A Thousand Days in Venice: An Unexpected Romance

A Thousand Days in Venice: An Unexpected Romance

by Marlena De Blasi, Marlena De-Blasi

Board Book(Large Print)

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Overview

He saw her across the Piazza San Marco and fell in love from afar. When he sees her again in a Venice café a year later, he knows it is fate. He knows little English; and she, a divorced American chef, speaks only food-based Italian. Marlena thinks she is incapable of intimacy, that her heart has lost its capacity for romantic love. But within months of their first meeting, she has packed up her house in St. Louis to marry Fernando—“the stranger,” as she calls him—and live in that achingly lovely city in which they met.

Vibrant but vaguely baffled by this bold move, Marlena is overwhelmed by the sheer foreignness of her new home, its rituals and customs. But there are delicious moments when Venice opens up its arms to Marlena. She cooks an American feast of Mississippi caviar, cornbread, and fried onions for the locals . . . and takes the tango she learned in the Poughkeepsie middle school gym to a candlelit trattoría near the Rialto Bridge. All the while, she and Fernando, two disparate souls, build an extraordinary life of passion and possibility.

Featuring Marlena’s own incredible recipes, A Thousand Days in Venice is the enchanting true story of a woman who opens her heart—and falls in love with both a man and a city.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780786250424
Publisher: Gale Group
Publication date: 01/24/2003
Edition description: Large Print
Pages: 305
Product dimensions: 5.52(w) x 8.90(h) x 1.06(d)

About the Author

Marlena de Blasi has been a chef, a journalist, a food and wine consultant, and a restaurant critic. She is the author of two cookbooks, Regional Foods of Northern Italy (a James Beard Foundation Award finalist) and Regional Foods of Southern Italy. She and her husband, Fernando, now direct gastronomic tours through Tuscany and Umbria.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1
Signora, the Telephone Is for You

The small room is filled with German tourists, a few English, and a table or two of locals. It’s November 6, 1993, and I arrived in Venice that morning, two friends in tow. We speak quietly together, sipping Amarone. Time passes and the room empties, but I notice that one table, the one farthest away from us, remains occupied. I feel the gentle, noninvasive stare of one of the four men who sit there. I turn my shoulders in, toward my wine, never really looking at the man. Soon the gentlemen go off, and we three are alone in the place. A few minutes pass before a waiter comes by to say there is a telephone call for me. We have yet to announce our arrival to friends, and even if someone knew we were in Venice, they couldn’t possibly know we were lunching at Vino Vino. I tell the waiter he’s mistaken. “No, signora. Il telefono è per Lei,” he insists. “Pronto,” I say into the old, orange wall telephone that smells of smoke and men’s cologne.

“Pronto. Is it possible for you to meet me tomorrow at the same time? It’s very important for me,” says a deep, deliberate, Italian voice I’d never heard before. In the short silence that follows it somehow clicks that he is one of the men who’d left the restaurant just moments before. Though I’ve understood fairly well what he has said, I can’t respond in Italian. I mumble some linguistic fusion like, “No, grazie. I don’t even know who you are,” thinking that I really like his voice.

The next day we decide to return to Vino Vino because of its convenience to our hotel. I don’t think about the man with the beautiful voice. But he’s there, and this time he’s without his colleagues and looking more than a little like Peter Sellers. We smile. I go off to sit with my friends, and he, seeming not quite to know how to approach us, turns and goes out the door. A few beats pass before the same waiter, now feeling a part of something quite grand, comes to me, eyes direct: “Signora, il telefono è per Lei.” There ensues a repeat of yesterday’s scene. I go to the phone, and the beautiful voice speaks in very studied English, perhaps thinking it was his language I hadn’t understood the day before: “Is it possible for you to meet me tomorrow, alone?”

“I don’t think so,” I fumble, “I think I’m going to Naples.”
“Oh,” is all the beautiful voice can say.
“I’m sorry,” I say and hang up the phone.

