging up, and listening at the door to the rushing noise outside. Wind, I thought. Some water in the house, maybe. Best keep the door closed and wait till morning, like she said. I climbed back in bed and opened my book.

At 10.00pm, I heard a trickling sound, looked up from my novel, and saw the water wriggling in under my door. I stared at it for a few seconds, a part of me not quite comprehending. The towel I placed had darkened with saturation, and the brick began to edge forwards. I crawled to the end of the bed, grabbed my wellies and put them on over my owl-patterned pyjamas; staring somewhat wistfully at ‘sleepy owl’ on my left quad. I stood, watching the water like some sort of nautical voyeur, and considered my options.

The water climbed quickly, and the slapping sounds outside had shifted to a gushing sound. My curiosity got the better of me, and I opened my bedroom door.

More water rushed in. Ankle-height water in the house. I uttered a few expletives. I turned and sloshed to the front door, and grasped blindly for the phone in my pocket. The water was pouring through the hinges of the door, the height level with the metal shield. The street outside had been subsumed with over a metre of water, and the trees swayed violently in the rough winds.

10.15pm. I checked the forecast. 172cm of water. Water in the house approaching my calf.

I eyed my low-lying belongings, deciding to move some things on top of the bed. I decided to change out of my owl pyjamas. Not good for my street cred if I am to be seen wading down the street. Tricky getting into jeans when you can’t touch the floor or a bed.

10.20pm. The water looked to be getting higher. The sirens sounded again. 177cm of water. Mid-calf.

10.30pm. I called my landlady. That is not a phone call you want to make, or receive.

‘Hi, look, there’s quite a bit of water in the house – it’s coming in really quickly – do you think I should try and head for a hotel? You’ve seen this before, right?’

She hadn’t. She sounded panicked, and began to babble. I started thinking. I made the decision to leave.

As she talked, sometimes in English, in Italian, in Russian, I waded around the house, collecting my passports, my laptop, jewelry, chargers, spare essentials, etc. As I went to collect a necklace I left on the edge of the bathroom sink, the power cut out, and I was left in darkness — outside more illuminated than inside. Through the glass and metal door, I could see a palm tree swaying so violently that large fronds were ripped from it, splashing into the burgeoning canal below. I wondered which hotel I should aim for.

The water was climbing to the top of my calf. Furniture began to float, and I bumped into chairs, a rogue cushion and almost tripped on a rug that had been weighed down. I put my phone torch on, my phone between my teeth, looking for clothing or belongings I hadn’t thought to collect, shoving them in my large suitcase and placing it as high as I could in the wardrobe.

The water had begun to climb up the sides of the bed, and as I edged through the house, it threatened to come over the tops of my gumboots. I placed my small suitcase with my valuables on the heavy metal desk beside the door and glared at the street outside.

‘Give me a minute, I’m going to open the door and head for a hotel.’

I said, and pushed the key into the door, turning it. The key stuck slightly, and I put my phone down my shirt, trying to keep the torch trained on the keyhole whilst wiggling the handle — trying not to drop my phone into the water below.

‘I’ll call you back in a second, let me get outside.’

The rain looked heavy and cold. The wind sounded angry outside — less whimsical whistling and more furious screaming. I vaguely remembered some piece of advice that warned against stepping into floodwaters. I glanced at the sodden couch behind me, at the water pouring through the door in front of me. I tried the key again.

The lock turned this time and I felt some small wave of relief. I took a deep breath and pulled the door handle toward me.

Nothing.

I jerked the handle again. Still nothing. I wrapped all my fingers around the handle, leaned my body weight back and yanked several times. Didn’t budge an inch.

I looked at the windows around me. Curtains, glass, handles, me-sized — with wrought-iron bars artistically caged around them. On every window. The back door led to a small patio over a large canal. In other words, into the canal itself, as it was now hip-height underwater.

At this point, I began to panic. I tried the door, again and again, until my breath started to come in short, shallow breaths, and my constant movement brought cold water trickling into my boots.

I reached for my phone and called the emergency services number given to international students by my university. Two people were assigned to me quickly, asking if they should call the police, or if there was anywhere I could go, if I could go out a window, out the other door.

My landlady called again:

‘Darling, the wat–‘

‘I can’t get the door open.’ I cut her off.

