We took the morning vaporetto, the local water taxi, to the island of Murano where glassblowing is the tourist attraction. It was way too commercialized for us and each shop was tackier than the last. But I loved the quiet streets and waterways, and took lots of post card type photos there.
After returning to Venice and devouring delicious pizza and wine for lunch, we went in search of Harry’s Bar. We stumbled across it on the Grand Canal and went in for an overpriced Bellini, which was created at Harry’s and consists of Prosecco and peach juice. The bar wasn’t crowded and only some older English speaking tourists were enjoying the quiet ambiance from the 1940’s, until a young American couple brought in their two young children, about 18 months and 3 years, placed them on bar stools and ordered non alcoholic Bellinis for them, exclaiming “you’re having a Bellini at Harry’s Bar!” They were loud and obnoxious acted as if everyone in the bar should find them and their children irresistably cute. No wonder Europeans hate Americans. WE hated those Americans. Why they would bring small children into a bar, I’ll never know. They drove us from Harry’s and probably had never heard of Ernest Hemingway, who made Harry’s famous, let alone read any of his writings.
So we continued on our way, now in search of cannoli because my friend Irene commented on this blog and wondered if we’d tried it and how it was, telling me she grew up on it but thought it was a, Sicilian delicacy. We asked in a little shop where we made some purchases and were directed to a pasticceria that sold it. I thought it was delicious but I’m no judge since I’d never tried it before today but I’ll try it again if I can find it.
Late in the day, our quest changed to find porcini risotto for dinner. We lucked upon a ristorante that included it on their menu so we sat down for dinner. It was so delicious that we were uttering orgasmic sounds as we ate this incredible dish, covered with thin slices of black truffles. It was by far the best risotto I have ever eaten and I practically swooned when the waiter served the remainder of the pan of risotto, cooked to order for us, and topped the last scoops with more black truffle slices. Because of my atheistic tendencies, Linda wouldn’t let me say that I’d died and gone to heaven so I let my orgasmic groans (think “When Harry Met Sally”) speak for me.
We finished the evening, our last in Venice, on the Piazza San Marco, Linda with wine, me with a double espresso that will likely keep me up the rest of the night, and enjoying the live music that we’ve listened to each evening. When we arrived back at our room, we hesitated entering because it opens directly onto the tiny piazza and three Nigerian vendors of fake Gucci and Louis Vuitton bags were walking by. Out of nowhere, an Italian policeman appeared in a dead run straight toward these guys. They scattered and managed to elude the police but not before dropping most if their fake wares. It was an interesting way to end the day.