On the plane and a dinner update: plastic tray with faux wood veneer paneling. Nice touch. The veneer is slightly sticky and acts as an anchor for the food packages. Who said the airlines ignore coach? White roll is cold and dense, only appropriate to use as a catapult. Pasta is hot, yes, but also a benchmark to assure that everything I taste in Italy is judged divine. Salad was surprisingly tasty. Well, tomatoes yes. Iceberg lettuce, no. Normally I don't eat plane food. Nasty depository for preservatives, but solo journeying is different. The social component of this meal next to my cheery seat companion could prove more promising than the next five meals where I dine alone. Bottoms up and forks attack! Said jolly seat companion left nothing but the cinnamon brownie. He made a poor decision. It was delicious.
I'm settling back into an alcohol glow. Reading a back issue of the New Yorker and dying to use the bathroom. Just have to wait on these nice dyed-blonde Southern ladies to come remove my tray.
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At my first restaurant. There are three fishes on the plate. Painted on the plate. It also smells like fish. The restaurant fronts a canal but I'm outside of Venice somewhere that will eventually show up on my credit card. I ordered in Italian which means that I may or may not know what I got. Definitely ended up with a mezzo litro of aqua con gas and a quartino of prosecco. Fortuitous beginnings.
There's an immediacy to dining in Italy. Well, not after you order. Unlike the States where food magically appears moments after ordering, at Trattoria Marina, somewhere near Venice off some canal, I waited 15 minutes while they made my tagliolini neri with seafood. Amazing how food vocabulary has stayed with me. I remember my shoe size too: trentotto. The pasta dish arrived. A black heap of steaming linguini and seafood. Only color was three basil leaves of garnish. It was divine. When they took it away, I heard water run moments later. Immediately, they cook your meal, immediately they bring it to you when ready, and immediately they wash the dishes when they take it away. And the bill? 14 euros. This is true farm to table dining, an art that the Italians never lost.
I've made it to Ferrara, checked in at the Duchessa Isabella, and napped. The autoroute was unremarkable, but I did find Villa Piselli, a remarkable Palladian mansion. Turns out the Venetians have their own Loire Valley. They built mansions along the canal, vacation homes from Venice. This one housed Napoleon, the exiled Spanish royal family, and now is a museum. The grounds were spectacular, modeled on a French garden with stables in the far and a maze (that I got lost in.) It's hard to imagine that boxwood could give so much stress, but I did not make it out till a guide found me. To the right. Should have struck out going right.
I hoped to take a charming walk in Ferrara. My plans were stymied by a slimy dog who got friendly at the park and wiped his drooly snout all over my pants before his owner came up, "Max! 'Scuzi." Trying to be a good sport but yuck. Nor do I have enough clothes to be destroying them 5 minutes after donning. Retreated to the bigger city square with a marble pedestaled monument and youth congregating. Was refused a student discount because I'm over 25 today. Not sure I belong on this square either.
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