We don’t go to Naples the next day or the day after, but we do go to the same place for lunch, and Peter Sellers is always there. We never speak a word face to face. He always telephones. And I always tell him I can’t meet him. On the fifth day—a Friday—our last full day in Venice, my friends and I spend the morning at Florian mapping the rest of our journey, drinking Prosecco and cups of bitter, thick chocolate lit with Grand Marnier. We decide not to have lunch but to save our appetites for a farewell dinner at Harry’s Bar. Walking back to the hotel, we pass by Vino Vino, and there is Peter Sellers, his nose pressed against the window. A lost child. We stop in the calle a moment, and my friend Silvia says, “Go inside and talk to him. He has the dearest face. We’ll meet you at the hotel.”

I sit down next to the sweet face with the beautiful voice, and we drink some wine. We talk very little, something about the rain, I think, and why I didn’t come to lunch that day. He tells me he is the manager of a nearby branch of Banca Commerciale Italiana, that it’s late, and he has the only set of keys to reopen the safe for the after-noon’s business. I notice the sweet face with the beautiful voice has wonderful hands. His hands tremble as he gathers his things to leave. We agree to meet at six-thirty that evening, right there, in the same place. “Proprio qui, Right here,” he repeats again and again.

I walk to the hotel with a peculiar feeling and spend the afternoon lolling about my little room, only half celebrating my tradition of reading Thomas Mann in bed. Even after all these years of coming to Venice, every afternoon is a ritual. Close by on the night table I place some luscious little pastry or a few cookies or, if lunch was too light, maybe one, crusty panino which Lino at the bottega across the bridge from my Pensione Accademia has split and stuffed with prosciutto, then wrapped in butcher’s paper. I tuck the down quilt under my arms and open my book. But today I read and don’t read the same page for an hour. And the second part of the ritual falls away altogether, the part where I wander out to see images Mann saw, touch stones he touched. Today all I can think about is him.

The persevering rain becomes a tempest that night, but I am resolved to meet the stranger. Lagoon waters splash up and spill over onto the river in great foaming pools and the Piazza is a lake of black water. The winds seem the breath of furies. I make my way to the warm safety of the bar at the Hotel Monaco but no farther. Less than a few hundred yards from Vino Vino, I’m so close but I can get no closer. I go to the desk and ask for a telephone directory, but the wine bar is not listed. I try calling assistenza but operator number 143 finds nothing. The rendezvous is a wreckage, and I haven’t a way to contact Peter Sellers. It was just not meant to be. I head back to the hotel bar, where a waiter called Paolo stuffs my soaked boots with newspaper and places them near a radiator with the same ceremony someone else might use to stow the crown jewels. I’ve known Paolo since my first trip to Venice four years earlier. Stocking-footed, fidgeting, drinking tea, I sit on the damp layers of my skirt, which sends up the wooly perfume of wet lambs, and watch fierce, crackling lights rip the clouds. I think back to my very first time in Venice. Lord, how I fought that journey! I’d been in Rome for a few days, and I’d wanted to stay. But there I was, hunkered down in a second-class train, heading north. “ARE YOU GOING TOVENICE?” asks a small voice in tentative Italian, trespassing on my Roman half-dream.

I open my eyes and look out the window to see we have pulled into Tiburtina. Two young, pink-faced German women are hoisting their great packs up into the overhead space, thrusting their ample selves down onto the seat opposite me. “Yes,” I finally answer, in English, to a space somewhere between them. “For the first time,” I say.

They are serious, shy, dutifully reading the Lorenzetti guide to Venice and drinking mineral water in the hot, airless train car as it lunges and bumps over the flat Roman countryside and up into the Umbrian hills. I close my eyes again, trying to find my place in the fable of life in the Via Giulia where I’d taken roof-top rooms in the ochered-rose palazzo that sits across from the Hungarian Art Academy. I’d decided I would go each

Friday to eat a bowlful of tripe at Da Felice in the Testaccio. I would shop every morning in Campo dei Fiori. I’d open a twenty-seat taverna in the Ghetto, one big table where the shop keeps and artisans would come to eat the good food I’d cook for them. I’d take a Corsican prince as my lover. His skin would smell of neroli blossoms, and he’d be poor as I would be, and we’d walk along the Tiber, going softly into our dotage. As I begin putting together the exquisite pieces of the prince’s face, the trespasser’s small voice asks, “Why are you going to Venice? Do you have friends there?”

