1995 Siena, Bagno Vignoni, Pienza

31.1.95 Siena

Sitting in "Il Palio" café – probably where I sat some 16 or so years ago.  Glorious view – clear blue sky, sun low with shadows long.  The harmony of this space: the buildings in all their disproportionateness, flow and rumple together.  Sitting by the fountain, children throw coriandoli (confetti).  One boy, typically Italian, with hard grey eyes, laughing.  Even the shop signs harmonious in their white on ochre.

Back in the Hotel Palazzo Ravizza (near Porta San Marco).  Lovely, old 18th-century palazzo – we have fine view south-west.  Tall room, narrow staircases, fading frescoes on the ceiling.  Outside, a grand piano in the library (hi, Venezia…).  Double doors – sporting the oak…

Wandering around the city.  Two things I remember: the main square (of course), climbing the tower and seeing its long shadow in the piazza below, and – crazily enough – memories of the square where the buses leave (I think – I also have a slight feeling that this was in Nerja…).  The Duomo I remember not at all; San Domenico, I recall better (but hideous).  The streets remind me of Bergamo (Alta), Urbino – and San Gimignano.  Especially the great high walls of the streets as they follow the roads.  And something I realised for the first time today – why these streets are so different: they are clothed entirely in stone, stone walls and stone pavements, and that there are no levels in the street -  which means that you walk along stone channels.

As dusk fell, so the Senesi appeared.  Few tourists in evidence here – why I love travelling at this time.

1.2.95 Siena

I lied: one other thing I remember from here: the entrance to the Pinacoteca, where we now are.  Bigger even than I remembered – nice to find the work of Sofonisba Anguissola.  The Domenico Beccafummi cartoons good.

In the piazza again: sun strong, air cool, happy buzz of people just sitting, talking.  A plane passes high overhead, a single prop swooping low round the space.  The reflected light of the Fonte Gaia shimmers on the marble (copies, but good enough).  The huge finger of the tower's shadow passes round the walls.  To the Café Victoria (tea room/American bar) for an overpriced cappuccino – but civilised surroundings – a bit like a café I recall in Bergamo (Città Alta).  Classic 12-bar blues in the background.

We finally find the Loggia del Papa – covered in scaffolding.  To the Campo, where the most delicate violet suffuses the western sky, and a sliver of moon hangs almost horizontally.  The ridiculous striped tower of the Duomo peeps over the girdling houses.  The sodium lamps look beautiful (or rather what their otherwise prosaic lights illuminate does).  Completely clear sky.  Magic.  One thing I can say: things here look different from what they were 16 years ago.  Then, everything was beautiful and strange; now they are beautiful and familiar.

To Osteria Le Logge.  Fine interior – one book on Primo Conti in the bookcase.  We have just moved – smokers joined us on our (big) table.  Wonderful making smokers unhappy…

2.2.95 Siena

To the Abbazia di Monte Oliveto Maggiore, with Signorelli and Sodoma.  Glorious countryside – hilltop houses, lines of trees – art in nature.  "Come benedetto riceve li due giovanetti romani mauro e placido" – a riot of colours and faces and forms – the distant landscape.  Church rather dull.

Bagno Vignoni – Tarkovsky's Nostalghia (the church at the end is San Galgano).  Tiny village (no cars in centre).  There is almost nothing here: the baths, a square around them, hills, sun, sky, peace – my god, è bello qui… Down to the hot steam.  Greenish, with deposits everywhere.  Slight whiff of sulphur.  Glorious views – a handful of hilltop towns in the hazy distance.  A tower to the south, rolling bumpy hills everywhere.

To Pienza, rising through the perfect Tuscan landscape.  Sette Di Vino osteria – eating local pecorino et al.  Small, friendly.  The sun shining through the window.  Amazing, small, perfectly-formed classical town – that never grew.  Inside the Duomo – very sober, but very light (jet fighters screech overhead like devils).  Not very Italian, but nice – facade especially.  

To San Biagio – surely the most perfect church ever created.  The stone, living almost, bubbling in its stillness, that off-white/yellow/grey, the flecks and pocks like lived-in flesh.  The curves of the vault touch like figures in a geometric image.  Outside, in the sun, huge triglyphs, everything writ large and simple.  That stone.  Viva Sangallo.  The tiny rosettes on the external pilasters – that small, allowed vanity.  The balustrade – god's balcony over the altar…

In Al Marsili restaurant – couldn't eat – left rapidly – ill...

