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From our recording studio in Brooklyn, we make audio that celebrates human creativity, history and the spaces we live to learn about.

Alongside the lagoon, this walk cuts through the major sites of Venice's most famous sestiere, San Marco, as it flows into the intimate neighborhood of Castello.  Beyond the unmissable tourist haunts, explore Venice's rich past and present, from medieval warships to modern art.

$11.99

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St. Mark's and the Lagoon | The Belly of the Beast

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Venice

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“Venice is like eating an entire box of chocolate liqueurs in one go.”
-Truman Capote

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Oh, hi.  Eric Millman, here.  Though I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to make sense of the subtle nuances of Italian culture, like you, today I’m but one of the 25 million tourists clogging the canals of Venice each year.  That’s 25 million against 50,000 citizens, a staggering number that still, in the particularly sticky moments, feels somehow conservative.  This is, after all, one of the most touristic cities in the world.

Well, we’re about to walk what is probably the most touristic area in that fish-shaped city, from the mouth of the Grand Canal to the eastern tip of its fin.  Why, you might ask, would we subject ourselves to the overcrowding, the overcharging, and the overwhelming rarity of genuine human interaction of these neighborhoods, or sestieri?  

Because, my dear friend, there is a reason why people from all over the globe have been flooding this area for centuries: as much as I hate to admit it, it’s stunningly, freakishly, incomparably beautiful.  Because no matter how many people are gumming up the main road, there’s always a tiny, magical piazza waiting for you just around the corner.  Because this is a city of layers, and it would take five lifetimes to unearth the stories that emanate from the heart of the city, Piazza San Marco, all the way down the waterfront that helped make this the wealthiest place in the world for some 500 years.  

There are too many obvious things to love about Venice, and truthfully there’s little I could possibly say about this city that hasn’t already been said, few experiences I might suggest or express that don't already reek with the stench of a tourist circuit that already dates back some four centuries.   It’s just too small a city. 

Still, I hope these walks will provide some helpful context and energy to help avoid the tourist burnout that effectively ruined my first ten-odd visits to this alternatingly maddening, eternally magical place.  There really is no other place like it in the world, and, I’m afraid to say, it may not be here forever.  

Now, take a nice, deep sip of that salty lagoon air and prepare yourself as we toe the line between some of the worst, but most of the best, that mankind has on offer.

In a city of many faces, we start our walk at a site with two in direct opposition.  They tell me the Bauer Hotel is one of the most sumptuous in Venice, a city not lacking for luxury, but you wouldn’t know it from this angle.  Despite the brutally brutalist facade, the hotel inside, which dates to the 1500s and features the highest terrace in town, is definitely five-star.  

Yet I’ve brought you here not to bask in the Bauer’s luxury, but for two other reasons: one, to contrast the striking plainness of the hotel entry with the neighboring, hyper-baroque facade to its left -- considered the most garish in town -- of the Chiesa di San Moisé, or church of Saint Moses.  Now, I’m amongst the least qualified people on earth to speak of saints, but I’m pretty sure Moses was not a saint.  Right?  I’m pretty sure.  Well, it seems the church takes its name from its rich-as-hell benefactor named Moisé Venier (another benefactor, VIncenzo Fini, would fund its renovation in the 1600s, and immortalized himself with that bust over the entryway as a thanks...to himself).  So anyway, it’s a pretty indulgent place for a church.

I’ve used the word “indulgent” to help segue to the second reason why I have you standing in the street instead of shopping at the Louis Vuitton next door, as you may wish you were doing.  Quick, a film nerd pop quiz: what was the best film ever set in Venice?  Well, the answer is contained here at the Bauer, where one of the most scandalous behind-the-scenes stories in cinematic history took place.  In Nicholas Roeg’s Don’t Look Now, the protagonists, played by Julie Christie and Donald Sutherland, stay at this hotel. Quick sidenote: Sutherland also came here to star in the Italian Job remake and as Fellini’s Casanova, and is also the real life father of, coincidentally, Jack Bauer from TV’s 24.  Well, it seems the mournful love scene that takes place between the two stars was so revealing and earnest that Christie’s partner, actor Warren Beatty, supposedly traveled all over the globe, trying to get the film killed.  He obviously failed, and now the film, in all of its dark, disturbing glory, remains available for your streaming pleasure.  And there you have it: churches and sex scenes.  I’m going to hell.

Hey, if it’s a sunny day, see if you can’t find yourself a bit of prosecco, ideally one from the slopes of nearby Valdobbiadene, and head down the Calle Tredici Martiri toward the Grand Canal and we’ll check in in a second, OK?

1413/d Calle Tredici Martiri \|||// Oh, hi.  Eric Millman, here.  Though I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to make sense of the subtle nuances of Italian culture, like you, today I’m but one of the 25 million tourists clogging the canals of Venice each year.  That’s 25 million against 50,000 citizens, a staggering number that still, in the particularly sticky moments, feels somehow conservative.  This is, after all, one of the most touristic cities in the world.

Well, we’re about to walk what is probably the most touristic area in that fish-shaped city, from the mouth of the Grand Canal to the eastern tip of its fin.  Why, you might ask, would we subject ourselves to the overcrowding, the overcharging, and the overwhelming rarity of genuine human interaction of these neighborhoods, or sestieri?  

Because, my dear friend, there is a reason why people from all over the globe have been flooding this area for centuries: as much as I hate to admit it, it’s stunningly, freakishly, incomparably beautiful.  Because no matter how many people are gumming up the main road, there’s always a tiny, magical piazza waiting for you just around the corner.  Because this is a city of layers, and it would take five lifetimes to unearth the stories that emanate from the heart of the city, Piazza San Marco, all the way down the waterfront that helped make this the wealthiest place in the world for some 500 years.  

There are too many obvious things to love about Venice, and truthfully there’s little I could possibly say about this city that hasn’t already been said, few experiences I might suggest or express that don't already reek with the stench of a tourist circuit that already dates back some four centuries.   It’s just too small a city. 

Still, I hope these walks will provide some helpful context and energy to help avoid the tourist burnout that effectively ruined my first ten-odd visits to this alternatingly maddening, eternally magical place.  There really is no other place like it in the world, and, I’m afraid to say, it may not be here forever.  

Now, take a nice, deep sip of that salty lagoon air and prepare yourself as we toe the line between some of the worst, but most of the best, that mankind has on offer.

In a city of many faces, we start our walk at a site with two in direct opposition.  They tell me the Bauer Hotel is one of the most sumptuous in Venice, a city not lacking for luxury, but you wouldn’t know it from this angle.  Despite the brutally brutalist facade, the hotel inside, which dates to the 1500s and features the highest terrace in town, is definitely five-star.  

Yet I’ve brought you here not to bask in the Bauer’s luxury, but for two other reasons: one, to contrast the striking plainness of the hotel entry with the neighboring, hyper-baroque facade to its left -- considered the most garish in town -- of the Chiesa di San Moisé, or church of Saint Moses.  Now, I’m amongst the least qualified people on earth to speak of saints, but I’m pretty sure Moses was not a saint.  Right?  I’m pretty sure.  Well, it seems the church takes its name from its rich-as-hell benefactor named Moisé Venier (another benefactor, VIncenzo Fini, would fund its renovation in the 1600s, and immortalized himself with that bust over the entryway as a thanks...to himself).  So anyway, it’s a pretty indulgent place for a church.

I’ve used the word “indulgent” to help segue to the second reason why I have you standing in the street instead of shopping at the Louis Vuitton next door, as you may wish you were doing.  Quick, a film nerd pop quiz: what was the best film ever set in Venice?  Well, the answer is contained here at the Bauer, where one of the most scandalous behind-the-scenes stories in cinematic history took place.  In Nicholas Roeg’s Don’t Look Now, the protagonists, played by Julie Christie and Donald Sutherland, stay at this hotel. Quick sidenote: Sutherland also came here to star in the Italian Job remake and as Fellini’s Casanova, and is also the real life father of, coincidentally, Jack Bauer from TV’s 24.  Well, it seems the mournful love scene that takes place between the two stars was so revealing and earnest that Christie’s partner, actor Warren Beatty, supposedly traveled all over the globe, trying to get the film killed.  He obviously failed, and now the film, in all of its dark, disturbing glory, remains available for your streaming pleasure.  And there you have it: churches and sex scenes.  I’m going to hell.