‘Where do I go if I can’t get the goddamn door open.’ I asked, my sentence punctuated by the strain in my voice as I rocked back and forth, pulling at the handle still, my nails breaking and the black polish chipping as I clawed at the hinge.

She switched to Russian, talking rapidly to her husband.

‘I’ll call you back.’

The emergency personnel were looking at contacts in Venice, to see if they could get a boat to me, a person to me. The water was knocking books off shelves, wobbling end-tables. The wind rattled the windows and pushed a moaning sound through the flat. More water poured into my boots. The landlady called again.

‘The neighbours upstairs will take you in. Go to them.’

My throat felt thick, and everything was too loud. I started again; pleaded with this inanimate object, my breathing hitching in my chest, blisters forming on my palms as I pulled again and again and again when finally — something gave.

The heavy metal door swung open, letting in a domestic tsunami of icy canal water, planks of wood, rubbish and foliage. I grabbed my suitcase, phone, keys, and lifted one leg carefully over the metal shield, through the water, and onto the street.

The water soaked through my jeans, settling at my hips. Lifting the other leg over, I then placed the suitcase on my head. I did battle with the door again, this time fighting to keep my balance, keep my eyes open against the wind and rain — to pull it shut against the force of the waves.

Eventually, and at the loss of yet more nails, the door swung shut, and keeping one hand on the wall, and one on my small suitcase atop my head, I waded through the water to the neighboring door at the end of the street.

I banged on the metal door, rang the doorbell, shouted their names, and soon the door swung open. The entire first floor was covered in waist deep water, and I climbed the stairs to their second floor apartment.

Having been married 60 + years, nothing much phased G and L. As I sat on their top stair, L took my case and she wheeled it into their hall. My hands were shaking so much I couldn’t get my boots off, so G, in all his 80 something year glory, bless him, helped me pull them off, and didn’t bat an eyelid at the litre he poured out of them.

I didn’t realise I was crying until L started dabbing at my face with tissues, pushing a packet into my hand and ushering me into the shower, all the while murmuring to herself in Venetian dialect about the state of the world – a language that is quite, quite different to Italian.

I wrestled with my uncooperative hands and wet jeans, showered, and L pushed a towel, some trackpants and a sweater through the door. Thankfully, G is quite tall for an Italian, and I emerged in his army camouflage pants, a blue woolen sweater and his purple velvet slippers.

As the British turn to tea for comfort, so too do the Italians with coffee, and soon I was sat at a table, with an espresso pushed into my hand as L spooned three sugars into it.

‘Bevi, cara, e non ti preoccupare.’

‘Drink’, she said, dear, ‘and don’t worry yourself.’ — Italian our only common tongue.

At 11.00pm, she showed me to their spare room and sent me to bed. I then made a phone call to my mother that may have taken years off her life. My deepest apologies, mother mine. I think she then did the same to my long-suffering father, as not long after I received a similarly panicked phone call from him. Once again, my apologies.

I couldn’t sleep that night. Traditional news had not yet grasped the situation in Venice, and I was instead glued to an instagram account that documents city, resident and student life: venezia_non_e_disneyland.

Footage poured in — boats stranded on main streets, floating down alleys, sinking in the lagoon, rats clinging to walls, people fighting for their homes, their shops, their livelihoods, walls swept away, bricks piled up on bridges. St. Marks square drowned – the church itself flooded.

The sirens floated across the wind periodically all night, and didn’t stop till late the next day. I joined G and L in front of the television for the morning period, watching the news roll in, as the water was still thigh-height. Two people had died in the floods. Businesses had been lost, homes gutted with water damage. Schools were closed. University was closed.

Still in G’s army gear, I made phone calls, contacted my supervisor and tried to think of my next move. I couldn’t get into the apartment until the water receded, which wasn’t due to happen till 2.00pm. I wasn’t sure where I would be sleeping that night.

So, obviously, as is the great European tradition, if someone is in crisis, they need to be…yes, that’s right, fed.

L made mushroom risotto, caprese salad, fresh bread, a fruit platter, then arranged biscuits and truffles on the table and popped prosecco; insisting I eat everything in front of me. No, I did not know the Italian for ‘thank you so much, but if I eat anymore, I will vomit from your kindness, you lovely soul.’

She showed me photos of her children, her grandchildren and her nieces — told me stories about their successes. I asked her what the secret of her 60+ year long marriage was to G, and they both laughed.