More destinations:

1993 Urbino

Moody's Black Notebook Travels

1994 Trieste, Ljubljana

30.9.94 Venice, Trieste

Not in Venice, alas, but in the station, having arrived from Brescia.  On the way to Trieste, then Ljubljana.   But already a sense of being on the edge: the train half empty (overflowing to Verona), the land about to become undiscovered territory for me.  Reading "Trieste" – Magris – rather dry, but giving a good sense of that smarrimento.  Fine pale blue sky outside, hurtling towards the edge.

Note how each art has its peak when form and content match.  Architecture – the Romans, when engineering meets art; painting in the Renaissance, man the measure; music – eighteenth-century Austria.  Only literature has many – because language is arbitrary and changeable.  Other arts – architecture, sculpture (Greece), music, painting – all have an obvious measure, that of reality, harmony, representation…  Words are different (only poetry has non-arbitrary structures – sonnet the peak of these in some sense).

Trieste – in the Piazza Unità d'Italia.  Entering it I had the strange sensation that the fourth side was a huge white wall (clouds – though the sun is quite strong now through the clouds).  Hotel Roma (couldn't find the bathroom – behind a curtain of what looked like a windows).  Changed money into Tolars – confused by the rates, but I think 1T is about a halfpenny (that is 5000T = £25).  Delighted to hear the hotel receptionists talking in Slovenian – which I recognised from its similarity to Czech (and just why do we spell it that way?)

Cappuccino here – plus water and sweets: L.4000. - civilised.  I sit, of course, in the Caffè degli Specchi.  Miramare glimpsed on the way in (and Duino – thus Rilke – nearby).  To the Teatro Romano, - reminds me of Alexandria – not very moving, bricks mostly.  Sun very watery.  Sitting now (5pm) on the superbly-named Molo Audace.  Very strange – everything very strange.  Huge rucked sky above, very high clouds; sun recognisably that of Venice.  Air cool and full of the smells of water.  Men and boys fishing (can't helping thinking of that short story I wrote decades ago…).  A huge wharf being rebuilt – the sound of a man hammering carries so clearly across the water.  The aspect of the city strange as if falling into the sea – it doesn't stop.  Very long front.  To my right I may have seen the Miramare out in the haze.  Fish (small and round) in the (deep) water by us.

Before, spent a couple of hours in the bookshops here.  Aptly for Joyce's sometime city, there are many, both for new and – especially – for old (bells clang tinnily, a boat putters by).  Wandering in and out of the worlds held in these bookshops (old pornography, manuals – in Italian – for the Sinclair ZX80, poems in dialect, German literature in 50 volumes, 2000L each – alas, Grillparzer incomplete) I suddenly realise that this is precisely what the Internet is like: a huge warehouse of barely-ordered books.  Hence the excitement (mine) and the frustrations (of most people).  Next to me, two old men chatter in something that seems to hover between heavy dialect (alla Veneziana) and Slovene.  Doubtless the latter has heavily influenced the former.  People beginning to take their promenades now.  Light on the water like pale gold.

Bought: Slapater "Il Mio Carso" and Sabra – selection of poetry - plus book on Trieste and northern writers (Rilke, Joyce, etc, and Magris – all my heroes, well, almost).  Certainly this sense of the edge, a cavallo various lands and cultures, makes this my kind of place. I've not ever bothered "doing" the city such as it is: just being here, drinking coffee, roaming around in bookshop is enough.  I'll perhaps rise early and go for a morning stroll before leaving tomorrow.

Along the front, practically every large building has pillars or pilasters stuck on, purely as ornament.  To the Sala Tripcovich – right by the station, and so by my hotel – for a concert – Sibelius (Swan of Tuonela"_ and Bruckner #2.  Strange edifice: modern, shell-like – perhaps while they're restoring the Teatro Verdi.  Bloody pilasters again.  Probably sold out (few seats when I booked – 30,000L.), violins desperately practising.  Very well turned-out audience – I feared I'd be the only tie-less one.  The ushers very flash in their black uniforms and brass buttons.

1.10.94 Slovenia

Just inside the border.  A long passage – it began to feel quite menacing, a mistake.  That sudden sense of no longer understanding the language (though its links to Czech are clear).  Outside rolling green hills, neat houses, cheap cars.  It is very strange to be in a country I barely knew existed.  Ljubljana is wonderful – but closed: 1pm is the witching hour here.  Now, in Gostilna, near the Shoemaker's Bridge.  Gorgeous autumn day: warm sun, stiff breeze, the trees turning, leaves falling as the branches shiver.