Hey, if it’s a sunny day, see if you can’t find yourself a bit of prosecco, ideally one from the slopes of nearby Valdobbiadene, and head down the Calle Tredici Martiri toward the Grand Canal and we’ll check in in a second, OK?

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Bauer + Moses

Tour Item

1_2IntroSanMarcoBauerScored.mp3

Yes, it’s friggin’ beautiful, looking out over the Grand Canal at the Ponte Dogana, to the silver dome of the Santa Maria della Salute on your right and the Peggy Guggenheim Collection just beyond that.  Behind all of this, I need to add, is the island of San Clemente, where Ida Dalser, the first wife of Mussolini, was secretly institutionalized until her death in 1937 (for more on that, you gotta watch the 2009 film Vincere, by Marco Bellocchio).  
	
I do like coming out here to sit on the dock, partly out of my miserly satisfaction in sidestepping the hefty cover charge at the restaurant of the Ca’ Giustinian, formerly the Hotel Europa, but also because there’s a poignant juxtaposition here on the Calle Tredici Martiri (Street of the Thirteen Martyrs).  Firstly, I’ll note that the word “calle” means “street” in Spanish, of course, which would be “via” in Italian. This is a blatant (and convenient) reminder of just how many distinct languages -- not dialects -- have existed, and still exist, in Italy, and that what we call Italian today is actually just a version of literary Tuscan imposed upon the peninsula when the country was unified in 1861.  The veneta language, spoken by some four million people worldwide, is its own thing, and evolved from common, vulgar Latin within the Venetian Republic, just as Spanish and Catalan and Gascon developed throughout the Iberian Peninsula, onward and onward, ad infinitum.  

Now, the 15th century Ca’  Giustinian -- that is, the Venetian abbreviation of casa, which is found in standard Italian -- has since 2010 been the headquarters of the Biennale; as you’re leaving, look out for an Instagram-friendly sign chiseled into an overpass on the Calle Ridotto confirming as much.  And despite its centuries-long status as a site of prestige, this palace was also briefly the headquarters for the Fascist secret police called the UPI, where they would imprison and torture untold numbers of anti-Fascist partisans.

On the morning of July 26th, 1944, two anti-Fascists delivered a 175lb bomb in a trunk and detonated it here, killing 14 Fascists, causing serious damage to this and the Bauer, and sending shockwaves throughout the city.  The attack was overseen in part by a man who called himself the Conte Rosso, or Red Count, to strike a bit of fear in the heart of the Fascists, and it seems to have worked, causing local officials to release several denunciations, including one that demanded the perpetrators turn themselves in, if only to, “see if they actually belong to the human race, so much does their gesture reveal the instinct of a beast of the most sinister ferocity.”  Pot/kettle/black, eh?

Two days later, after such pleas were ignored, the Fascists rounded up thirteen partisan prisoners at random, stood them upon the remains of the building and executed them for all to see.

Anyway, sorry: that won’t be the last extreme bummer of a story I tell on this tour, but don’t let that stop you from enjoying yourself today, or at least enjoying your drink.  It’s said that Italians frown upon walking and consuming, whether gin or gelato, that it’s in their blood to slow down and savor whatever the flavor, always in moderation.  Now, I don’t know about all of that -- I mean, maybe I just have trashy Italian friends -- but I’ll just say that yes, it’s technically legal to booze outdoors in Italy, and also, that I personally try to avoid the stereotype of the unruly foreigner sloshing his drink all over the sidewalk.  Having a seat in a piazza, or on a canal in this case, to watch life unfold before you: it’s never not a good idea, and is a lifestyle worth adopting.

That being said, when you’re ready, march down the Calle Ridotto, snag that selfie at the Biennale sign above you, and head to the next building over, still on the Grand Canal.

1364a Calle Ridotto \|||// Yes, it’s friggin’ beautiful, looking out over the Grand Canal at the Ponte Dogana, to the silver dome of the Santa Maria della Salute on your right and the Peggy Guggenheim Collection just beyond that.  Behind all of this, I need to add, is the island of San Clemente, where Ida Dalser, the first wife of Mussolini, was secretly institutionalized until her death in 1937 (for more on that, you gotta watch the 2009 film Vincere, by Marco Bellocchio).  
	
I do like coming out here to sit on the dock, partly out of my miserly satisfaction in sidestepping the hefty cover charge at the restaurant of the Ca’ Giustinian, formerly the Hotel Europa, but also because there’s a poignant juxtaposition here on the Calle Tredici Martiri (Street of the Thirteen Martyrs).  Firstly, I’ll note that the word “calle” means “street” in Spanish, of course, which would be “via” in Italian. This is a blatant (and convenient) reminder of just how many distinct languages -- not dialects -- have existed, and still exist, in Italy, and that what we call Italian today is actually just a version of literary Tuscan imposed upon the peninsula when the country was unified in 1861.  The veneta language, spoken by some four million people worldwide, is its own thing, and evolved from common, vulgar Latin within the Venetian Republic, just as Spanish and Catalan and Gascon developed throughout the Iberian Peninsula, onward and onward, ad infinitum.  

Now, the 15th century Ca’  Giustinian -- that is, the Venetian abbreviation of casa, which is found in standard Italian -- has since 2010 been the headquarters of the Biennale; as you’re leaving, look out for an Instagram-friendly sign chiseled into an overpass on the Calle Ridotto confirming as much.  And despite its centuries-long status as a site of prestige, this palace was also briefly the headquarters for the Fascist secret police called the UPI, where they would imprison and torture untold numbers of anti-Fascist partisans.

On the morning of July 26th, 1944, two anti-Fascists delivered a 175lb bomb in a trunk and detonated it here, killing 14 Fascists, causing serious damage to this and the Bauer, and sending shockwaves throughout the city.  The attack was overseen in part by a man who called himself the Conte Rosso, or Red Count, to strike a bit of fear in the heart of the Fascists, and it seems to have worked, causing local officials to release several denunciations, including one that demanded the perpetrators turn themselves in, if only to, “see if they actually belong to the human race, so much does their gesture reveal the instinct of a beast of the most sinister ferocity.”  Pot/kettle/black, eh?

Two days later, after such pleas were ignored, the Fascists rounded up thirteen partisan prisoners at random, stood them upon the remains of the building and executed them for all to see.

Anyway, sorry: that won’t be the last extreme bummer of a story I tell on this tour, but don’t let that stop you from enjoying yourself today, or at least enjoying your drink.  It’s said that Italians frown upon walking and consuming, whether gin or gelato, that it’s in their blood to slow down and savor whatever the flavor, always in moderation.  Now, I don’t know about all of that -- I mean, maybe I just have trashy Italian friends -- but I’ll just say that yes, it’s technically legal to booze outdoors in Italy, and also, that I personally try to avoid the stereotype of the unruly foreigner sloshing his drink all over the sidewalk.  Having a seat in a piazza, or on a canal in this case, to watch life unfold before you: it’s never not a good idea, and is a lifestyle worth adopting.

That being said, when you’re ready, march down the Calle Ridotto, snag that selfie at the Biennale sign above you, and head to the next building over, still on the Grand Canal.

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Ca' Giustinian

3GiustinianScored.mp3

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Harry’s Bar, with its cool, modernist logo, is a Venetian institution.  They’ve got their own line of boutique pasta, locations in Miami, Montecarlo, Moscow, Mexico City, and more, and at this, their original location, they’ve greased the gullets of such legendary lushes Ernest Hemingway, Orson Welles and the incomparable Katherine Hepburn.  In 2001, it was declared by the Italian Ministry of Cultural Heritage to be a National Landmark; more importantly, while I was studying abroad in Florence as a young man, I caught them playing my favorite hipster-doofus Australian band on the loudspeaker after closing time.