‘I say something nice to her everyday.’ G said, in dialect.

‘I laugh with him everyday.’ L responded in Italian, and he kissed the top of her head, before bidding me goodbye and venturing out in his fly-fishing waders to check on his friends.

House-proud, I wasn’t even allowed to help L with the dishes, but was waved off to make more phone calls. My landlady said she’d be on the next plane from Moscow.

2.00pm rolled around, and the water had receded enough for me to go outside. I bounded down the stairs in my soaking wellies, which L was not best pleased about, muttering something about me catching my death, and G helped me unscrew the metal shields on the doors.

He made me stand back as he opened the metal doors, front and back, and I watched as rubbish, some of my clothes and some furnishings floated out onto the street and into the canal.

I ventured inside to see that what once was my home, filled with happy memories, friends and comfort,

had come to this:

The house was wrecked. The bed was soaked through, the couches too, chairs upended with broken legs, the fridge filled with canal water, the washing machine broken, wall plaster cracking off from water damage, and the sewage system had backed up through the bathroom and into the hall.

I lost around 15% of my belongings – nothing insurance won’t be able to fix – but some clothes and items with sentimental value. Nothing compared to the homes and businesses damaged by the floods.

I grabbed what I could, called my valiant friend M, thanked G and L profusely, and M helped me shift my life through the sodden, broken streets of Venice into a hotel in Mestre, where the mainland connects to Venice. Cercavo un mare calmo, e ho trovato te — grazie caro x.

The city looked broken as we sailed through; bits of debris and carnage from the night before strewn about. The highest flooding since 1966, the water had reached 187cm in the city and caused millions of euro worth of damage. It was later classed as a cyclone, as the winds were blowing at 100kms/hr.

Over the next few days, teams of students and volunteers roamed the streets, helping residents and business owners clean and vacate premises, making sure everyone was alright, that rubbish was disposed of, and that life could resume. Corrosive saltwater was scrubbed from apartments, historical archives dried with hairdryers, debris collected and sorted. Politicians made promises on television, made excuses for the corruption, lies and scandals that have gone on in Venice over the past thirty years — and did less than the bands of twenty-somethings roving through the streets. For shame, sirs, for shame.

Thanks to insurers, I spent the next fortnight in a hotel as I searched for a new apartment. I spent four hours detailing lost items for insurance, and tallied up about $5K worth of damage/loss. My property manager has skulked off into the shadows and has not seen fit to return my calls for two weeks, and discussions with my landlady about the return of my rather steep deposit have been tense. I’ll be in an Airbnb for my last two months, which I’m incredibly grateful for.

If ever you have found yourself in Venice, wondering at its beauty and its heritage, perhaps you might find it within yourself to make a small donation toward its salvation. Link here: https://www.comune.venezia.it/donazioni

Life has gone on in this strange city, apart from a brief pause in studies and normality. It seems that – though damp and perhaps a bit broken – the Venetians have shrugged off this 10 day affair as a fleeting disturbance, returning to their 6.00pm espressos and 10.00am Aperol spritzes with another story under their belt, another shrug to give, another exasperated ‘Madonna!’ to issue at the governing bodies of their country. Perhaps it is time to follow suit.

DJ-ing a hookup, re-enacting Indiana Jones, and other stories

Adventures

Ah, Venice, that quaint, quiet jewel of the Adriatic…well, folks, it’s proven to be a little more rowdy than previously thought.

Uni has been quite demanding of late, what with exams, research projects back home and upcoming assignments. My friends and I have found our favourite spot in the library, with a direct view of a canal, so when you’re absentmindedly chewing on a pencil and staring out the window, the passing gondolas remind you to get back to work.

After each day in the library, when I’m in study-mode, it’s nice to come home to a routine: cooking dinner, exercise, shower, reading in bed, etc. At least, it has been nice, up until the last week, as I seem to have recently acquired new neighbours.

Picture this: after a long day slogging through complicated literary theory, I come home and perform my evening routine as usual. I make dinner – tofu and vegetable stir fry, nothing fancy – I go for a run and do some yoga, I shower, and I climb into bed, settling in with my book.

About five pages in, I begin to hear a strange sound coming from the ether of the apartment complex. Now, I live in a converted flour mill from the 19th century; justifiably there are strange noises inside the building all the time, not to mention the revving boat engines or war-cries of overly large seagulls outside. So I don’t think much of it, and I return to reading.