Hotel (Grand Union) looks excellent value for about £40 – big room, clean, view of Miklošičev park.  Young women quite swish here – relaxed and sophisticated-looking.  [Music in the distance – saw ZDF van – the Germans invading already.]  German tourists, Italians, Japanese.  Flash Ferrari parked nearby – there is money here, it seems.   Rushed around madly, looking for two things: toothbrush and film.  The former found, but not the latter.  I have decided to speak in Italian here – seems generally understood.  

On the train, families laden with consumer goods – but the customs not too nosy – probably good for the country.  You know you crossed some invisible line when you're not only allowed to traverse the railway lines – but have to, in order to leave.  Ljubljanica the river here.  Fine Baroque facades everywhere.  A kind of Balkan Dublin (Ljubljanica ~ Liffey).  How far away that city seems… Once again, I have that schizophrenic sense of being in Ljubljana – and not being here, because this is clearly impossible.

A nice trout, heavily garnished with garrr-lic.  Two decilitres of white wine, patate all'Istria – what more could one ask…?  [The music last night variable: the conductor (American?) rather stiff – except in the last movement of the Bruckner 2 – the best I've heard.]  One thing: small noses are rare here.  With the coffee, a tiny chocolate – Croat – whose flavour is pure Mallorca of 30 years ago.  2050 Tolars all told (there's that contingent onomatopoeia again) about £10 – not that cheap – but least they take Visa.

Walking along the chestnut alley of Tomšičeva ulica – a rain of conkers – are they 56ers or 45ers – what is the magic number?  Beside the opera house – wild Empire style – playing "Die Fledermaus" tonight – I think, since it is in Slovenian.  But passing to Cankarjev dom, I see a sign advertising Pogorelić – tonight...hmm. After the National Gallery (the usual nth-rate Italians and Germans – touching in their own way), across the Ljubljanica to Stari trg – and a bookshop/gallery that is open.  Škuc galerija – typical over-excited young people's stuff – nice.

Well, I didn't go to the concert (I don't even know if there were tickets…)  I'd like to have seen old Igo (lovely waistcoat), but the concert (Tchaikovsky – 1812, Piano Concerto #1, Symphony #4) would hardly have shown him off at his best.  Instead I watch the news on RTL (why do female German newsreaders all have this blonde Nazi look?), and then wander the city (under the castle, which seems the happening place in  Ljubljana, although small).  I sit, horror of horrors, in the Pizzeria Ljubljana Dvor – not really hungry, but I want to be near the river.  I can see the castle tower from here.  Interesting (though hardly surprising) that Italian is often given as language #2 on menus etc.

Walking around the city – including dank cathedral alleys – it felt very safe – old ladies doing the same.  In many ways, Slovenia looks to be one of the most successful "new" countries of the Eastern Bloc.  It must have been pretty exciting as it broke away from what the Balkan Times (published in Greece) insisted on calling FRYugoslavia (along with FYROM – Macedonia to you and me – ah, these children…).  A lovely city to stroll through, of course, with the river, the castle, the Baroque facades casting deep shadows, the bridges… Reminds me of Budapest, or rather of Buda, the back streets…

One thing that is increasingly clear to me are the cognitive spheres of influence.  For example, if you want to know what is happening in Eastern Europe, you read German newspapers.  For the Middle East, French; for South America, Spanish.  For Japan and Far East I suppose the US press is more alert – though less so than the others, aforementioned.  Which begs the question: why read UK press?  For the ex-Empire, perhaps – India, South Africa (doesn't sound very convincing…). Walking around the National Gallery, the sense of how difficult it is to start from so little. I/we take so much for granted in terms of cultural assumptions – how much is a given.  [For some reason, this restaurant brought back memories of the café by the Pergamon Museum…]

2.10.94 Ljubljana

In the Gallery of Modern Art.  Rather less depressing than that of the National Gallery: after all, creating great modern art is (theoretically) open to all.  And even though the exhibition here is pretty weak, I wonder whether Slovenia in a sense is a hope for the future.  After all, it has only two million inhabitants, but has an opera house, various museums, theatre, etc. - that is, is functional.  If the world does split into thousands of "nations", perhaps they can survive and thrive. Note that the great galleries – in London, Paris, New York – are all built on power – empire/money etc.  - but not here.