The story goes that Harry’s was named after an American named -- you guessed it -- Harry, who was a well-heeled American regular at the Hotel Europa bar next door until he wasn’t.  One day, when the hotel bartender, Giuseppe Cipriani, ran into Harry and asked after his whereabouts, the young man said he had been cut off by his family after drinking so much of their cash.  Inspired by Harry’s desperation, or perhaps by his devotion to drinking, Cipriani threw the American some bones and, two years later, Harry repaid his debt tenfold, allowing Cipriani to open a bar here, which he named in the Yankee’s honor.

Famously, Harry’s Bar has contributed two items to Venice’s (admittedly questionable) culinary repertoire: the bellini, made with regional prosecco and peach puree and so named after the similar pink hue Cipriani found in a 15th century work by Venetian painter Giovanni Bellini, and carpaccio, raw, thinly-sliced beef so-named after the coloration in the work of Venetian painter Vittore Carpaccio.  Are they still gimmicks if they’re good?

Anyway, one bit of hippie spin on Harry’s: the 50th NATO summit was hosted in Venice back in 2004, and Harry’s reportedly furnished the dignitaries with their meals.  Citing an anecdote in the marvelous Guide to Rebellious Venice, twelve activists dined and dashed at the famed restaurant.  They left a fat tip for the server, and a note that billed the rest to NATO, while declaring their prank, “collateral damage, like what [George W.] Bush claims when he kills civilians in his bombings.”  

I can’t say I feel so bad for them, though: three years later, two generations of the Cipriani Family were charged with tax evasion on some $30 million in non-existent royalty payments and forced to sell off their beloved family institution.  

Now let’s head back inland and hang a right at the same street as before as we head toward the city’s most famous piazza.

1323 Calle Vallaresso \|||// Harry’s Bar, with its cool, modernist logo, is a Venetian institution.  They’ve got their own line of boutique pasta, locations in Miami, Montecarlo, Moscow, Mexico City, and more, and at this, their original location, they’ve greased the gullets of such legendary lushes Ernest Hemingway, Orson Welles and the incomparable Katherine Hepburn.  In 2001, it was declared by the Italian Ministry of Cultural Heritage to be a National Landmark; more importantly, while I was studying abroad in Florence as a young man, I caught them playing my favorite hipster-doofus Australian band on the loudspeaker after closing time.

The story goes that Harry’s was named after an American named -- you guessed it -- Harry, who was a well-heeled American regular at the Hotel Europa bar next door until he wasn’t.  One day, when the hotel bartender, Giuseppe Cipriani, ran into Harry and asked after his whereabouts, the young man said he had been cut off by his family after drinking so much of their cash.  Inspired by Harry’s desperation, or perhaps by his devotion to drinking, Cipriani threw the American some bones and, two years later, Harry repaid his debt tenfold, allowing Cipriani to open a bar here, which he named in the Yankee’s honor.

Famously, Harry’s Bar has contributed two items to Venice’s (admittedly questionable) culinary repertoire: the bellini, made with regional prosecco and peach puree and so named after the similar pink hue Cipriani found in a 15th century work by Venetian painter Giovanni Bellini, and carpaccio, raw, thinly-sliced beef so-named after the coloration in the work of Venetian painter Vittore Carpaccio.  Are they still gimmicks if they’re good?

Anyway, one bit of hippie spin on Harry’s: the 50th NATO summit was hosted in Venice back in 2004, and Harry’s reportedly furnished the dignitaries with their meals.  Citing an anecdote in the marvelous Guide to Rebellious Venice, twelve activists dined and dashed at the famed restaurant.  They left a fat tip for the server, and a note that billed the rest to NATO, while declaring their prank, “collateral damage, like what [George W.] Bush claims when he kills civilians in his bombings.”  

I can’t say I feel so bad for them, though: three years later, two generations of the Cipriani Family were charged with tax evasion on some $30 million in non-existent royalty payments and forced to sell off their beloved family institution.  

Now let’s head back inland and hang a right at the same street as before as we head toward the city’s most famous piazza.

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Harry's Bar

4Harry'sScored.mp3

Let’s take a short step forward from pre- to post-war Venice before plunging into the past, as we tuck into a relatively quiet alcove of St. Mark’s Square.  We’re at the Olivetti Showroom, where a largely obscure product retains relevance thanks to the work of a guy who’s been dead for over four decades.  Modern Venice!

You might be familiar with Olivetti for the colorful design of its classic typewriters, employing amongst its design directors my main man Ettore Sottsass, better-known for founding the eighties neon color-blasting design firm The Memphis Group.  Apparently Olivetti is a company that still exists!  More importantly, and the reason you’re here, is their employment of Venice’s master of modernism, the architect Carlo Scarpa, who designed this beautiful space.

Commissioned by Olivetti in 1957, Scarpa transformed this dark, tiny shop into something more ethereal than minimalist, clean and precise, yet also tactile and polychromatic (check out those colorful tile floors!). Like so much of and in this city, Scarpa drew influence from the east; though he wouldn’t visit Japan until 1969, he was a devoted admirer of their design, which he said personified “good taste.” It shows here, harmonizing functional elements, like bracing brass beams and strange seams, while sneaking in a bit of the ol’ wabi-sabi -- the Japanese belief in the beauty of imperfection -- into walls that alternate in polished and unfinished marble.  

Most importantly, Carlo Scarpa effectively controlled light, with his use of wooden grids, glass bricks, and reflective floors, with large windows and an open plan that allows us to sneak a peek at the interior free of charge.  

If you decide to go inside, though, take solace in the fact that the space is now operated by FAI, the non-profit Italian National Trust, who restored the space in 2011, and keep it pristine and relevant today, even if they haven’t sold a typewriter in decades.

Now we’ll head straight across the short side of the piazza to the Caffe Florian.

91 Piazza San Marco \|||// Let’s take a short step forward from pre- to post-war Venice before plunging into the past, as we tuck into a relatively quiet alcove of St. Mark’s Square.  We’re at the Olivetti Showroom, where a largely obscure product retains relevance thanks to the work of a guy who’s been dead for over four decades.  Modern Venice!

You might be familiar with Olivetti for the colorful design of its classic typewriters, employing amongst its design directors my main man Ettore Sottsass, better-known for founding the eighties neon color-blasting design firm The Memphis Group.  Apparently Olivetti is a company that still exists!  More importantly, and the reason you’re here, is their employment of Venice’s master of modernism, the architect Carlo Scarpa, who designed this beautiful space.

Commissioned by Olivetti in 1957, Scarpa transformed this dark, tiny shop into something more ethereal than minimalist, clean and precise, yet also tactile and polychromatic (check out those colorful tile floors!). Like so much of and in this city, Scarpa drew influence from the east; though he wouldn’t visit Japan until 1969, he was a devoted admirer of their design, which he said personified “good taste.” It shows here, harmonizing functional elements, like bracing brass beams and strange seams, while sneaking in a bit of the ol’ wabi-sabi -- the Japanese belief in the beauty of imperfection -- into walls that alternate in polished and unfinished marble.  

Most importantly, Carlo Scarpa effectively controlled light, with his use of wooden grids, glass bricks, and reflective floors, with large windows and an open plan that allows us to sneak a peek at the interior free of charge.  

If you decide to go inside, though, take solace in the fact that the space is now operated by FAI, the non-profit Italian National Trust, who restored the space in 2011, and keep it pristine and relevant today, even if they haven’t sold a typewriter in decades.

Now we’ll head straight across the short side of the piazza to the Caffe Florian.

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Scarpa's Olivetti Showroom

5OlivettiScored.mp3

olivetti.jpg

It’s easy to write off the Florian as just one of many old world, touristic cafes here in the piazza, with its white piano competing with its spruce waiters who fling costly espressi to its leathery clientele as toy-sized show dogs yap from laps at the tables outside.  

But the Florian, named for founder Floriano Francescano, is different from the rest.  If you’re fishing for culinary tourists, it doesn’t hurt to be able to call yourself the oldest continuously operational cafe in the world, having opened in 1720.  More than any competing cafe in Paris, the Florian can also claim, thanks to extensive trade routes through Turkey and beyond, to be located in the first European city to taste coffee.  Above all, the gilded cafe reeks of the Enlightenment, thanks in part to Francescano’s progressive vision. 

