Lost (Glasses) and Found (The Real Venice)

 To get to Venice from Grindelwald, Switzerland, Tom and Jim first took a local train back to Interlaken, boarded the SBB (Schweizerische Bundesbahnen), and switched trains at Domodossola, an Italian border town located at the foot of the Italian Alps. There, they boarded a train bound for Venice.

Now, a little more than a month into their journey, they had grown accustomed to the smooth, comfortable, and on-time efficiency of the trains they had taken throughout Northern Europe—from Denmark’s DSB (Danske Statsbaner) and Sweden’s SJ (Statens Jarnvagar) to Norway’s NSB (Norges Statsbaner), and Germany’s DB (Deutsche Bahn).

Italy’s FS (Ferrovie dello Stato) was, well... different.

Mussolini once boasted that he made Italy’s trains run on time. He said nothing about comfort, but in any case, he failed on both counts. The ride to Venice was slow, rickety, and late. Still, the boys were looking forward to warmer weather, world-famous cuisine (that they probably couldn’t afford), and Rome, the spiritual command center of the religion they were born into, Roman Catholicism.

First stop, though, Venice.

The train pulled into Venice late at night—and late, period. Tom and Jim, now accompanied by two fellow Americans they had befriended on the bumpy journey—Ned and Skinny (who was not skinny) from Kentucky—stepped out of the station, expecting the usual big-city scene: taxis, buses, and maybe a subway. Tom consulted the city map in his Let’s Go Europe and noted that their lodgings were far from where they were. Given the late hour, a cab seemed sensible.

Then they stepped outside. No taxis. No buses. No Fiats or Alpha Romeos—or any cars, for that matter. Just a wide promenade and, beyond it, the dark waters of a canal. Turned out to be THE canal—the Grand Canal.

The four of them boarded a vaporetto—a Venetian water bus—marked Piazza San Marco on its bow.  They glided smoothly under the Rialto Bridge at midnight, an experience Tom later said was “sweeter than any gelato.”  They cruised past palace after palace under a star-filled sky. This was no ordinary arrival. As with so many cities they visited, Venice joined the list of “favorite cities.” The list would have been considerably easier to maintain had it been dedicated to cities they didn’t love.

As the vaporetto eased into a small opening off the Grand Canal, the foursome glimpsed strange silhouettes—reclining sphinxes, a winged lion perched atop a column.  Squinting at his Let’s Go, Tom—invoking his best tour-guide voice—informed them that they were looking at the tower of the Campanile, rising above the impressive Doge's Palace, the Bridge of Sighs, and just beyond, the ornate domes of St Mark's Basilica. 

It was an incredible entrance, but heavy rain that day had left the Piazza flooded. Temporary rows of wooden walkways had been laid across the square to keep visitors’ feet dry. They stopped for a moment to take in the view that prompted Napoleon to call St. Mark’s Square the “most beautiful drawing room in Europe.”

And then, disaster.

Eager to move on, Tom adjusted his backpack a little too vigorously. His eyeglasses slipped off his face and into the water, never to be seen again. Fortunately, he also had contact lenses, but at that moment—navigating the slippery boards in the dark, seriously nearsighted and carrying a bulky backpack—Jim figured the odds favored the Piazza’s current shin-high waters.

Fortunately, they made it to their pensione relatively dry. Tom and Jim took a humble $10 room, while the Kentuckians opted for more extravagant $20 digs. All slept soundly after a day on the FS and Venice’s watery welcome.

The next day, Tom did something deeply uncharacteristic: he ignored his prepared itinerary and joined Jim on a “wandering tour” of Venice. 

And what a city to wander! With no roads at all — just narrow alleys, quiet squares, and graceful bridges over canals— the city felt like another world. Gondolas gliding by, laundry fluttering above the canals. Children chased each other across cobbled lanes. In many neighborhoods, he and Jim seemed to be the only outsiders.

Even along the busier canals, where famous landmarks rose into view, the water’s presence softened everything. It slowed the pace, muffled the noise, and left room for reflection. Each new turn appealed to the senses: breathtaking architecture for the eyes, bakeries and trattorias for the nose and (for a few lira) mouth, and, for the ears, fishmongers and fruit sellers calling out to passersby.

Tom and Jim loved the city so much that they debated staying another night or two. They had visions of more wandering, or perhaps sipping wine in the company of two nice Italian girls on the Piazza San Marco. But time was running out, so, regretfully, they took a vaporetto back to the Santa Lucia Station to catch the FS south—this time to Brindisi, where they’d catch a ferry to Greece. 

The Acropolis awaited!

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That was the "Then." Now for the Now. Click on the video below for the boys' reflections on their time in Venice.

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