Large if not wonderful breakfast.  Then to the market – to find that today there is no flea market – perhaps because of a bloody ZDF concert (the strains of sickly-sweet Bavarian sentimentality fill the air).  Also a few spots of rain initially, but these soon pass.  Sky clearing, sun trying to emerge.  On the way here, passed some kind of French cultural institution.  Stuff on Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.  Must read his books: the ones on flying across the desert et al. Look tremendous – the prose carries an exactitude but also a tremendous sense of being spent – French culture guttering in a century that it is extrinsic to (the Magris effect).  

At the top of the Castle Tower – hazy air, but fine view.  Unfortunately, the ghastly music comes up too.  No café here, and I'm starving.  I see that the café on the "skyscraper" is open, so I may slog back there.  Hills everywhere.  Very strange place: even though the castle itself is undergoing renovation, and therefore dead, buried deep in its bowels is this trendy bar (no food, alas).  Thumping bass line, gaudy neons, rough iron walls – feels very New York. All the young trendies here.

The National Museum had the usual Roman tombstones and stuffed birds – plus a rather fine display of bronze age stuff, including a stunning ceremonial cup/bucket with interesting scenes.  Among which a man playing the pan pipes...ah, to hear that music.  Unreasonably, I like it here.  Basically, inside a gutted castle building, lots of polished marble, grainy wood, metal (fine double staircase).  Stone walls of the castle evident.  Well stocked bar.

Afterwards, to the hotel for an apple, then to the 12th floor of the skyscraper.  Worrying coming up here: rickety old lift, and when I got to the kavarna – it wouldn't let me out.  Also slight put off by appalling pix of the strip-tease that apparently takes places here at night.  These poor 30+ women looking ridiculous as only sex performers can, with bored customers sitting around.  Fine view here (sun casting shadows in the right places).  The triple bridge just visible – what a great symbol for a nation: three bridges.  It's impressive: from here I can see the Dragons' Bridge, the three bridges and the Shoemaker's Bridge. 

Finishing the day in Tivoli Park.  A wonderfully autumnal feel – the smell of deciduous leaves, that chill in the dusk air.  The end of the weekend, of my trip, and of the season.  Into the church of Franciscans: very dark and gloomy.  Outside, the bloody ZDF Germans are nearly gone, leaving a focal point for the city.  I have noticed: no beggars in Ljubljana (though a few semi down and outs) and few signs of "dog dirt".  Prague felt far more oppressively ex-communist, and poor.  Perhaps the Tito years of later alternative communism bore some sweet fruit (the current war in Bosnia being its bitter crop).

As so often, I am back for my last meal where I had my first: in the riverside restaurant – having "Ljubljana schnitzel", and half a litre of wine (I didn't think I asked for so much, but it's good, so…).  Air cooling, but lovely to sit out in a jacket.  "My" pizzeria (pizzeria moja?) opposite.  Italians behind, Germans to my right.  Also opposite me, on the rather ugly concrete wall by the river, is the phrase: "Muki je moj, jaz ga ne dam…"  The wine has an almost flowery taste – rather drinkable…

Good to see the pages filling up these past few days – shows my brain has been loosened up – as I hoped.  I need these selfish solo trips to think hard about things I too rarely have time for – novels/ideas etc.  The countries in Europe still to "do": Sweden, Iceland, Luxembourg, Poland, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Romania, Bulgaria...I might give Ukraine a miss.

And another thing: last night, while wandering the streets, I came across a group of itinerant Andean musicians – they really do get bloody everywhere.  But what a theme: musicians from so many thousands of miles away, so far from home, do gigs around Europe…  Excellent escalope.  Mad guitarist has just played "House of the Rising Sun" – I've no idea what the song's about, but it goes to the roots of my childhood memories. I've drunk nearly half a litre of wine – too/not enough...

More destinations:

1993 Urbino

2017 Bucharest

2018 Tirana

2019 Moldova

2022 Bratislava

Moody's Black Notebook Travels

1999 Weimar, Venice

27.4.99 Cremona

So strange to be leaving at 19.30 – journeys should being early, symbolically at the start of the day.  But I need this trip, a token recharge of the intellectual batteries.  The usual madness: 18 hours of travelling each way, one day there – true travelling.  "There" is Weimar, chosen for an amazing cluster of contingent reasons… Because Dresden and Leipzig seem rather sad and too far away, because I'm discovering the amazing inventiveness of Liszt, because Goethe…

And so back to the Italian railways – which, in many way, remain my favourite.  Germans may be more efficient, the Austrians more luxurious, but so many of my seminal years were passed in travelling by train around the pivotal names: Rome, Florence, Venice…  I will always regret that I kept no journal for those three years of "lost journeys" – though maybe I saw more as a result.  Twenty years on, I have flashes of memory, certain places, certain incidents.  Maybe it's better that way – deep, powerful and unarticulated memories.