“No. No friends,” I tell her. “I guess I’m going because I’ve never been there, because I think I should,” I say, more to myself than to her. I have hopelessly lost the prince’s face for the moment, and so I parry: “And why are you going to Venice?”

“For romance,” says the inquisitive one very simply.
My plainer truth is that I am going to Venice because I’m being sent there, to gather notes for a series of articles. Twenty-five hundred words on the bacari, traditional Venetian wine bars; twenty-five hundred more on the question of the city’s gradual sinking into the lagoon; and an upscale dining review. I would rather have stayed in Rome. I want to go back to my narrow green wooden bed in the strange little room tucked up in the fourth-floor eaves of the Hotel Adriano. I want to sleep there, to be awakened by powdery sunlight sifting in through the chinks in the shutters. I like the way my heart beats in Rome, how I can walk faster and see better. I like that I feel at home wandering through her ancient ecstasy of secrets and lies. I like that she’s taught me I am only a scintilla, a barely perceptible and transient gleam.

And I like that at lunch, with fried artichokes on my breath, I think of sup-per. And at supper I remember peaches that wait in a bowl of cool water near my bed. I’ve nearly retrieved the pieces of the prince’s face as the train lurches over the Ponte della Libertà. I open my eyes to see the lagoon.

Back then I could never have imagined how sweetly this ravishing old Princess was to gather me up into her tribe, how she would dazzle and dance the way only she can, exploding a morning with gold-shot light, soaking an evening in the bluish mists of a trance. I smile at Paolo, a tribal smile, a soundless eloquence. He stays near, keeping my teapot full. It’s after eleven-thirty before the storm rests. I pull on boots all hardened into the shape of the newsprint stuffing. Damp hat over still-damp hair, still-damp coat, I gather myself for the walk back to the hotel. Something prickles, shivers forward in my consciousness. I try to remember if I’d told the stranger where we were staying. What’s happening to me? Me, the unflappable. Even as I am drawn to Venice, so am I suspicious of her.

It seems I did tell him the name of our hotel, because I find a sheaf of pink paper messages under my door. He’d called every half hour from seven until midnight, the last message letting me know he would be waiting in the lobby at noon the next day, exactly the hour we were to leave for the airport.

Morning brings the first sun we’ve seen in Venice during that stay.

I heave open my window to a day limpid and soft, as if in apology for all that weeping the night before. I pull on black velvet leggings and a turtleneck and go down to meet Peter Sellers, to look him in the eyes and to find out why a man I’d hardly met could be so disturbing to me. I don’t know how I’m going to find out very much though, because he seems to speak no English and the only clear discourse I can carry on in Italian is about food. I’m a bit early, so I walk outside to feel the air and find I’m just in time to see him climbing over the Ponte delle Maravegie, trench coat, cigarette, newspaper, umbrella. I see him before he sees me. And I like what I see, feel. “Stai scappando? Are you escaping?” he asks.

“No. I was coming to meet you,” I say, mostly with my hands.
I had told my friends to wait, that I’d be half an hour, an hour at most. We would still have plenty of time to take a water taxi to the Marco Polo airport and check in for our three o’clock flight to Naples. I look at him. I really look at the stranger for the first time.

All I see is the blue of his eyes. They are colored like the sky and the water are colored today and like the tiny, purply-blue berries called mirtilli, I think. He is at once shy and familiar, and we walk without destination. We stop for a moment on the Ponte dell’Accademia. He keeps dropping his newspaper and, as he bends to retrieve it, he thrusts the point of his umbrella into the crowds that pass behind us.

Then, holding the newspaper under one arm and the umbrella under the other, its evil point still a thwart to the strollers, he slaps at his breast pockets, his trouser pockets, in search of a match. He finds the match and then begins the same search for another cigarette to replace the one that just dropped from his lips into the canal. He really is Peter Sellers.

He asks if I’ve ever thought much about destiny and if I believe there is such a thing as vero amore, real love. He looks away from me out over the water and speaks in a throaty sort of stammer for what seems like a long time and more to himself than to me. I understand few of the words except his final phrase, una volta nella vita, once in a lifetime. He looks at me as though he wants to kiss me, and I think I’d like to kiss him, too, but I know the umbrella and the newspaper will go into the water and, besides, we’re too old to be playing love scenes. Aren’t we too old? I’d probably want to kiss him even if he didn’t have blueberry eyes. I’d probably want to kiss him even if he looked like Ted Koppel. It’s only this place, the view from this bridge, this air, this light. I wonder if I’d want to kiss him if I’d met him in Naples. We take a gelato at Paolin in Campo Santo Stefano, sitting down at a front-row table in the sun.

