VENICE -- Sooner or later, every traveler to this city winds up at the famous Caffe Florian on the south side of the Piazza San Marco.
Yes, yes -- or si, si, as the Italians seem to prefer saying -- the Florian could be described as the quintessential tourist trap: The food is mediocre, the prices exorbitant, and a stiff extra charge is added for live music.
On the other hand, the Florian could be described as an authentic Venetian experience, one no visitor should miss.
It is a cafe that has earned its place in the city's history. Opened in 1720, it is far older than the Quadri, its rival cafe on the Piazza's north side, and has counted among its customers the likes of Casanova, Wagner and Proust. And, to its eternal credit, Caffe Florian was one of the first places in the world to serve a new and exotic beverage called "coffee."
This last fact inspires intense loyalty in one tourist in Venice -- an American coffee devotee we shall call Signora S. -- who at 11 in the morning sits sipping her second caffe latte at the Florian.
It is a good time to come to the cafe, the American signora thinks: Only a scattering of tourists sit at the outdoor tables, the three-piece band is playing an appealing medley from "West Side Story" and the Piazza San Marco -- the only square Venetians deign to call a piazza; all others are called campo -- is not yet mobbed.
Signora S. has often observed that by 9 o'clock many tourists have already passed through the Piazza, crossing it off their list as they head for the Doge's Palace. Such an observation only adds gravitas to the signora's theory that most tourists like to hit the ground running. After all, it is the only way they can hope to complete their sightseeing program by day's end.
The signora, however, approaches her role as a tourist from a different viewpoint: She believes the secret to successful travel lies in learning how to linger.
Solitary traveler
Of course, there are those who accuse Signora S. of excessive lingering. Such a habit, they point out, causes her to miss many churches and museums and other cultural and historical landmarks. Her response is simple: to travel alone. This allows her to linger whenever the fancy strikes. Her approach has paid off in Venice.
Had she not lingered in the Campo San Salvadore one afternoon, for example, Signora S. would have missed seeing the steady stream of elegant Venetian women in dark suits and bright silk scarves parading their dogs through the square. Sleek, high-stepping Dalmatians seemed to be the dog of the moment, followed by the low-slung, more durable dachshund.
And, were it not for lingering, the American signora would have missed the old woman, her weathered face half-hidden under a black scarf, feeding a dozen cats in a pedestrian alley near the posh Gritti Hotel. Graciously, the woman of the cats allowed Signora S. to stroke the head of a particularly beguiling orange tabby.
But the best lingering one can do, Signora S. has decided, is in a hotel at the concierge's desk. If one lingers long enough in such a location, it is often possible to strike up a relationship, of sorts, with someone behind the desk. And, occasionally, these encounters yield the kind of information not found in the city's official guidebook, "un Ospite di Venezia" ("A Guest in Venice.")
In one such encounter earlier in the week, Signora S. told Franco, an employee at the incredibly bellissima Hotel Cipriani, that Woody Allen had bought Palazzo Dario, on the Grand Canal. It gave her a little thrill to pass this tidbit of gossip on.
"Palazzo Dario?" Franco said, his voice filled with surprise. "Which one is it?"
"It is the delightful early Renaissance palace built in 1487 by Pietro Lombardo," explained Signora S., parroting the words of an art curator she'd queried on the subject. The look on Franco's face remained blank. "It is just one palazzo away from the Peggy Guggenheim Collection and across the canal from the Gritti Hotel," she added helpfully.
"Ah, yes," responded Franco. "You know, Woody Allen lives at the Gritti when he's here in Venice."
Signora S. did not know this but tried to arrange her face to look as though she did.
The topic is real estate
Franco continued: "There's been bad fortune with that house. Two people long ago were killed under strange circumstances. More recently, a very rich Italian businessman who bought it killed himself. It's been on the market for years."
Signora S. hung on every word. Unable to remain silent, she blurted out a question: "What do you think Palazzo Dario went for?"
"A few million dollars," he said.
"That little?" said the Signora, aghast. After all, the palace has what every realtor knows is the most important selling point: Location, location, location.