Predating Italy’s founding by, oh, a mere 141 years, when you talk about European coffeehouses as centers of intellectual and political thought, the Florian is an OG: as one of the only places to serve women, it was a favorite spot of Casanova; as a favored meeting place for French revolutionaries known as the Jacobins, Venetian officials briefly barred service here in 1796, viewing the cafe as a threat to their interests.  The Florian even served as a hospital for Venetians fighting for independence from Austria during the war of 1848, the success of which proved instrumental in the drive toward Italy’s unification.

Beyond politics, it’s also notable in the art realm: the Biennale, arguably the most important art festival on earth, was founded here in the Senate Hall in 1895. Feel free to peek inside, just to the left of the bar.  Here, you’ll find subtle references to the Freemasons who would hang here (for example, check out the winged angel on the wall facing the piazza holding a triangle, representing the Eye of Providence).  Throughout, you’ll find themed, lavishly-decorated salons, from the Art Nouveau Liberty Hall to the modestly-titled Room of Illustrious Men, featuring regal portraiture of Venice notables like Marco Polo, Palladio, and Carlo Goldoni.

Through all the hard times, including a nasty flood-COVID double-punch of 2019, the Florian has survived.  Now, more museum for the jetset than hub for long, drunken nights of intellectual discourse, it may not prove to be the epicenter of any future revolutions, or host the next generation of Goethe and Dickens, both of whom once drank here, but it does stand as a testimonial of the power of a well-placed cafe run by open-minded folks.  

P.S. While the average cafe may not differentiate, in heavily-touristed areas you always pay more to sit and drink. This is particularly true at the Florian.  If you're put off by the price tag outside, be a little stinker like me and have your coffee standing at the bar, where you’ll pay nearly half.  

Once finished here, we’ll turn right for the piazza’s main course: the cathedral from which it takes its name.

53 Piazza San Marco \|||// It’s easy to write off the Florian as just one of many old world, touristic cafes here in the piazza, with its white piano competing with its spruce waiters who fling costly espressi to its leathery clientele as toy-sized show dogs yap from laps at the tables outside.  

But the Florian, named for founder Floriano Francescano, is different from the rest.  If you’re fishing for culinary tourists, it doesn’t hurt to be able to call yourself the oldest continuously operational cafe in the world, having opened in 1720.  More than any competing cafe in Paris, the Florian can also claim, thanks to extensive trade routes through Turkey and beyond, to be located in the first European city to taste coffee.  Above all, the gilded cafe reeks of the Enlightenment, thanks in part to Francescano’s progressive vision. 

Predating Italy’s founding by, oh, a mere 141 years, when you talk about European coffeehouses as centers of intellectual and political thought, the Florian is an OG: as one of the only places to serve women, it was a favorite spot of Casanova; as a favored meeting place for French revolutionaries known as the Jacobins, Venetian officials briefly barred service here in 1796, viewing the cafe as a threat to their interests.  The Florian even served as a hospital for Venetians fighting for independence from Austria during the war of 1848, the success of which proved instrumental in the drive toward Italy’s unification.

Beyond politics, it’s also notable in the art realm: the Biennale, arguably the most important art festival on earth, was founded here in the Senate Hall in 1895. Feel free to peek inside, just to the left of the bar.  Here, you’ll find subtle references to the Freemasons who would hang here (for example, check out the winged angel on the wall facing the piazza holding a triangle, representing the Eye of Providence).  Throughout, you’ll find themed, lavishly-decorated salons, from the Art Nouveau Liberty Hall to the modestly-titled Room of Illustrious Men, featuring regal portraiture of Venice notables like Marco Polo, Palladio, and Carlo Goldoni.

Through all the hard times, including a nasty flood-COVID double-punch of 2019, the Florian has survived.  Now, more museum for the jetset than hub for long, drunken nights of intellectual discourse, it may not prove to be the epicenter of any future revolutions, or host the next generation of Goethe and Dickens, both of whom once drank here, but it does stand as a testimonial of the power of a well-placed cafe run by open-minded folks.  

P.S. While the average cafe may not differentiate, in heavily-touristed areas you always pay more to sit and drink. This is particularly true at the Florian.  If you're put off by the price tag outside, be a little stinker like me and have your coffee standing at the bar, where you’ll pay nearly half.  

Once finished here, we’ll turn right for the piazza’s main course: the cathedral from which it takes its name.

florian.jpg

Caffè Florian

6FlorianScored.mp3

florian2.jpg

You’re now at literally the lowest point in the city where, not unlike in New Orleans, the property value is at its lowest.  In fact, the worthless, shoddily-built structures in this piazza -- I’m joking --  are almost under threat of high water, and at their peak in 1966 flooded to 194cm, or the average height of a shooting guard in the NBA!  

Let’s consider the ebb and flow of the lagoon as an appropriate metaphor for the cathedral, which was consecrated in 839AD as the personal place of worship for the leader of the Republic, the Doge, whose modest little palace stands at your back.  Only declared the official cathedral of Venice in 1807, this site is nothing if not the result of some thirteen centuries of countless treasures having “washed ashore” from far-off lands, starting with the eponymous Mark the Evangelist himself.  

Check out the bottom rung of mosaic domes on the facade featuring Christ’s ascension at its center.  See it?  Starting from the far right, the four mosaics that flank Jesus portray how St Mark’s body, like so many items you’ll find throughout the city, was smuggled here from the East.  Mark, though, was hidden under a layer of cabbage and pork -- seriously -- to ward off the Muslims who had threatened to destroy all symbols of Christianity in the city, explaining why the dudes in the white hats are all pinching their noses and turning away in disgust from the basket.  

Moving left, you can see the journey of St Mark’s relics to Venice, culminating with the fourth mosaic, which depicts the procession surrounding the church upon the arrival of the relics; dig the difference between the golden, one-dimensional  13th-century Byzantine style of the one on the left against the far more realistic three to its right, each produced hundreds of years later after the Renaissance trend of perspective had already swept the land.  

One final note, because there’s just far too much to cover in three minutes: the four horses above the main entry were also looted from Constantinople (today’s Istanbul) during the Fourth Crusade in the early 1200s, when the Doge effectively had that city destroyed.  Ironically, the original horses, dating to around the 2nd or 3rd century AD, were looted again in the late 1700s, this time by Napoleon, who placed them atop one of the triumphal arches in Paris as he unsuccessfully ordered all winged lions -- the symbol of St. Mark, and eventually the symbol of the independent Venetian Republic -- to be removed from the piazza.  

The horses were returned to their original looters by 1815, and are now located inside the church to safeguard against pollution, while the reproductions you see before you are the latest inheritors of the great ebb and flow that carries on below.

328 Piazza San Marco \|||// You’re now at literally the lowest point in the city where, not unlike in New Orleans, the property value is at its lowest.  In fact, the worthless, shoddily-built structures in this piazza -- I’m joking --  are almost under threat of high water, and at their peak in 1966 flooded to 194cm, or the average height of a shooting guard in the NBA!  

Let’s consider the ebb and flow of the lagoon as an appropriate metaphor for the cathedral, which was consecrated in 839AD as the personal place of worship for the leader of the Republic, the Doge, whose modest little palace stands at your back.  Only declared the official cathedral of Venice in 1807, this site is nothing if not the result of some thirteen centuries of countless treasures having “washed ashore” from far-off lands, starting with the eponymous Mark the Evangelist himself.  

Check out the bottom rung of mosaic domes on the facade featuring Christ’s ascension at its center.  See it?  Starting from the far right, the four mosaics that flank Jesus portray how St Mark’s body, like so many items you’ll find throughout the city, was smuggled here from the East.  Mark, though, was hidden under a layer of cabbage and pork -- seriously -- to ward off the Muslims who had threatened to destroy all symbols of Christianity in the city, explaining why the dudes in the white hats are all pinching their noses and turning away in disgust from the basket.  

Moving left, you can see the journey of St Mark’s relics to Venice, culminating with the fourth mosaic, which depicts the procession surrounding the church upon the arrival of the relics; dig the difference between the golden, one-dimensional  13th-century Byzantine style of the one on the left against the far more realistic three to its right, each produced hundreds of years later after the Renaissance trend of perspective had already swept the land.  