But the sound continues, and increases, and by my tenth page, I’ve established that there is no conversational context so interesting in this world as to justify the overly emphatic agreement coming from the female on the other side of my wall.

So, dragging my duvet with me, I head to the couch with my book, and shut the door behind me. After half an hour, I deem it safe to return, and I crawl under the covers, staunchly ignoring the giggles I can still hear.

The next day, after another confounding eight-hour foray into the world of palimpsestic literature, I come home, and go about my usual activities. At the end of the night, I cautiously return to my book, my ears pricking up at each odd sound. As I’m drifting off at 12.30am, eyemask on, no doubt attractive strings of drool forming at the corners of my mouth, I begin to hear a faint vibrating noise, giggling, and a collection of sounds I do not really have any desire to describe to you. I sit bolt upright in bed, and, once again, grab the duvet and head for the couch.

The morning after, I am, somewhat understandably, a little cranky. Sleep, good, live sex show, bad. This particular Wednesday is Italy’s Festa del Lavoro, or Labour day, as it’s known to us Australians, and the library is closed. In fact, the library has been closed a day a week for the past three weeks – these Venetians sure do love a public holiday. So I’m working from home, and around 7.30pm I stop to make dinner. I’m lying on my bed replying to emails, waiting for my pasta water to boil, when I hear those bloody sounds coming through my wall again.

I roll my eyes and begin to get up from the bed, when I suddenly feel a modicum of outrage, and I think to myself, no, I am twenty fucking three years old and I will not be banished from my room by the overly embellished sounds of one woman faking an orgasm. I refuse. So, instead, I decide to have a little fun with the situation.

I connect my phone to my portable speaker, and out pour the lyrical sounds of Lily Allen’s ‘Not Fair’, blasting in my room, and, no doubt, into the apartment next door. If you’re not familiar with the song, look the lyrics up. The noises stop rather suddenly.

To make sure my point has gotten across, I queue up a variety of tasteful tunes to be played, including Trey Songz’ delightful ‘Neighbours Know My Name’, Big Sean’s calming ‘I Don’t Fuck With You’, Missy Elliott’s poignant ‘One Minute Man’ and, towards the end, Nicole Millar’s ‘Gimme a Break’. My fun lasts about forty minutes, and I turn my speaker off when I hear the front door of the neighbouring apartment slam. Win, win.

I plan on repeating this deterrent as often as needed – – song suggestions welcome.

My exams finally finished a few days later, and thus began the self-induced alcohol poisoning that the student lifestyle demands. Walking along the Zattere promenade at 3.30am in the pouring rain through a collection of outdoor modern art, having to have people drag me away from puddles I wanted to jump into may give you an indication of just how inebriated I was. I think there was prosecco? I know there was tequila.

A day later, once my friends and I had resurfaced from our collective hangover hell, it was time for some exploration.

It started out just like any other Friday adventure. J and I visited San Simeone Piccolo; your average Italian church.

We had a look around at your standard frescoes, shrines, etc:

Prayers and thanks written in all sorts of different languages, on scrap paper!

When, out of the corner of my eye, I saw an unassuming sign which read ‘crypts’. When in Rome, I thought. So J and I approached, and the caretaker gestured for us to hold out our hands. He lit some candles, placed them into little pots, handed them to us, and we were sent on our way.

The first indicator that we had made a grave error was this next sign:

As we walked through the doorway, we entered the pitch-black darkness of a 9th century cemetery. Frescoes lined the walls, showing various types of religious misery (Christ being crucified, women crying, etc). It didn’t help that J and I were alone, in the darkness, with the flagstones echoing through the crypt every time we stepped on a wobbly one.

If you look closely, you can see the blood smeared on the cross. Nice.

We got to the final chamber, and I made the mistake of rounding the corner, holding my candle up, and seeing this:

There may have been some shaking and/or muffled screams on our part.

When we came back up into the light, the ~~handsy~~ Italian caretaker asked us if we wanted to see something interesting. He ushered us into a private room with a shrine for the priests. We ooh-ed and ahh-ed for a few minutes, at which point he asked us if we would like to ring the bells.

We looked at each other incredulously and nodded, as he led us to the rickety wooden ladder. He sort of just disappeared after that, so J and I navigated the steep, splintering planks, which looked/felt like artifacts themselves. We got to the top, and in amongst the piles of carelessly stacked paintings with golden frames, marble crosses and dust, we pulled the ropes and listened to the bells ring out across the lagoon.

