Chapter Thirty-Eight
Before they knew it, they were running along the cobblestone route to Fondamenta Nove to meet the tour group for their evening excursion.
When they arrived, panting and perspiring from the exertion, Alicia greeted them with a knowing smile. “Perfect timing! We’re just about to board.”
After the small group was settled on board the open-air boat, Alicia addressed the group. “This is one of my favorite tours, and I keep the group very small and intimate for a reason. Thank you for joining me. Tonight, we’re exploring some of Venice’s most picturesque and historically significant outer islands,” she announced, her voice brimming with excitement. “Gentlemen, hold on to your hats,” she said with a wink in Fernando’s direction, noting his new accouterment. “Ladies, embrace the experience and forget about your hair. We’re about to get a little windblown, but it’s all part of the Italian adventure. La dolce vita!” With that, she plopped into her seat next to the captain of the boat, and its engine kicked into gear, speeding off as the Venetian sunset draped the sky in shades of gold and crimson.
Fernando quickly wrapped his arm around Sophie’s shoulders when they sat in their plush vinyl seats, circling the back of the boat, and pulled her close as they sped along the lagoon. Soon, the boat slowed, and the motor was reduced to a gentle hum as Alicia turned to speak to them.
“Torcello,” she continued, “Some call this the mother island of Venice. In its heyday, back in the 10 th century, this island was a thriving settlement and the first to be populated by the Venetians fleeing the mainland invasions. Imagine this quiet place bustling with life, paving the way for what would become the grand city of Venice. Changing sea levels made it difficult to navigate the swamps, which turned traders away from the previously prosperous ports, and fever wiped out the population. As Venice grew, it recycled many of the useful building materials from what remained of this pre-medieval ghost town, leaving the ruins you see as the only testament of this once great trading center.“ The remnants of ancient structures and wild, overgrown gardens passed by, offering a glimpse into a past filled with both grandeur and desolation.
As the boat meandered towards the next destination, Alicia pointed towards a modest yet elegant villa perched by the canal. “And here, ladies and gentlemen, behold Villa Casanova,” her voice perked up with a note of amusement. “Now, this isn’t actually Casanova’s home, but a hotel that pays homage to, or at least makes money on, one of Venice’s most intriguing historical figures—Giacomo Casanova. Casanova, a true Renaissance man, was not just a notorious lover but also a spy for the Venetian inquisitors, a writer, and a poet. His life was a blend of adventure, espionage, and, of course, romantic escapades. Casanova was a rogue whose adventures were as colorful as the city itself. This hotel aims to capture that spirit—minus the espionage, presumably!” Her chuckle rippled through the group, inviting smiles and light laughter in appreciation of Venice’s intriguing past.
Fernando leaned into Sophie, his lips caressing her ear. “Now that we’re a couple, do I get to be a little more roguish?”
She chuckled, giving him a gentle shove. “You wish. Stick with the mysteries. Casanova will never be your alter ego. But don’t worry, I like you just the way you are.”
Realizing that was his attempt at flirting, she kissed him on the cheek to remove any sting her words might have held before turning back to the view, leaning her weight a little more into him, and feeling him relax.
As their boat gracefully navigated the shimmering waters of the Venetian lagoon, it approached the island of Murano, a pivotal hub in the world of glassmaking. Alicia, always eager to enrich their journey with intriguing facts, pointed towards the island, where the glow of active furnaces hinted at the ceaseless creativity housed there. “Look over there—that’s Murano, distinguished globally for its exquisite glass artistry. The island is home to between 5,000 and 7,000 residents, many of whom are deeply embedded in the glassmaking industry. Whether they’re master artisans, workshop owners, or play supporting roles, the community thrives on this ancient craft,” Alicia explained, her eyes reflecting the pride she felt in sharing this piece of Venetian heritage.