“How do you feel about Venice?” he wants to know. “This is not your first visit here,” he says, as though flipping through some internal dossier that tracks all my European movement.

“No, no, this is not my first time. I began coming in the spring of ’89, about four years ago,” I tell him brightly.
“1989? You’ve been coming to Venice for four years?” he asks. He holds up four fingers as though my pronunciation of quattro was muddled. “Yes,” I say. “Why is that so strange?” “It’s only that I never saw you until December. Last December. December 11, 1992,” he says, as though eyeing the dossier more closely. “What?” I ask, a little stunned, rummaging back to last winter, computing the dates when I’d last been there. Yes, I’d arrived in Venice on December 2 and then flown up to Milan on the evening of the eleventh. Still, he’s surely mistaken me for another woman, and I’m about to tell him that, but he’s already lunging into his story.

“You were walking in Piazza San Marco; it was just after five in the afternoon. You were wearing a long white coat, very long, down to your ankles, and your hair was tied up, just as it is now. You were looking in the window at Missiaglia, and you were with a man. He wasn’t Venetian, or at least I’d never seen him before. Who was he?” he asks stiffly.

Before I can push out half a syllable, he is asking, “Was he your lover?” I know he doesn’t want me to answer, and so I don’t. He’s talking faster now, and I’m losing words and phrases. I ask him to look at me and, please, to speak more slowly. He accommodates. “I saw you only in profile, and I kept walking toward you. I stopped a few feet from you, and I just stood still, taking you in. I stood there until you and the man walked off the piazza toward the quay.” He illustrates his words with broad movements of his hands, his fingers. His eyes hold mine urgently.

“I began to follow you, but I stopped because I had no idea what I’d do if I came face to face with you. I mean what would I say to you? How could I find a way to talk to you? And so I let you go. That’s what I do, you know, I just let things go. I looked for you the next day and the next, but I knew you were gone. If only I’d see you walking alone somewhere, I could stop you, pretending I mistook you for someone else. No, I would tell you I thought your coat was beautiful. But anyway, I never found you again, so I held you in my mind. For all these months I tried to imagine who you were, where you were from. I wanted to hear the sound of your voice. I was very jealous of the man with you,” he says slowly. “And then, as I was sitting there at Vino Vino the other day and you angled your body so that your profile was just visible underneath all that hair, I realized it was you. The woman in the white coat. And so you see, I’ve been waiting for you. Somehow I’ve been loving you, loving you since that afternoon in the piazza.” Still I have said not a word.

“That’s what I was trying to tell you on the bridge just now, about destiny and true love. I fell in love with you, not at first sight, because I saw only a part of your face. With me it was love at half sight. It was enough. And if you think I’m mad, I don’t care.”

“Is it okay if I speak?” I ask him very quietly and without a notion of what I want to tell him. His eyes are now deep blue bolts, holding me much too tightly. I look down, and when I look up again his eyes have softened. I hear myself saying, “It’s a very sweet gift, this telling of your story. But that you saw me and remembered me and then that you saw me again a year later is not so mysterious an event.

Venice is a very small city, and it is not improbable to see the same people again and again. I don’t think our meeting is some sort of thundering stroke of destiny. Anyway how can you be in love with a profile? I’m not only a profile; I’m thighs and elbows and brain. I’m a woman. I think all of this is only coincidence, a very touching co-incidence,”
I say to the blueberry eyes, neatly patting his arcadian testimony into smooth shape as I might a heft of bread dough. “Non è una coincidenza. This is not coincidence. I’m in love with you, and I’m sorry if this fact makes you uncomfortable.”

“It’s not discomfort I feel. It’s only that I don’t understand it. Yet.” I say this, wanting to pull him close, wanting to push him away. “Don’t go today. Stay a little longer. Stay with me,” he says.