One final note, because there’s just far too much to cover in three minutes: the four horses above the main entry were also looted from Constantinople (today’s Istanbul) during the Fourth Crusade in the early 1200s, when the Doge effectively had that city destroyed.  Ironically, the original horses, dating to around the 2nd or 3rd century AD, were looted again in the late 1700s, this time by Napoleon, who placed them atop one of the triumphal arches in Paris as he unsuccessfully ordered all winged lions -- the symbol of St. Mark, and eventually the symbol of the independent Venetian Republic -- to be removed from the piazza.  

The horses were returned to their original looters by 1815, and are now located inside the church to safeguard against pollution, while the reproductions you see before you are the latest inheritors of the great ebb and flow that carries on below.

StMarks.jpg

St. Mark's Cathedral

7SaintMarksScored.mp3

stmarks2.jpg

It seems like hardly an overstatement to say that this campanile is one of the most iconic images in all of Italy.  The belltower, originally built to announce working hours and executions for Venetians each day, effectively invented the pyramidal spire-atop-a-tower look, one which now can be found in virtually all subsequent bell towers, particularly in the Americas.  From the Tribune Tower in my adoptive hometown of Oakland, to Boston’s Customs House, Toronto’s North Toronto Station, and New Yorks’ 14 Wall Street Building, not to mention, obviously, Las Vegas’ Venetian Hotel, the image is just so diffuse that I had incorrectly assumed such towers have always looked like this.

Despite its pristine appearance today, the iconic structure has suffered through quite a lot: its original construction dates to the 10th century, leading to its current symmetrical, columnal, kinda Renaissance-ish design completed 1512, but the actual tower before you is little more than a decade older than its copy in Oakland.  After some excavation projects in the late 1800s raised concerns over the state of its foundation, engineers assured everyone that the campanile was stable.  Holy moly, were they ever wrong.  At 9:30am on July 14th, 1909, a crack in the base began to spread, and the piazza was evacuated; less than a half hour later, the tower collapsed upon itself, taking with it a sizable chunk of the Marciana Library, which you see just to the east of you as part of the main structure of colonnades.  Thankfully, only a cat was killed.

Since the 1500s, the campanile in its varied forms has also played host to one of the inaugural traditions of Venice’s famous Carnevale celebration: a Turkish acrobat, armed with a dumbbell to balance himself, descended from a rope to a balcony at the Palazzo Ducale in what would eventually be called the Flight of the Angel, and the act has been repeated each year thereafter (that is, until 1759, when an angel fell from the sky).  After a long run where the Flight of the Angel became the Flight of the Wooden Dove-that-won’t-splat-if-it-falls, the tradition of human acrobats returned in 2001, and if my records are correct, it appears not one tower-related death, whether human or feline, has occurred since.

Let’s check out the Doge’s Palace, just to the right of the belltower.

34 Piazza San Marco \|||// It seems like hardly an overstatement to say that this campanile is one of the most iconic images in all of Italy.  The belltower, originally built to announce working hours and executions for Venetians each day, effectively invented the pyramidal spire-atop-a-tower look, one which now can be found in virtually all subsequent bell towers, particularly in the Americas.  From the Tribune Tower in my adoptive hometown of Oakland, to Boston’s Customs House, Toronto’s North Toronto Station, and New Yorks’ 14 Wall Street Building, not to mention, obviously, Las Vegas’ Venetian Hotel, the image is just so diffuse that I had incorrectly assumed such towers have always looked like this.

Despite its pristine appearance today, the iconic structure has suffered through quite a lot: its original construction dates to the 10th century, leading to its current symmetrical, columnal, kinda Renaissance-ish design completed 1512, but the actual tower before you is little more than a decade older than its copy in Oakland.  After some excavation projects in the late 1800s raised concerns over the state of its foundation, engineers assured everyone that the campanile was stable.  Holy moly, were they ever wrong.  At 9:30am on July 14th, 1909, a crack in the base began to spread, and the piazza was evacuated; less than a half hour later, the tower collapsed upon itself, taking with it a sizable chunk of the Marciana Library, which you see just to the east of you as part of the main structure of colonnades.  Thankfully, only a cat was killed.

Since the 1500s, the campanile in its varied forms has also played host to one of the inaugural traditions of Venice’s famous Carnevale celebration: a Turkish acrobat, armed with a dumbbell to balance himself, descended from a rope to a balcony at the Palazzo Ducale in what would eventually be called the Flight of the Angel, and the act has been repeated each year thereafter (that is, until 1759, when an angel fell from the sky).  After a long run where the Flight of the Angel became the Flight of the Wooden Dove-that-won’t-splat-if-it-falls, the tradition of human acrobats returned in 2001, and if my records are correct, it appears not one tower-related death, whether human or feline, has occurred since.

Let’s check out the Doge’s Palace, just to the right of the belltower.

campanile2.jpg

The Angel of the Campanile

8CampanileScored.mp3

I guess it’s my duty to discuss the Doge, which before it was ever a meme or a form of digital currency, was a title relating to the Latin dūx (which Mussolini would later morph into his own rank of “Il Duce”). The Doge, then, was the ruler of this water-locked region, which began at the dissolution of the Western Roman Empire in 476, and officially oversaw the Venetian Republic from 697 through 1797.  Those 1100 years of steady ducal power saw the city focus its resources on maritime trade and stability, and its title of La Serenissima referred to its particular level of independence within an unstable world, though it can also apply to just how serene this place can be.  At least at night.

Right now it’s not, though, is it?  Obviously if they had to do it all over again, the official symbol of the city would be not a winged lion, but a pigeon with a broken leg, or someone with a selfie stick stuck in your face.  Still, no such chaos can mess with how crazy/beautiful this place is.  We’re standing at the Porta della Carta, or Paper Gate, believed to be the original entrance to a large castle which once stood here. In its current form, the construction of which began in the 1100s, it would become a center of administration (hence the “paper” in the title), while also containing courtrooms, ducal apartments, and even the storehouse of weapons and horses.

As is the story at most historical sites on earth, a series of fires destroyed the original structures here several times over, but the palace, as it stands behind the church from here to that incredible blue clock in the distance, was completely redone in 1510.  

Left of the clocktower is the Marciana Library, built shortly thereafter, making it one of the oldest public libraries in the country.  The library offers a good, if subtle, contrast between eras, and a lesson on Venice’s distinct brand of architecture overall: its rounded archways, flanked by all kinds of classical ornamentation like obelisks, fluted columns, and mischievous little sculptures, effectively express the Renaissance callback to antiquity. On the Doge’s Palace, the clover-like quatrefoils, and especially the barbed “ogee” arches directly below, as their particular shape are known, characterize a Venetian Gothic style that was heavily influenced from Byzantine and even Islamic Architecture, a reminder of the Republic’s relatively peaceful run with those regions.  They may not look so different at first glance, both facades built with the same limestone from what is now Croatia, but this is because the Venetian styles overlap so much, reflecting that legacy of -- dare I say -- inclusion that defined the Republic.  
 
OK, well, hopefully that helps give some context overall.  Lest you have the time to go view the ornate treasures inside, let’s move on to a bloodier aspect of the reign of the Doge: the punitive system.

1 Piazza San Marco \|||// I guess it’s my duty to discuss the Doge, which before it was ever a meme or a form of digital currency, was a title relating to the Latin dūx (which Mussolini would later morph into his own rank of “Il Duce”). The Doge, then, was the ruler of this water-locked region, which began at the dissolution of the Western Roman Empire in 476, and officially oversaw the Venetian Republic from 697 through 1797.  Those 1100 years of steady ducal power saw the city focus its resources on maritime trade and stability, and its title of La Serenissima referred to its particular level of independence within an unstable world, though it can also apply to just how serene this place can be.  At least at night.

Right now it’s not, though, is it?  Obviously if they had to do it all over again, the official symbol of the city would be not a winged lion, but a pigeon with a broken leg, or someone with a selfie stick stuck in your face.  Still, no such chaos can mess with how crazy/beautiful this place is.  We’re standing at the Porta della Carta, or Paper Gate, believed to be the original entrance to a large castle which once stood here. In its current form, the construction of which began in the 1100s, it would become a center of administration (hence the “paper” in the title), while also containing courtrooms, ducal apartments, and even the storehouse of weapons and horses.