28.4.99 München Hauptbahnhof

In the ICE, waiting to start.  A hotel (5 star) on wheels this – all glistening steel, carpets and design.  Hecne the £7 supplement for the privilege of using it.  Rather broken sleep last night.  First too hot, then gradually too cold.  And the night seemed to be filled with more bumping and grinding than usual.  Four of us in the compartment: a young German woman (21) speaking excellent English; an Italian, speaking good German; and a Swede (25) speaking reasonable English.  The last was a pain.  A "model" that had just split from his girlfriend (for someone richer he said – I was tempted to suggest someone more intelligent) he immediately went into mechanical seduction mode with the woman.  Tiresome.  You could tell the type from the way he swept back his hair…

I'd forgotten that this is old DDR: the typical grey house colour.  But why do so many homes have two or three satellite dishes?  Passed through Eisenach, but didn't see Bach…  Weimar, Herder's church.  The most amazing thing here (apart from the tree of coloured eggs) is not the altarpiece but the huge stone funeral monument to its left – a boiling, surging mass of marble.  Weimar is strange.  It's very gappy – nothing really solidifies, and there are huge jumps of style everywhere.  But pleasant.

This is more like it.  In the Frauentor Cafe, at what is more or less the point of balance between Goethehaus, Schillerhaus and Marktplatz.  The quantity of people outside is indicative that this is where humanity flows naturally.  Even here decent music in the background – along with the gentle hubbub of people.  They seem to have rather devastating cakes here too, one of which – Gefüllte Streuselkuchen – I am about to try.  It is amazing what warmth and socialbility can do to your mood.  Before, I was cold and increasingly depressed, but with a hefty slabs of cake in front of me, things are looking better…

Part of the problem with Weimar is that it's not finished – there are cranes and building sites everywhere – obviously still making good the years of neglect under the DDR.  In Goethe's house.  Nicely enclosed feel in the courtyard, and the view onto it from upstairs.  Creaking floorboards, the smell of wax.  A room full of plaster casts of Greek/Rome statues.  An oven, set in a small room.  Strange staircases leading up and across – but closed off.  A fine view onto the square – his view?  From here, I can see the table where I sat ten minutes ago (a table that reminded me of Estonian glögi…).  Amazing plaster heads – 2'6" tall.  The only thing: nothing is labelled, lending it all an anonymous air.

Along Schillerstrasse to Amalienhaus/palace whatever.  Well done – feels authentic.  Wonderful green bedroom squeezed between other rooms.  Upstairs, the stunning music room – all gaudy scagliola. Interestingly, not as high as our living room, and the chandelier is smaller… (Wittumspalais).  

Well, it had to be done.  Doubtless at great cost, while talking on my old mobile, I walked to the theatre and stood in front of the Goethe-Schiller monument. There is a webcam there, and I was on it.  Then, after wandering round even more, to the Residenz Cafe for supper.  Rather spooky, but also atmospheric.  Two CDs acquired – though rather different.  One is 20,000 pages of German literature – just £10.  It's not clear how complete the works are, but at £10 it's a bargain (and also a sign of how in five years' time most of the world's literature will be available in this way).  The other more conventional – Goethe's Faust, Part I, in a performance from the 1950s (2 CDs).  Might be handy for getting to know the piece better.  Fine food here – excellent Schweinemedaillons (and big portions).  The castle tower outside – one of the few bits to survive a big fire – looks like some charred rocket.

29.4.99  Weimar

In the Schlossmuseum – which, alas, is largely geschlossen.  A room of icons.  The most bizarre: a dog-headed saint Christopher Cynocephalus.  Earlier, to the Liszt museum.  Even though this was not the Liszthaus, but the one he spent the summer months in after his long stay in Rome.  I was strangely moved by the place.  By Liszt that is, who became more admirable the more I got know him and his music.  The simple bedroom, the quiet but pregnant living room with grand and upright piano.  Then out into the park, to Goethe's garden house (though I didn't go in).  Along to here – rather cold (both physically and metaphorically).  I've left my bag at the hotel, and aim to wander most of today.  

