Venice, September 2001
Dear Friends and Family:
It’s just after 10:30 pm on a Saturday night as I sit down to dinner in a café on the main street in Venice. Even though the island is a pedestrian mall with no cars, trucks or motorcycles, it is not very quiet. Some streets, or rather “calle” which must mean alley, are no larger than the width of a small umbrella. I find it difficult to spend a week-end alone in such a romantic city but it’s a wonderful place to explore and the benefits of being almost in the right time zone—and not nodding off in meetings—are hard to underestimate.
From the questions that people ask my waiter and the quizzical looks they give their maps, it seems that at any given time at least a quarter of tourists must be lost. From here we are are less than 100 meters from Piazza San Marco (St. Mark's Square), the center of all tourist activity in Venice. And yet there are tourists who don’t realize that that the square is just one street, one bridge and two more little streets away. Perhaps the tourist authorities should issue a GPS to every tourist who comes to Venice and they could plot their way electronically.
This morning after a long breakfast and a quick check of my email, I started this morning at the Biennale Art Exhibition. It’s rather like a World’s Fair for contemporary art--except that the exhibition does not include any countries from Africa and only the developed countries from Asia (so South Korea but not North Korea). One enterprising artist created a sculpture from the form letters written to countries not represented at the Biennale. “Excellency,” he started as he wrote the UN representative for each country. “I noted that your country has not been invited to present an exhibition at the Biennale. One of our artists, Michael Lemieux, would be pleased to represent your country in exchange for citizenship to your country. Please advise requirements for citizenship and your country’s limitations on dual citizenship.” (It seems that M. Lemieux is currently a citizen of France.) However the exhibit did not include any responses to the letter. One can only imagine, “We would like to thank you for your kind offer but regret that we do not sell citizenship to our country, or at least not at such a nominal price…”
In general, I am not a fan of most contemporary art but I liked several exhibitions at the Biennale. One exhibit showed a glass floor that looked as if it were supported by pebbles. On closer inspection, one could see that the “pebbles” were actually clay figures each with its hands raised to support the glass ceiling above. “What have we come to?” was the name of the exhibit. It was prepared by Do-Ho Suh, a Korean living in New York.
As I sit here at this restaurant, there a 40-something woman who speaks in a hoarse voice, claims to come from New York, and complains that she also couldn’t find the "Saint Marco Square" this afternoon. It makes me feel that there are still others whose sense of direction is worse than mine.(I usually try to explain to friends, with only some exaggeration, that I can get lost in my own bathroom.)
This afternoon after two hours at the Biennale, I decided that spending some time outside would help my jet-lag recovery. After careful study of the ferry route map, I figured out that I could sit on the ferry, go past my stop and do a full tour before I returned. Ninety minutes later I found that I had visited all of the Grand Canal, the yacht mooring areas, the landings for the cruise ships, train station, the regional car-park and the smoke-belching power plants but had not yet returned to my starting point. Just as I was beginning to distrust my recall of the ferry map, I found that we had returned to Piazza San Marco. I knew that the Square is close to my hotel. But alas, the ferry then turned around and started to retrace its steps away from the Square. Rather than spend another 90 minutes coming back and found a ferry in the reverse direction back to San Marco. Then the problem was to figure out which ferries would go further.
I had decided to visit the Peggy Guggenheim Museum a little further along the canal. A friend of one of my friends had recommended a nice pensione in the same area as the Guggenheim and I wanted to see both.
I got off the ferry at the stop that described the Guggenheim and found myself walking through little walkways and following American-style signs indicating the correct direction to the museum. A handsome man with blond hair was passing and stopped me. “I know that person,” he said to his friends. Peter Smith-Jones was the editor for a paper I wrote in 1995. Peter had helped me find my way, developing a consistent theme for the paper and helping me find confidence in my ability to express complex ideas. He’s a 50-something beatnik with a ponytail and a winning smile. I explained to Peter that I was on a stop-over to Zagreb and to his stunned friends, I noted the obvious—that I also work for an international organization. With that, Peter was off and I found the museum.
While the museum is filled with Picassos and Klees and other famous artists, I was most interested in the gardens and the terrace—and a quote from Peggy Guggenheim typed onto one of the exhibits. Apparently her daughter had died suddenly. Peggy Guggenheim wrote about how her daughter had also been her mother, her friend and her confidant. Peggy Guggenheim seemed as if she might have been an interesting person and I bought a copy of her auto-biography (“Diary of an Art Addict”) to give me something to read apart from my official reports during my trip.
I finally found the pensione my friend had recommended. When I asked for copies of the brochure and an indication of how far in advance I should made a reservation, the clerk replied seven or eight months. “Seven or eight months,” I replied. “I hardly can be sure of my schedule seven or eight weeks ahead.” “Oh well,” he replied. I suppose they don’t have too many international officials passing on route to another place. Still it’s very nice and not particularly expensive (at about $110 per night for a single). I would be pleased to pass it on if you think you may want a recommendation on Venice hotels.
It turns out the NY woman with the hoarse voice was also called Sue. “Sue, Sue, Sue,” they were yelling as these ten men (and three women) came walking down the street. “Have a nice night,” they wished Sue and so I wish you.
Sue
Saturday, September 1, 2001
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