"Some are in bad shape, and it costs so much to keep them up," Franco said. "You don't know what can happen when you buy such an old house."
"Not to mention the sinking of Venice and all the other water problems," Signora S. responded sympathetically. Although she made no mention of it -- above all else, she is discreet -- the Signora had noticed Palazzo Dario seemed dangerously tilted. Her books on Venetian palazzi confirmed this.
As she lingers now at Florian's in the Piazza San Marco, remembering her conversation with Franco, Signora S. realizes it is time to quit the cafe and begin her next adventure: to find "Venice for Pleasure," a book written in the 1970s by an Englishman named J. G. Links.
For years, Signora S. has heard about this book, but what has prompted her to seek it out was a remark made by an Englishwoman she'd met on an earlier trip to Venice.
"Mr. Links' book is about walking through Venice for pleasure; it is not about art history or the inside of churches," the woman had said. "His philosophy is that one shouldn't worry about missing the inside of this church or that gallery; they will still be there on one's next visit."
It was so close to Signora S.'s own philosophy of travel that she marveled at the stroke of luck that had allowed Mr. Links to write his book first, before her own. Since then, she'd searched for the book with no luck; she was determined to find it on this trip. After all, was not Venice the perfect place to locate a book called "Venice for Pleasure"?
So, armed with vague directions from the concierge at her hotel, the Monaco, she leaves Piazza San Marco to find a bookshop called Goldoni's. "Goldoni's will have it," the concierge had assured her that morning. "Goldoni's has everything."
The problem is: finding Goldoni's. If Venice has a deficit -- other than the problems that 25 million tourists a year can create in a not-very-large city -- it lies in the challenge of finding a specific destination. It's not as though one can jump into a taxi -- there are none -- and say: "Take me to Goldoni's!" Or, for that matter, even locate some of the smallest lanes on a map.
Muddling on
But Signora S. puts up with such inconveniences because it is not her way to complain. After all, as she has been known to remark more than once, "Venice is a thousand-year-old city that rises from water and is built on a hundred islets separated from one another by 550 canals and has more than 3,000 calli, some so narrow you can't open an umbrella in them."
Signora S. loves the names of these tiny lanes: The Filled-in Canal of Thoughts. The Alley of the Curly-Headed Woman. And her favorite, The Alley of the Love of Friends Or of the Gypsies. But the calli of Venice, she knows, can be quite unpredictable, dead-ending at a canal with no bridge or at the back of a building.
Still, as Signora S. has learned over the years, part of the magic of Venice is getting lost. The visitor is forced to explore, on foot, the unknown Venice. And somehow one always seems to find the way to a desired destination.
Now, however, the signora finds herself disoriented. Two calli, neither on the map drawn by the concierge, diverge at the end of a lane. She must choose. To the right? Or the left? For no reason she decides to take the calle less traveled. Perhaps it will make all the difference, as it did for Robert Frost -- under entirely different circumstances, of course.
When all else fails ...
It does not. Signora S. finds herself facing a wall, with no way out. Sighing, she retraces her steps and decides on a new plan. She asks shopkeepers along the way for directions. "Scusi, dov'e Libreria Goldoni?" she asks, poking her head through the door of one shop after another.
In such a fashion does the signora make her way, finally, to Goldoni's. To no avail. Not only do they not have Mr. Links' book, they do not know if they will ever have it again. "You could try Tarantolo or Dei Assassini, Signora," the clerk says helpfully. She gives directions, of a sort, to both bookstores.
By the end of the day, Signora S. has visited eight bookstores and still hasn't found "Venice for Pleasure." But she has seen parts of Venice unknown to her before, a fact she fancies would please Mr. Links to no end. And she has bought a total of six books about Venice.
Tired but determined, Signora S. eats the soy energy bar tucked in her handbag for just such an emergency and heads for the Fantoni Libri Arte, which, says the clerk at the last bookshop, "will absolutely have a copy of the book you desire."
And so, the signora beats on, toward the promise of finding "Venice for Pleasure," all the while thinking that her peregrinations already have given her molto pleasure in Venice.
Next Wednesday: Signore S.'s trip through the Grand Canal ends in a wedding march.