Alas

We are waiting in the airport to board our flight back to JFK. We have been waiting for four hours. We have another hour to wait. Yes, the flight home, like the flight to Cairo, was delayed 2.5 hours. Delta doesn't even have the excuse of being Egyptair. Oh, and I am waiting without my coat and gloves, which disappeared sometime during our many hour wait. Luckily, I layered. I won't freeze till we are back in New York.

But in the meantime, we had two last busy days in the loveliness of Venice. We decided to go to the Lido because Death in Venice etc., so we took a long boat ride out there. Of course it was pretty deserted—it was freezing —but the beach was wide and beautiful and there were very 19th-century-looking bathing machines in front of some of the shut up clubs. We strolled on the sand and did not fall in the water, though one very buff  but elderly dude in a speedo was taking a dip.

After cichetti and spritzes and an encounter with what Ben calls an “adventure bathroom” the likes of which I haven’t seen since Morocco, we headed back, getting off in Santa Croce to visit the cozy palace of the playwright Goldoni. There were mannequins arranged in scenes from his plays, and the centerpiece was an elaborate marionette theater. Fabulous.

That night we dined at a fancy restaurant whose dishes were all taken from Venetian history. We had 16th century sturgeon marinated in mulled wine and pasta dishes from the 14th and 18th centuries, mine with fermented ricotta that was almost too much for Phil, if you can imagine such a thing. Managed to be both tasty and interesting.

I spent much of our last day packing, while Phil, entrusted with my phone’s gps, ventured to Santa Croce to Ca’Pesaro, a modern art museum where he viewed the original plaster cast of Rodin’s Burghers of Calais, Klimt’s Judith, and Chagall’s Portrait of a Rabbi, all first exhibited at Bienniales over the last 125 years. He did have to be led there by a charming grad student who took pity on his lostness and guided him in return for carrying her groceries, but he was glad he went.

Once the packing was under control, we went to the nearby Museo dei Musica in the San Maurizio church. It had an elegant exhibit of musical instruments from the 16th and 17th centuries, including an ancient hurdy-gurdy and a bass made by the man who taught Stradivarius to make violins. We learned all about Vivaldi, who performed nearby, was a priest, and died penniless and unappreciated in Vienna.

We stopped at “our” cocktail bar, where Phil had ordered his favorite college drink, a Harvey Wallbanger, when we first arrived. Though it had always been on the menu, the bartender admitted it was probably the first time anyone had ever requested it.

Dinner was at the restaurant we visited on our first night in town, just as good but considerably less crowded. We woke to learn of our flight delay, took the garbage to the garbage boat for the last time, and now I write this sans coat and gloves from the air above the Atlantic, where Delta has been plying us with endless prosecco to make up for the delay.

Alas, nothing could make up for leaving Venice.