Cute Kitty Photo of the Day: Sammy and Ernie

Sometimes cold weather makes for strange bedfellows. Until I snapped this photo, I didn't even know that Sammy and Ernie liked each other. Sammy's a loud purrer, so for Ernie it must be a little like bedding down on a mattress with Magic Fingers massage (remember those from old hotel rooms). And for Sammy, well, Ernie's the fat cat, so he's warm. With the weather warming up tomorrow, I'm sure the little friendship will thaw as well.

Venetian Velvet

Is there a more opulent fabric in the world than velvet? Even the word itself sounds lush.

And there is no velvet like Venetian velvet. It's Velvet with a "V".

... stamped with gold and sewn into little evening bags...

... burned out and hung with silk fringe. This shawl reminds me of the movie 'The Wings of the Dove." It's the perfect accessory to toss around your shoulders to take in a Vivaldi concert.

... hand stitched onto rubber soles recycled from bicycle tires for no-skid slippers like the gondoliers wear.

... and sold by the yard for curtains, tablecloths, pillows, wall-hangings to decorate your own Venetian villa .... or your hotel room.

Yes, I really slept here. (and that really is a Murano glass chandelier). I kept waiting for Casanova to slip through my shuttered window in the moonlight.

Maybe he did, maybe he didn't ... what happens in Venice stays in Venice.

Except for that velvet -- I brought some of that home with me.

Because I could always use a little Venice in my life.

Couldn't you?

Happy Halloween From the House Where The Black Cat Lives

Here Be Dragons: Restroom Adventures Abroad

During my recent history as a globe-trotter, I've learned a few universal truths:

1.) Dress conservatively in black and you can go anywhere.

2.) Food costs near tourist attractions are roughly the same amount as your mortgage. And about as tasty to chew on.

3.) Learning (and correctly using) a few words in the native language will almost always get you much better service.

But when it comes to restrooms, well on those fold-out guidebook tourist maps, this area should be marked "Here be dragons," because you just never know ...

Europe of course is the home of the "pee for a fee" public facility. Sometimes the toilet is an attraction in and of itself. Heck, I'd pay 2 euros just to see this fancy loo at the Louvre in Paris.

However, I did battle with my one-eyed monster for free last week in a restroom in a cute, modern, clean little sandwich shop in Padua. Yes, I am talking about the dreaded Turkish toilet. Toilet is a bit of a misnomer because, ummmmm, there wasn't one. (Sorry, I did not take a picture. I was just too freaked out.)

I had heard of these before. I had even glimpsed one in a century-old Parisian bistro, where it just seemed a quaint anachronism that I could laugh off while I held my business until I got back to my hotel room.

I'm three years older. I had been holding it all the train ride from Venice. My hotel was no where close. I wasn't laughing anymore.

A 50-year-old bladder will not be denied.

Just down the street from this restroom was the basilica of St. Anthony, patron saint of lost objects that must be found. I sent up a hasty prayer that he might find the obviously missing toilet for me. Either St. Anthony was answering legitimate requests that day, or being Italian, he was just laughing at the clueless American tourist.

My bladder was screeching at me to do something before it took action for me.

I won't fill you in on the gory details. It wasn't pretty. Let's just say for women, the process is not intuitive. And, surprisingly, while menus here are written in three languages there are no instructions (even those with universal symbols) to help you out. You are totally on your own. Sure wish I'd read this first.

Now I know why so many Italian women wear skirts; but I've got to wonder how they keep those expensive leather shoes so clean.

(And, yes, I did want to go back to my hotel room and curl up in the fetal position!)

The Islands: Murano, Burano and Torcello

Murano, Burano and Torcello may sound like an accounting firm in Little Italy, but they are actually islands in the lagoon surrounding Venice and tourist destinations all in themselves.

Murano, the most famous, is the site where the Venetian glass has been blown for centuries. The glassblowers' techniques are jealously guarded -- hence no photos.


However, you can view their handiwork -- ranging from jewelry and knick knacks up to enormous chandeliers in dozens of shops and studios all over the island.

I couldn't resist picking up a few knick-knacks for souvenirs. The blown-glass Christmas ornaments are lovely -- no two are alike. Blown-glass goblets are also wonderful -- if you want to pay to ship them back.

As for the rest of it .... ehhhhh, to tell the truth, it's really not my cup of tea. Well, except for the chandeliers -- I want one of those for every room of my house! I can appreciate the artistry that goes into making say a five-foot glass clown holding balloons or a life-size soaring glass eagle, but I can't get past the fact that these look like something the set designer for The Sopranos might snap up as opposed to something I want for my own art collection.

Venice's dirty little secret is that a lot of the "Murano glass" sold in the tourist's shops is imported from China. The glass blowers and shop keepers on Murano are very sensitive about it; many of them post signs saying they do not import. Rule of thumb: Murano glass will have a sticker saying it was made in Murano. Also Chinese glass is a lot cheaper.

Burano, a little farther out, is famous for its colorful fisherman's cottages and handmade lace. Like Murano, much of the lace that is sold here is imported from elsewhere. Still it's a pretty little place -- with lots of cats so you know it's right up my alley. The best restaurant on the island is named for a black cat -- just like my blog.

Torcello is the most distant, and oldest, of the settlements. Only about 15 families (and several cats) live here now mostly to run the restaurants and inns that cater to tourists, like this lovely little place.

