Europe in September

Guests who arrive ten past the chime

Events postponed to a new time

Appointments when cancelled

That don’t get re-pencilled

These are a few of my favourite things…

“Rischde” is a Pennsylvania Dutch word that means to prepare. But it encompasses the whole process of getting ready for visitors or guests to come to your home. It’s preparing the food and getting the house to a welcoming state. The word has connotations of fluster and bluster and hard work and good aromas coming from the kitchen. Corners may or may not get cleaned a little deeper and out-of-the-way closets may get tidied. If one is not careful, one can be worn out from all the “rischde-ing” and not have hospitality left for the company.

I had a day recently that was going to be spent “rischde-ing” for an evening meal, but the event ended up being postponed. And there I was, gifted with an open day. I did the things that needed doing, but left that toy closet that desperately needs reorganizing so that the grandies don’t topple over with the mess. I knit rows onto the blanket for April’s grandbaby while listening to the soothing staccato of the the rain on the tin roof. I tried to capture the golden light in the yellow leaves outside an upstairs window. I refrained from a quick trip to the half off sale on books at a local thrift store. And I dusted off Homespun Musings.

While Autumn “rischde-ed” her scarlets and ambers to wear for her rustle-laden arrival, I spent time tramping through the streets and mountains of Europe. This was my 4th visit to Europe – not including the brief stay in Istanbul when I visited my sister in Turkey years ago. I say this not to boast, but in some kind of disbelief at the way life can unfold. One of those four trips was by my planning, but the other three — it was like I’d be foolish to say no to the opportunity that came my way.

We landed in Venice on a Friday morning and crowded into a water taxi out of the rain to head to the canal-carved island. Following the precise instructions of our host ( From Madonna dell’Orto you go straight on Calle Piave then you turn right in Fondamenta Madonna dell’Orto, you cross the wooden bridge and you take Calle Loredan, cross the bridge and take Calle del Forno), we walked, lugging our suitcases, to our apartment that featured a balcony overlooking one of the many canals in Venice. And we were awe-struck, even a bit giddy with the wonder of it.

My Mom, almost 86, remembers learning about Venice and its famed canals in grade school. When we talked to her on the phone while we were away, she expressed concern about the children falling into these canals and drowning. We reassured her by comparing it to children needing to learn safety with streets and roads. Venice really is a city of canals. The moonlight danced on the ripples of all that water and created a shimmering sparkle at every turn on our first evening walk. Little wooden bridges straddled the canals at regular intervals making it easy to get to the other side. Most window ledges were graced with flower boxes spilling over with trailing mandevilles. Flowerpots were tucked into out-of-way nooks and crannies, adding to the charm.

We explored Venice for a couple of days, seeing the crowded squares and streets, but also finding the quieter back streets where the hustle and bustle hadn’t found its way. We slept with our balcony door open, and the sounds of chatter and laughter drifted in until the wee hours from the pub below us. I looked for well seasoned women and laundry hung out to dry – two of my favourite things to photograph when at home or away. We traipsed the streets for hours and wandered into the leather shops, feeling the soft hide of the bags and purses. We ate pasta and gelato and lolled at outdoor tables drinking spritzes. My sister and I searched (without success) for what sounded like the perfect thrift store. We bought ourselves old keys in a pleasantly cluttered antique shop. We took the required gondola ride at dusk, and it really was a bit of magic. We dined at the foot of the Rialto Bridge, savouring both the food and the moment.

According to our faithful guide, Rick Steves, Venice is “a medieval cookie jar, and nobody’s looking”. He suggests you “park your 21st – century perspective at the mouth and let Venice swallow you whole” and that “perhaps the best way to enjoy Venice is just to succumb to its charms and blow a lot of money”. But my favourite Rick Steves advice was regarding the gondoliers — “Women, beware…while gondoliers can be extremely charming, local women say that anyone who falls for one of these Romeos ‘has slices of ham over her eyes'”! Our gondolier certainly had personality, cheerfully challenging a nearby boat to race, his Italian soliloquy entertaining us the entire ride.

Venice was crowded, and the occasional stench of fish and murky waters wafted in the air, but getting off the beaten path and discovering the quaint and the quiet had me wondering and imagining the ordinary lives of the ordinary people who may have lived here years ago. Or maybe there never really was such a thing as “ordinary” in Venice.

I kept my eyes open for a keepsake of some sort to take home with me and never quite landed on something that intrigued me enough. I was going to content myself with photos and memories. Then, when we returned to Venice two weeks later at the end of our trip to catch our return flight, I gathered up our garbage from our rental car and took it to a nearby trash can. There, hooked on the trash can, was an umbrella with Venetian scenes printed on the dome. Dare I? I went back to our group and whispered my find to my sister, not sure how this “treasure” would go over with the male constituent of our group. She trotted off to the garbage can and returned with the umbrella, making it part of our luggage pile, and, like an old friend used to say, we “went on like we were all in our right minds”. When my darling husband was loading luggage onto the cart and saw it, he wondered if it belonged to us. “It does now,” quipped my sister, without missing a beat. We fit it kitty-corner into a suitcase, and I had my keepsake – and a story to go with it!

Cast-off fun find

In the ni-ic of time

This too is one of my favourite things.

Someone once said that when you travel, you go and take it all in during the busyness of the trip. But then when you’re home, you reflect and remember and reminisce, absorbing it more deeply away from the sometimes frantic pace of getting from here to there when away.

This begins my recollections and reflections of our journey. Join me if you wish!