As is the story at most historical sites on earth, a series of fires destroyed the original structures here several times over, but the palace, as it stands behind the church from here to that incredible blue clock in the distance, was completely redone in 1510.  

Left of the clocktower is the Marciana Library, built shortly thereafter, making it one of the oldest public libraries in the country.  The library offers a good, if subtle, contrast between eras, and a lesson on Venice’s distinct brand of architecture overall: its rounded archways, flanked by all kinds of classical ornamentation like obelisks, fluted columns, and mischievous little sculptures, effectively express the Renaissance callback to antiquity. On the Doge’s Palace, the clover-like quatrefoils, and especially the barbed “ogee” arches directly below, as their particular shape are known, characterize a Venetian Gothic style that was heavily influenced from Byzantine and even Islamic Architecture, a reminder of the Republic’s relatively peaceful run with those regions.  They may not look so different at first glance, both facades built with the same limestone from what is now Croatia, but this is because the Venetian styles overlap so much, reflecting that legacy of -- dare I say -- inclusion that defined the Republic.  
 
OK, well, hopefully that helps give some context overall.  Lest you have the time to go view the ornate treasures inside, let’s move on to a bloodier aspect of the reign of the Doge: the punitive system.

P1030385 (2).JPG

The Doge's Palace

9DucalPalaceScored.mp3

doge.jpg

Moving toward the Grand Canal, as it empties into the lagoon, you’ll see two columns which were likely thieved from Constantinople: the one on the right pays homage to the original patron saint of the city, Theodore, while the winged lion on the left is, of course, a shout out to San Marco.  The columns were so heavy that they had been splayed out on the ground here for a good while, until, under the rule of the Doge in the 1170s, an engineer managed to get them upright.  As a reward, it seems, the engineer was granted the right to run a gambling ring in the space between the two.  It seems this area would in turn play host to public executions, leading to a superstition that keeps Venetians from walking in the space between.  I dare you to, though.  Do it.

Turning left, you’ll see another highly concentrated crowd of people, cameras at the ready, and I suspect they are pulling the time-tested routine of, “Taking Pictures of Things That Everyone Else Seems to Be Taking Pictures Of,” without full certainty as to why.  Bro, I been there.  

If you manage to make it to the top of that Ponte della Paglia (the disconcertingly-named Straw Bridge) and bully your way to a left-hand view, you’ll see the particular, if not aesthetically exceptional, Bridge of Sighs, that covered ponte in white marble connecting the Doge’s Palace with the prison next door.  It was built in 1602 by Doge Grimani, who rightfully thought it convenient to be able to usher sentenced criminals from the courthouse, directly to their holding cells, and while there were prisons in the Ducal Palace, those in the Palazzo dei Prigioni were known to be particularly bleak.

Just the same, the Bridge of Sighs is nothing if not charming, and in fact is so-named by the King of Romantics himself, Lord Byron, who once stood where you are now.  Baron Byron, that great poet and exemplar of the Italian Grand Tour, dreamed of those convicted criminals peering out one last time at the pink skies over the Grand Canal and letting out one last sospiro before their fate was sealed, and even I gotta concede: it’s a pretty powerful image.

One final, necessary note: other than Byron, the Ponte dei sospiri is forever associated with one Giacomo Casanova, the libidinous rambler, intellectual, and mystic whose autobiography remains perhaps the most iconic account of 18th century life in his native city.  Casanova writes of crossing that bridge after being convicted in 1755 and placed in solitary confinement beneath the Ducal palace for sorcery, Freemasonry, and general depravity.  Thankfully for Casanova and history nerds, a year into his five year sentence, the legendary lothario joined forces with a priest in the cell next door and, pulling a Shawshank, managed to bore through his cell’s lead ceiling on Halloween night.  Hurrying through the palace’s hallowed halls and dropping onto a gondola, Casanova managed to flee undetected to Paris, where he was free to gamble in halls far more vast than was the space between those columns.

4209 Riva degli Schiavoni \|||// Moving toward the Grand Canal, as it empties into the lagoon, you’ll see two columns which were likely thieved from Constantinople: the one on the right pays homage to the original patron saint of the city, Theodore, while the winged lion on the left is, of course, a shout out to San Marco.  The columns were so heavy that they had been splayed out on the ground here for a good while, until, under the rule of the Doge in the 1170s, an engineer managed to get them upright.  As a reward, it seems, the engineer was granted the right to run a gambling ring in the space between the two.  It seems this area would in turn play host to public executions, leading to a superstition that keeps Venetians from walking in the space between.  I dare you to, though.  Do it.

Turning left, you’ll see another highly concentrated crowd of people, cameras at the ready, and I suspect they are pulling the time-tested routine of, “Taking Pictures of Things That Everyone Else Seems to Be Taking Pictures Of,” without full certainty as to why.  Bro, I been there.  

If you manage to make it to the top of that Ponte della Paglia (the disconcertingly-named Straw Bridge) and bully your way to a left-hand view, you’ll see the particular, if not aesthetically exceptional, Bridge of Sighs, that covered ponte in white marble connecting the Doge’s Palace with the prison next door.  It was built in 1602 by Doge Grimani, who rightfully thought it convenient to be able to usher sentenced criminals from the courthouse, directly to their holding cells, and while there were prisons in the Ducal Palace, those in the Palazzo dei Prigioni were known to be particularly bleak.

Just the same, the Bridge of Sighs is nothing if not charming, and in fact is so-named by the King of Romantics himself, Lord Byron, who once stood where you are now.  Baron Byron, that great poet and exemplar of the Italian Grand Tour, dreamed of those convicted criminals peering out one last time at the pink skies over the Grand Canal and letting out one last sospiro before their fate was sealed, and even I gotta concede: it’s a pretty powerful image.

One final, necessary note: other than Byron, the Ponte dei sospiri is forever associated with one Giacomo Casanova, the libidinous rambler, intellectual, and mystic whose autobiography remains perhaps the most iconic account of 18th century life in his native city.  Casanova writes of crossing that bridge after being convicted in 1755 and placed in solitary confinement beneath the Ducal palace for sorcery, Freemasonry, and general depravity.  Thankfully for Casanova and history nerds, a year into his five year sentence, the legendary lothario joined forces with a priest in the cell next door and, pulling a Shawshank, managed to bore through his cell’s lead ceiling on Halloween night.  Hurrying through the palace’s hallowed halls and dropping onto a gondola, Casanova managed to flee undetected to Paris, where he was free to gamble in halls far more vast than was the space between those columns.

P1030386 (2).JPG

Criminals + Romantics at the Bridge of Sighs

10SospiriScored.mp3

Breaking from the bustle of San Marco, we’ll now pull up to the peaceful Campo San Zaccaria.  Approaching the square, on your left, you’ll see a white plaque.  It’s subtle and faded, but it should be just to the right of a sun-bleached sign which points left toward the Ospedale of Santissima Giovanni e Paolo, above a gray iron door.  See it?  Roughly translating the archaic inscription, which dates to 1620, it's effectively a 17th century finger wag, warning people to stop gambling, shouting obscenities, and dumping their trash in the area.  Interestingly, however, as Elizabeth Horodowich notes in her book, Language and Statecraft in Early Modern Venice, the church was particularly harsh to those perceived to be of low intellect, so I’m going to keep moving.

That’s the Renaissance-style Church of San Zaccaria in front of you, behind one of the cisterns you'll find in most every Venetian square. The church is named for its having once hosted the corpse of St. John the Baptist’s dad, which was donated to the city by Byzantine Emperor Leo V back in the 9th century. Along with San Moisè, which we’ve already visited, this is another example of Venice’s tendency to name their churches after folks from the Old Testament who aren’t necessarily considered saints today.  

Famously, three Doges were murdered in the immediate vicinity of the church -- perhaps they should’ve included “NO MURDERING DOGES,” on the sign -- while eight are buried here. If you drop the couple euros required to visit their tombs below the church, be warned that you’ll find yourself up to your ankles in canal water.  Venice is sinking, after all, and the brackish tide, as it rises, is gradually weathering away these structures, so you better enter while you can.