“The art of glassmaking was moved here from Venice proper in 1291, primarily to prevent the fires that often accompanied the glass furnaces from engulfing the wooden buildings of Venice. Today, Murano remains a vibrant center of glass artistry, with numerous workshops dotting the island. These range from small family-run studios to larger factories, each preserving unique techniques passed down through generations. It’s this rich tradition and the tight-knit community of artisans, many of whom commute from Venice and nearby islands, that maintain Murano’s reputation as a global beacon of glass craftsmanship,” she continued, gesturing towards the faint silhouettes of craftsmen visible through the factory windows, their forms bending and moving in the dance of creation.
“I didn’t realize that ‘Murano glass’ was a centralized location, not a specific singular enterprise. When we were at the Murano Glass Company today, I thought it was the Murano Glass Company, not simply one of them. I would have rather taken a water taxi and explored this island than made my purchases at a large company,“ Fernando commented as they moved onto the next island.
“I love your heart, which always wants to help the underdog, but you don’t know that the business you supported today wasn’t family-owned. Imperio was a generational master craftsman who appreciated your support today. I saw you give him a tip for his assistance with your glassmaking experience. Let’s remember the day as a cherished experience and not with regrets. Especially since you don’t know they are warranted,” Sophie chided him gently, patting his thigh and resting her hand there as she returned her attention to the tour.
The boat gently skirted the edges of Burano, and the island presented a kaleidoscope of colors that immediately caught everyone’s attention. Alicia chuckled at their reactions to the vibrant homes lining the canals. “Ah, you must have noticed the rainbow of brightly painted townhomes,” she began, with a note of amusement and sarcasm in her voice. “There’s a charming story behind these vivid facades. Legend has it that after long hours at sea, the fishermen would return slightly tipsy, unable to distinguish their own homes in the dim light or thick sea fog that often rolls in. To help their husbands find their way, wives began painting their homes in bold, bright colors—ensuring that even the most inebriated sailor couldn’t mistake his own door. Whether it was a practical solution, a loving gesture to guide their husbands safely home, or just a good excuse to add a little color to their lives, the story adds to the unforgettable charm of Burano.”
As the group meandered down narrow streets, they were surrounded by multistory townhomes, each attached to its neighbor, creating a continuous wave of reds, blues, yellows, oranges, purples, greens, and even magenta pinks—each home brighter and bolder than the next, some adorned with overflowing flower boxes or small balcony gardens. “Burano consists of four small islands connected by bridges, much like Venice, though with a much smaller population of only around 3,000, creating a close-knit community atmosphere. In the 16th century, the island’s primary industry was taken over by women with their world-renowned lace-making. While most Burano lace today is machine-made, this craft continues to be a significant part of their cultural history. Today, tourism is the main industry, with the brightly colored homes serving as a unique attraction. Interestingly, homeowners here can’t just pick any paint color; they must petition the government if they want to repaint, and they’re then assigned acceptable colors for their specific row, ensuring the contrasting and eye-catching palette that we see today. This regulation has been in place since the monarchy of the Royal House of Savoy in the 1800s.”
After strolling along Burano’s interconnected pathways and crossing several narrow bridges, they approached a quaint villa tucked away from the main path. Unlike a typical restaurant, this place felt more like stepping into a warm and inviting private residence.
Alicia led them up to a private balcony that offered a breathtaking view of the lagoon, now shimmering under the moonlight. Candles hung from the overhang and were scattered across the long table, casting a soft golden glow that enhanced the intimate setting. The table was set in a manner that suggested both elegance and comfort, promising a meal to remember.
As they settled in their seats around the long table, a gentle sea breeze carrying the scent of the salty lagoon below enhanced the outdoor dining experience. A server soon approached, placing a basket of warm ‘pane di casa’ on the table alongside small glass cruets of olive oil and balsamic vinegar for dipping. Small ceramic dishes hand-painted in vibrant blues, yellows, reds, and greens were placed before each guest.
Sophie leaned into Fernando and whispered, “These remind me of the pottery we saw in Assisi. This matches the bud vase I bought and your pitcher.”
“Maybe we should order some of these for our home. After we marry, of course,” he replied with a wink, bringing a red flush to Sophie’s cheeks.
“Putting the cart before the horse, aren’t you? You haven’t even told your family the truth about my past. We are a long way from any wedding announcements,” she retorted, but her heart pinched at the thought.