I think the pomegranate tree got me; I love pomegranates and I've never seen them growing before. I was instantly seized with a desire to move here and run a rustic inn called La Casa alla Gatto Negro where I could eat pomegranates and risotto every day and have a lot of cats. When I laid this proposal out to the Recurring Gentleman Caller, his only comment was: "We have a lot of cats." Spoilsport.

Torcello's Basilica of Santa Maria Assunta (the oldest in Venice), museum and bell tower, featuring gorgeous Byzantine tile work, is a testament to the power Torcello once held. This is where Venice's history began until the population was decimated by malaria. It's pretty much a swamp.




Which brings me to the subject of bug spray: If you are coming to Venice, bring some. Even in the fairly cool temps of October, they are a problem, especially for skeeter-bait like me. I'm thinking of pencilling over my bites with eyeliner and calling them beauty marks as the Venetian beauties of yore did.

Dottore, Dottore ... A Day Trip to Padova

As lovely as Venice is, after a few days, you do feel the need to get away from all the tourists. Fortunately, the centrally located train station offers easy escape to nearby Verona, Vicenza or Padua (Padova to the Italians).

I live in a university town, and I have a fondness for the energy that comes from all that youth combined with knowledge. I chose to steal away to Padova, home to Italy's second oldest university (founded in 1222). Its faculty and alumni include Galileo, Copernicus, Casanova and Elena Lucrezia Cornaro Piscopia, the first woman ever awarded a Doctor of Philosophy degree.

The train ride is less than 30 minutes, yet Padova is a world away from Venice.

If you must still play tourist, you will want to visit the largest piazza in all of Italy as well as call on the remains of St. Ant'ny (that would be Anthony to those of you unfamiliar with New Orleans' yat parlance) which are interred in the truly gorgeous basilica that bears his name -- just don't follow the directions in Rick Steves' guide book. Those will take you to the basilica of Santa Giustina across the street.

If you're not Catholic, or if you are and missed catechism that day, this site explains what a basilica is, how it came to be called that and how it differs from a cathedral, church or shrine.

There are also the obligatory open-air markets (de rigeur for any Italian city) and some good shopping. If possible, the Italians are even more style conscious and chic than the French are!

Me, I could just spend all my time wandering under the city's famous colonnades, pausing now again to enjoy a spritz (club soda, white wine and Campari) or a cone of gelato (the best is at Grom's) while window-shopping, people watching and picking up fashion pointers.

But perhaps the most fun is getting in on the graduation hi-jinks in the square outside of the university. Students graduate on the day they defend their thesis so there is always a side-show, often several of them. The celebration is a two-parter. First, the grad dons a laurel wreath a la Julius Caesar for photos with proud family members who come dressed in Sunday best and bearing flowers for the occasion.

Then, as Rick Steves writes in his blog, "Grandma goes home," and the rite of public humiliation commences.

Dressed in an absurd costume -- Lady Gaga for example-- chosen by their so-called friends, the graduate is paraded in front of a large custom-made poster featuring a bawdy caricature of themselves and a poem about their misadventures, again written by their friends, which the honoree must read aloud to the assemblage taking a swig of alcohol every time they flub a word.

Then their friends douse them with water, shaving cream, honey or other assorted fluids/condiments, all the while serenading them with the standard graduation ditty: "Dottore, Dottore Dottore del busco de cul Vaffancul, Vaffancul!"

It sounds like a catchy little children's song -- but the lyrics are X-rated (quasi translation here. )Basically they are telling the newly minted doctor to do something anatomically impossible. It's all in good-natured fun; everyone has an excellent time.

And to think, all I had to do when I graduated from the University of Southern Mississippi was walk across a stage in a cap and gown. Somehow, now I feel cheated.

The House Where The Black Cat Lives Goes to Venice

Usually, I like to plan vacations down to the nth detail. Then I went to Venice. Here, you let your senses guide your feet. Get lost. Every bridge crosses over to a new experience. Every alley way leads to an unexpected treasure. Some of my favorite discoveries in Venice:

Tiny hole-in-the-wall taverns serving amazing Veneto wines by the glass and an assortment of hearty appetizers known as cichetti.

Open air markets (some of them on boats) selling the freshest produce and roasted chestnuts.

Pasticcherias with tempting window displays of panettone, jam-filled croissants, panino with fresh cheese and spicy salami.

Beautiful piazzas where neighbors visit on park benches while their children kick soccer balls or zip around on scooters.

Gelaterias serving scoops of the richest dark chocolate, buttery caramel and panna cotta ice cream.

A store that sells nothing but gorgeous hand-stamped paper as they have for hundreds of years -- in the very same location.

Exquisite centuries old architecture -- everywhere.

Tiny specialty shops where the proprieters magically find your heart's desire -- whether it's a pair of hand-stitched velvet gondolier's slippers, a soft wool stole, cashmere socks, gold-stamped silk velvet pouches or buttery-soft Easter-egg candy colored leather gloves, that fit like, well, a glove.

An impromptu street parade of exuberent school children, shopping housewives, bemused tourists and a chanting Hare Krishna or two.

Neighborhood church bells ringing in the hour, but not quite in synch, all over the city. Every hour is a celebration.

Strains of Vivaldi seeping out of evening concert halls into the chilly fall air.

Venetian cats. While my Italian may not be quite up to snuff, it's reassuring to know I still speak fluent kitty.

Pasta shops with every shape, color and size imaginable.

Meow-- I mean ciao-- for now.