Once we ran out of the church, giggling at our luck, we headed to the Rialto markets, for a calming glass of wine and some cicchetti:

Soave, Prosciutto,Truffle, Tuna, Mortadella. I swear we were not double parked.

Afterwards, we journeyed to the Libreria Acqua Alta, a bookshop that has tackled Venice’s frequent flooding with an innovative idea:

This rather dapper proprietor was sitting at the register

We sat next to stacks of ruined books, reading whatever we could get our hands on, in whatever languages we could understand:

We only had time for a quick gelato in the Italian sunshine before the next bout of drinking began.

Salted hazelnut and pistachio crema — think Nutella but made from pistachios

It is a sad state of affairs when your alcohol consumption does not fit into one blog post. Nevertheless, it is a team effort — me and my hangover shall persevere.

First Fortnight in a Sinking City

Adventures

Somewhere over Turkey?
(Geography is really not my strong suit)

Well, I made it! After a very teary goodbye at the Departures gate, I met up with my companion for Venice, M, and we made our way to the boarding area, in preparation for spending 26 hours in a tin can.

The flights went smoothly, apart from a small passport incident at Bangkok airport at 3.00am. Let’s just say M and his passport are inseparable nowadays.

The Italian stereotypes started once we hit the Venetian tarmac. We ~~endured~~ enjoyed a leisurely two-hour ride from the airport to our vaporetto stop, and then another forty minutes deciphering the Airbnb’s description of how to access our apartment, before finally settling in at around 5.00pm.

After mutually agreeing that a small nap was in order as to recover from the aforementioned tin-can ordeal, we both set alarms for 7.00pm, so that we could adjust quickly to Italian time, and enjoy a quick dinner.

Despite our best-laid plans, M slept till 8.30pm, and then quickly dressed and tried to rouse me by knocking on my door and calling my name. I am apparently a heavy sleeper, as I have absolutely no recollection of this whatsoever.

After three separate attempts, he gave up, and went back to bed.

Much to my chagrin, I awoke the next morning at 7.00am, and, somewhat apologetically, went in search of breakfast on this rather stunning winter’s day.

The lagoon, as seen from the Biennale gardens.

Over the next three days, we each racked up 60kms of walking, as we scoured the city for SIMs, travel cards and permanent accommodation – – a somewhat difficult task as the city is full of artists working towards this year’s Biennale, and students finishing off their academic year.

Unfortunately, the stereotype of the disinterested Italian worker is very much brought to life in the Venetian lagoon – – a stereotype which seems to be concentrated in the real-estate agency.

Two-hour lunches and haphazard approaches to returning emails aside, as the end of my first fortnight approaches, I have finally found my permanent residence. If anyone needs an extra kidney, let me know – I may need to let one go in order to pay for rent.

The international community here is lovely – I met so many wonderful people at the university-hosted welcome drinks, just casually held in a converted marble palazzo off the Grand Canal. Just, you know, your everyday, run-of-the-mill, garden-variety palazzo.

Last weekend, we had some heavy rainfall, which, in most major cities, is not really a problem.

In Venice, however, things begin to get a little sodden.

Suddenly, every street vendor is selling gumboots and plastic shoe-covers, and wooden walkways emerge from nowhere.

The fog begins to creep in, and Venice is suddenly enshrouded and lathed with all forms of water. Which would be wondrously mystical, if your feet weren’t so bloody wet.

Though the snow on the mountains has yet to make an appearance on the island.

With Carnevale just around the corner, the city is beginning to bustle and groan with tourists, which makes getting anywhere on time…well, worse than usual.

This hindrance is compensated for by the vast array of striking masks and sweet delicacies that pop-up around every corner.

*Frittelle veneziane – –* doughnut-like pastries traditionally filled with pine-nuts and raisins

Everywhere you go these doughy delights are being enjoyed by the locals – – whether they’re filled with cream, nutella or ricotta.

But, alas, when Carnevale is over, these beauties will disappear, until next year’s festivities.

In the meantime, M and I are slowly sorting out our new lives — adjusting to the Italian style of life where everything takes that little bit longer, and where the buses are aquatic.

With views like these, I don’t think it’ll take us very long!