Even if you stay in front of the paywall, you’ll find a surprising wealth of art for such a small, quiet church.  Of primary artistic interest here is the Altarpiece of San Zaccaria by Giovanni Bellini, he of the cocktail we discussed while at Harry’s Bar.  

You’ll find Bellini’s master work on your left in the main nave, on an altar flanked by two gray columns. This is one of the first Venetian examples of the sacra conversazione, where the Madonna and Child are harmoniously integrated into one space with saints from varying epochs, including St. Peter, literally holding the keys to heaven, and St. Catherine on the left.  Santa Lucia, after whom Venice’s train station is named, stands alongside St. Jerome on the right, showing her own gouged eyes in a jar.  The Patron Saint of the Blind, whose name ironically refers to light -- Lucia, luce, lux -- St. Lucy is said to have devoted her virginity to God, and when a suitor tried to take the Lord’s place, she plucked those eyes right out of her skull (or had them plucked for her, depending on whose account you believe).

One last, interesting feature is the egg at the very top of the painting. It seems ostrich eggs were used in Ancient Egypt, and to this day, to ward off spiders, while also, according to a Dr. Sally Hickson, representing the miraculous birth of Christ.

Let’s crawl out of this religious shell and head back to the Laguna, toward the famed Arsenale.

4684 Campo San Zaccaria \|||// Breaking from the bustle of San Marco, we’ll now pull up to the peaceful Campo San Zaccaria.  Approaching the square, on your left, you’ll see a white plaque.  It’s subtle and faded, but it should be just to the right of a sun-bleached sign which points left toward the Ospedale of Santissima Giovanni e Paolo, above a gray iron door.  See it?  Roughly translating the archaic inscription, which dates to 1620, it's effectively a 17th century finger wag, warning people to stop gambling, shouting obscenities, and dumping their trash in the area.  Interestingly, however, as Elizabeth Horodowich notes in her book, Language and Statecraft in Early Modern Venice, the church was particularly harsh to those perceived to be of low intellect, so I’m going to keep moving.

That’s the Renaissance-style Church of San Zaccaria in front of you, behind one of the cisterns you'll find in most every Venetian square. The church is named for its having once hosted the corpse of St. John the Baptist’s dad, which was donated to the city by Byzantine Emperor Leo V back in the 9th century. Along with San Moisè, which we’ve already visited, this is another example of Venice’s tendency to name their churches after folks from the Old Testament who aren’t necessarily considered saints today.  

Famously, three Doges were murdered in the immediate vicinity of the church -- perhaps they should’ve included “NO MURDERING DOGES,” on the sign -- while eight are buried here. If you drop the couple euros required to visit their tombs below the church, be warned that you’ll find yourself up to your ankles in canal water.  Venice is sinking, after all, and the brackish tide, as it rises, is gradually weathering away these structures, so you better enter while you can.

Even if you stay in front of the paywall, you’ll find a surprising wealth of art for such a small, quiet church.  Of primary artistic interest here is the Altarpiece of San Zaccaria by Giovanni Bellini, he of the cocktail we discussed while at Harry’s Bar.  

You’ll find Bellini’s master work on your left in the main nave, on an altar flanked by two gray columns. This is one of the first Venetian examples of the sacra conversazione, where the Madonna and Child are harmoniously integrated into one space with saints from varying epochs, including St. Peter, literally holding the keys to heaven, and St. Catherine on the left.  Santa Lucia, after whom Venice’s train station is named, stands alongside St. Jerome on the right, showing her own gouged eyes in a jar.  The Patron Saint of the Blind, whose name ironically refers to light -- Lucia, luce, lux -- St. Lucy is said to have devoted her virginity to God, and when a suitor tried to take the Lord’s place, she plucked those eyes right out of her skull (or had them plucked for her, depending on whose account you believe).

One last, interesting feature is the egg at the very top of the painting. It seems ostrich eggs were used in Ancient Egypt, and to this day, to ward off spiders, while also, according to a Dr. Sally Hickson, representing the miraculous birth of Christ.

Let’s crawl out of this religious shell and head back to the Laguna, toward the famed Arsenale.

zachs.jpg

Chiesa di San Zaccaria

11SanZaccariaScored.mp3

bellini.jpg

campozach.jpg

Before turning left, away from the water, you might’ve noticed some stone reproductions of the ends of a gondola, known as the fòrcola, jutting out on each side of a bridge.  This is to announce your arrival at the naval part of our walk, a fact confirmed also by the Naval History Museum, as well as the Sailor’s Club, each of which are hardly worth a thought when compared to this imposing Renaissance-era structure before you.

Behind this gate was effectively the fountainhead of the world’s first military industrial complex, instrumental in defending Venice’s unprecedented trade system, which in turn helped make Venice arguably the wealthiest place on earth.  Overall, the space is 46 hectares in size -- more than two of New York’s Grand Central Stations, or 15% of Venice overall -- and protected the city from attack, while at full bore in the 1500s, was employing some 16,000 people, effectively the first assembly line, who turned out from 1500 to 5,000 ships each day.  Its defensive might was so intimidating that even Dante, represented on the wall before you, compared the tar in which sinners are boiled in his Inferno to that with which workers would patch the ships here at the “arzanà de' Viniziani.”

Beside the bust of the famed Florentine, a symbolic defender of the defense system at the Porta Magna is the lion on your left, which, with its arched eyebrows, just seems to be yearning for a friend.  This good boy, known as the Piraeus Lion, his left flank carved with fading Runic graffiti from Scandinavian mercenaries in the 11th century, is nearly 2400 years old!  It was originally stolen from Ancient Athens and placed here in the 1680s after Venetian forces conquered Greece, along with its two smaller feline pals to the right.  The slender Greek puppy at the far right, dating to 440 BC, is even older.

After Napoleon conquered Venice in 1797, and with the inevitable evolution of naval technology, the Arsenal was partially destroyed, and eventually fell out of operation, but that doesn’t mean it's now worthless.  Now run by the state, the Arsenal has served as an important hub of the Biennale since 1980, and on its north side, hosts the annual Arte Laguna Prize, signaling a welcome shift from destruction to creation while making Venice, in my opinion, one of precious few centers for contemporary art in the country.

Take a left and follow the riva for about a minute.  There should be the red brick Church of San Martino, also on your left.

2410 Fondamenta de Fazza l'Arsenal \|||// Before turning left, away from the water, you might’ve noticed some stone reproductions of the ends of a gondola, known as the fòrcola, jutting out on each side of a bridge.  This is to announce your arrival at the naval part of our walk, a fact confirmed also by the Naval History Museum, as well as the Sailor’s Club, each of which are hardly worth a thought when compared to this imposing Renaissance-era structure before you.

Behind this gate was effectively the fountainhead of the world’s first military industrial complex, instrumental in defending Venice’s unprecedented trade system, which in turn helped make Venice arguably the wealthiest place on earth.  Overall, the space is 46 hectares in size -- more than two of New York’s Grand Central Stations, or 15% of Venice overall -- and protected the city from attack, while at full bore in the 1500s, was employing some 16,000 people, effectively the first assembly line, who turned out from 1500 to 5,000 ships each day.  Its defensive might was so intimidating that even Dante, represented on the wall before you, compared the tar in which sinners are boiled in his Inferno to that with which workers would patch the ships here at the “arzanà de' Viniziani.”

Beside the bust of the famed Florentine, a symbolic defender of the defense system at the Porta Magna is the lion on your left, which, with its arched eyebrows, just seems to be yearning for a friend.  This good boy, known as the Piraeus Lion, his left flank carved with fading Runic graffiti from Scandinavian mercenaries in the 11th century, is nearly 2400 years old!  It was originally stolen from Ancient Athens and placed here in the 1680s after Venetian forces conquered Greece, along with its two smaller feline pals to the right.  The slender Greek puppy at the far right, dating to 440 BC, is even older.

After Napoleon conquered Venice in 1797, and with the inevitable evolution of naval technology, the Arsenal was partially destroyed, and eventually fell out of operation, but that doesn’t mean it's now worthless.  Now run by the state, the Arsenal has served as an important hub of the Biennale since 1980, and on its north side, hosts the annual Arte Laguna Prize, signaling a welcome shift from destruction to creation while making Venice, in my opinion, one of precious few centers for contemporary art in the country.