In the Cranach gallery.  The most interesting thing is the signature of Lucas Cranach the younger: a tiny winged dragon holding a ring in its mouth – I wonder what it means.  To the Neues Museum – which is nice, not least because it smells new.  Of course, 80% of the stuff is garbage – but the room of Anselm Kiefer shows what art is about.  Midgard – brilliant depiction of the end… Exodus wonderfully graphic depiction of a beginning.    The Vault – giddying in its unliteral exactness.  Operation Sealion just works...yes, this is art…

Some of the best exhibits are not exhibits: the doorways of the museum – beautiful, sensuous wood – edible almost.  The giant photos by Thomas Ruff are genuinely interesting – seeing things in people's face that are normally invisible, too small to notice.  Murals of Odysseus – including those that Liszt had – very weak really.  Compare "Ulysses deriding Polyphemus" here with Turner…  Also worth mentioning the Harings: the sureness of line alone bespeaks an artist…

Back in the Residenz – partly because both Frauentor and Scharfe Ecke were more or less full, partly because I need something filling now – tonight I eat at Fulda, between trains, so it is not clear how much or what there will be.  Pity about the smoke here, of which I will now stink.  But I suppose this is part of the "atmosphere"…

This morning ("the smorning") I finally discovered that MDR is Mitteldeutscher Rundfunk, the local TV.  I've seen this on satellite TV, but it wasn't clear what its coverage was.  I'm gradually getting the hang of .de TV – MTV represents the middle, the unknown heart – which is appropriate for Weimar too…

The sun  is hot in the park by the river (Ilm).  Before, I went to Schiller's house – completing symmetrically my visit.  It was better in the sense that there were more bits to see.  The facade is also more striking.  Then down to the river – which is idyllic in this spring weather.  The birds are chirruping, there is the smell of cut grass in the air.  Along to the Liszt statue – which is covered in plastic (couldn't they have done this last year?)  But they are dismantling the scaffolding as I write – another nice one for the symbolically inclined.  The sound of the scaffolding pipes creates a fine Klang... 

What fun.  The whole of German railways seem to be up the spout.  The train to Fulda was 30 minutes late, and the one to Munich 50 minutes – probably enough to lose me the connection to Venice… But luckily the train before to Munich was equally late, so I was able to take that. [Parenthetically, .de trains also have the worst screeching brakes I've ever heard – schrecklich.]  Pity about the timings: basically Fulda is a town (a) worth seeing, and (b) is located near to the station (unlike Weimar), so a visit would have been possible. 

The Listzt book has been good (I've read 300 pages so far) – the perfect tome to take.  Pity about the cliches, though...Interesting: I've had a theme going through my head all day – I knew it was Liszt, orchestral, but not what.  Turns out to be the "pride" theme of Faust…

30.4.99 Venice

More precisely, Piazza Santa Maria Formosa, having drunk a fine cappuccino and eaten a nice brioche at the cafe.  It's good to be back.   Santa Maria Formosa seems to have had a clean up, but the palazzo opposite is still a disgraceful, decaying wreck.  The sun is breaking through the morning mist; could be warm. Excellent train journey after all the earlier excitement (though in fact they held the train for 20 minutes for other delayed connections – very sensible, very .de).  I was impressed by the size of the train – 20 or more coaches, splitting off to Florence, Milan, Venice.  Compartment full, but an excellent night's sleep.  On the way here – by foot, of course – passed through Piazza San Salvatore.  Amazing: there is grass around some trees.  Passed through several parts completely unknown to me – the joy of Venice.

For no particular reason, along to the Church of the Greeks, by San Lorenzo (ciao).  The iconostasis – they certainly know about impact, these people.  The smell of incense hanging in the air… To San Zaccaria, which – to my horror and delight – is unknown to me.  Very airy and light inside.  After wandering around pleasantly, I find myself in "I due cugnai" – here for 44 years, apparently.  Excellent food – the wine too good (and too much at half a litre).  But I have a problem: Venice is hot and full of tourists.  I went along to Palazzo Grassi, with the vague intent of seeing "I Maya".  A queue of 500 people – not visibly moving – changed my mind.  On reflection, that January 1st trip was perhaps the quintessential Venice – and those others when it rained.  Venice was born from the water, and requires it.

More destinations:

1989 Zürich 

1990 Munich

1991 Berlin

1993 Prague

1996 Vienna, Venice

2022 Bratislava

Moody's Black Notebook Travels