Take a left and follow the riva for about a minute.  There should be the red brick Church of San Martino, also on your left.

arsenal.jpg

The Guardians of the Arsenal

12ArsenaleScored.mp3

leone.jpg

While we’re at the Arsenale, let’s head a bit further inland to a neighborhood that has always been kind to me. We’re at the Church of San Martino of Tours, whose saint is represented in a bas-relief you’ll spot to the right of the main entrance, beneath a cross, sharing his coat with a beggar.  And indeed, if you’re lucky, you’ll get here when the little mercatino is open and the old ladies are charitably selling jackets and knick-knacks for just about the cost of your coffee.  Fundraising for the church aside, they’re super nice, always quick to pay a compliment or to help you try on a jean jacket that’s far too small on you and that you don’t even want, despite your friend’s insistence.

One other quick feature of note is the grotesque little mouth at the right of the church’s main entrance, under a facade actually designed by Jacopo Sansovino, who, by the way, also designed the Marciana Library in St. Mark’s Square.  Regarding the mouth: after a man named Bajamonte Tiepolo tried to overthrow the Doge in 1310, a legislative body called the Council of Ten was created, and throughout the city they installed these Bocche del Leone (Lion’s Mouths), a sort of half-baked plan which allowed citizens to slip notes into the lion’s mouth, in turn tattling on their neighbors for blasphemy, tax evasion, or authoring boring audio tours.  

Though serious charges were levelled, some even being truthful, the administrators of this plan were no doubt subjected to all kinds of arbitrary whining from the quasi-literate populace, and the plan was gradually tempered; by 1542 all denunciations had to be signed not only by the accuser, but by additional witnesses as well.  Unfortunately, with the arrival of the French in 1797, many of the inscriptions above the mouths throughout the city were destroyed and the system discarded.  Seeing as this particular mouth at the Chiesa di San Martino Vescovo is blocked shut, then, any complaints you might have you’ll have to save for the Internet. 

Let’s head back to the lagoon as we approach the home stretch of our walk.

2294 Fondamenta del Piovan o Erizzo \|||// While we’re at the Arsenale, let’s head a bit further inland to a neighborhood that has always been kind to me. We’re at the Church of San Martino of Tours, whose saint is represented in a bas-relief you’ll spot to the right of the main entrance, beneath a cross, sharing his coat with a beggar.  And indeed, if you’re lucky, you’ll get here when the little mercatino is open and the old ladies are charitably selling jackets and knick-knacks for just about the cost of your coffee.  Fundraising for the church aside, they’re super nice, always quick to pay a compliment or to help you try on a jean jacket that’s far too small on you and that you don’t even want, despite your friend’s insistence.

One other quick feature of note is the grotesque little mouth at the right of the church’s main entrance, under a facade actually designed by Jacopo Sansovino, who, by the way, also designed the Marciana Library in St. Mark’s Square.  Regarding the mouth: after a man named Bajamonte Tiepolo tried to overthrow the Doge in 1310, a legislative body called the Council of Ten was created, and throughout the city they installed these Bocche del Leone (Lion’s Mouths), a sort of half-baked plan which allowed citizens to slip notes into the lion’s mouth, in turn tattling on their neighbors for blasphemy, tax evasion, or authoring boring audio tours.  

Though serious charges were levelled, some even being truthful, the administrators of this plan were no doubt subjected to all kinds of arbitrary whining from the quasi-literate populace, and the plan was gradually tempered; by 1542 all denunciations had to be signed not only by the accuser, but by additional witnesses as well.  Unfortunately, with the arrival of the French in 1797, many of the inscriptions above the mouths throughout the city were destroyed and the system discarded.  Seeing as this particular mouth at the Chiesa di San Martino Vescovo is blocked shut, then, any complaints you might have you’ll have to save for the Internet. 

Let’s head back to the lagoon as we approach the home stretch of our walk.

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The Mouth of San Martino

14Lion'sMouthScored.mp3

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For the last kilometer, more or less, you’ve been taking a relatively modern walkway once dominated by shipyards. Christened by Mussolini in 1937 as the Riva dell’Impero (Riverbank of the Empire), it was so-named in honor of il Duce’s delusional belief that he’d soon conquer the world, or whatever.

Following Mussolini’s downfall, the name of this walkway was changed to its current Riva dei Sette Martiri (Riverbank of the Seven Martyrs), rightfully commemorating the tragic story which follows a profoundly dumb preface.

It seems that, after Mussolini’s death, when the Nazis still had their run of Italy, one of their men was ambling around, so drunk that he lived out a persistent fear I have by falling into the water.  Unaware that the man had won himself the unofficial Darwin Award of 1944, the SS showed their typical lack of introspection and restraint and assumed his death was someone else’s fault.  On August 3rd, they took seven political prisoners from Santa Maria Maggiore jail and executed them in clear view of some 500 local residents, leaving the corpses to rot out here for several days as a reminder not to mess with them.  Meanwhile, the corpse of the drunkard would wash ashore shortly thereafter.

Not entirely unrelated, just next to the landing of the water taxi for the Giardini della Biennale, an interesting memorial stands before you, awash with tidewater.  Here, we honor the unspeakable sacrifices of the long-underreported women who fought off the Fascists every day at home, risking torture and death, often against their fellow Italians, in the name of hastening an end to this horrible period in history.

The installation itself was built in 1968 by our old friend, Carlo Scarpa, to house that 1962 statue by Augusto Murer.  Scarpa, whose work is very much worth seeking out in the city center, designed these steps to carry the visitor physically and emotionally closer to the figure, whose body was meant to rise and fall with the ebb and flow of the laguna.  Access was initially blocked off by city officials, however, and the installation fell into neglect, remaining largely and criminally overshadowed despite attempts at resuscitation. 

Before retreating to the lush welcome of the garden, take a moment to suffer the cold winds out here while considering what it was like to be surrounded by so much darkness, perhaps reading up a bit on your phone, as should I, about the bravery of Carla Copponi, Bianca Guidetti Serra, and their many compatriots.

 \|||// For the last kilometer, more or less, you’ve been taking a relatively modern walkway once dominated by shipyards. Christened by Mussolini in 1937 as the Riva dell’Impero (Riverbank of the Empire), it was so-named in honor of il Duce’s delusional belief that he’d soon conquer the world, or whatever.

Following Mussolini’s downfall, the name of this walkway was changed to its current Riva dei Sette Martiri (Riverbank of the Seven Martyrs), rightfully commemorating the tragic story which follows a profoundly dumb preface.

It seems that, after Mussolini’s death, when the Nazis still had their run of Italy, one of their men was ambling around, so drunk that he lived out a persistent fear I have by falling into the water.  Unaware that the man had won himself the unofficial Darwin Award of 1944, the SS showed their typical lack of introspection and restraint and assumed his death was someone else’s fault.  On August 3rd, they took seven political prisoners from Santa Maria Maggiore jail and executed them in clear view of some 500 local residents, leaving the corpses to rot out here for several days as a reminder not to mess with them.  Meanwhile, the corpse of the drunkard would wash ashore shortly thereafter.

Not entirely unrelated, just next to the landing of the water taxi for the Giardini della Biennale, an interesting memorial stands before you, awash with tidewater.  Here, we honor the unspeakable sacrifices of the long-underreported women who fought off the Fascists every day at home, risking torture and death, often against their fellow Italians, in the name of hastening an end to this horrible period in history.

The installation itself was built in 1968 by our old friend, Carlo Scarpa, to house that 1962 statue by Augusto Murer.  Scarpa, whose work is very much worth seeking out in the city center, designed these steps to carry the visitor physically and emotionally closer to the figure, whose body was meant to rise and fall with the ebb and flow of the laguna.  Access was initially blocked off by city officials, however, and the installation fell into neglect, remaining largely and criminally overshadowed despite attempts at resuscitation. 

Before retreating to the lush welcome of the garden, take a moment to suffer the cold winds out here while considering what it was like to be surrounded by so much darkness, perhaps reading up a bit on your phone, as should I, about the bravery of Carla Copponi, Bianca Guidetti Serra, and their many compatriots.

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