“If there’s to be something, anything at all between us, my going today won’t change it. We can write to each other, talk. I’ll be coming back in the spring, and we can make plans.” There seems a forced syncopation to my words before I hear them falling away into near paralysis. Still as a frieze, we sit there on the edges of the campo’s Saturday fracas. A long time passes through our silence before we shuffle to our feet. Not waiting for a check, he leaves lire on the table under the glass dish of his untasted strawberry gelato, rivulets of which drip onto the paper money.

My face is burning, and I feel startled, flush up against an emotion I can’t name, one eerily like terror but not unlike joy. Could there have been some gist to my old Venetian forebodings? Have the pre-sentiments spun out into the form of this man? Is this the rendezvous?

I am drawn to the stranger. I am suspicious of the stranger.
Even as I am drawn to Venice, so am I suspicious of her. Are he and Venice the same thing? Could he be my Corsican prince masquerading as a bank manager? Why can’t Destiny announce itself, be a twelve-headed ass, wear purple trousers, a name tag, even? All I know is that I don’t fall in love, neither at first sight nor at half-sight, neither easily nor over time. My heart is rusty from the old pinions that hold it shut. That’s what I believe about myself. We stroll through Campo Manin to San Luca, just making small talk. I stop in mid-stride. He stops, too, and he wraps me up in his arms. He holds me. I hold him.

When we exit from the Bacino Orseolo into San Marco, la Marangona is ringing five bells. It’s him, I think. He’s the twelve-headed ass in the purple trousers! He’s Destiny and the bells only recognize me when I’m with him. No, that’s rot. Menopausal gibberish.

Five hours have passed since I left the hotel. I call my friends who are still waiting there, and I vow to meet them and my baggage directly at the airport. The last flight to Naples is at seven-twenty. The Grand Canal is improbably empty, free of the usual tangle of skiffs and gondolas and sandoli, permitting the tassista to race his water taxi, lurching it, slamming it down brutally onto the water. Peter Sellers and I stand outside in the wind and ride into a lowering, dark red sun. I pull a silver flask from my purse and a tiny, thin glass from a velvet pouch. I pour out cognac and we sip together. Again, he looks as if he’s going to kiss me, and this time he does —temples, eyelids, before he finds my mouth. We’re not too old.

We exchange numbers and business cards and addresses, having no more powerful amulets. He asks if he might join us later in the week wherever we might be. It isn’t a good idea, I tell him. As best I know it, I give him our itinerary so we might be able to say good morning or good evening once in a while. He asks when I’ll be re-turning home, and I tell him.

Reading Group Guide

Our Book Club Recommendation
Both a travel memoir and a bold argument for following the heart, A Thousand Days in Venice is above all a book about new beginnings -- about finding true love and a new life, a bit later in life. This tale of an unlikely romance is sure to captivate reading groups with its colorful version of the age-old question: What is it like to "start over"?

The first few chapters alone provide a feast for discussion, as they relate how author Marlena de Blasi -- a successful food and travel writer, chef, and mother of two grown children -- impulsively agrees to pack up and abandon up her life in the U.S. to move to Venice and marry a "blueberry-eyed stranger" whom she has just met. But that is only the beginning of this story of culture clash and new love.

Although the colorful Italian scenery provides constant entertainment, the author's real concern is the drama of personal transformation. Her memoir explores the realities of such a momentous leap, and how we reconcile our dreams or hopes about the unknown with imperfect reality. De Blasi relates her struggle to express her "own ebullience" in limited language (when they met, her husband spoke scant English, and she had only food-based Italian), a scenario that demands a truly imaginative response. Both in middle age, Marlena and Fernando repeatedly ask themselves if they are "too old for love" -- a concept that raises fascinating issues about the benefits and challenges inherent in a mature approach to relationships.

A Thousand Days in Venice also highlights the change in Fernando, as he blooms from a reserved and proper Venetian bank manager into a man who begins to test his own limits and truly embrace a new life. At the same time, Marlena describes the fears of abandonment that surrounded expressing herself to her "stranger." Their dual transformation provides the thematic backbone for the story of the evolution of a new partnership in life.

There are a thousand reasons why A Thousand Days in Venice will appeal to book clubs, but the most important one is that, in the midst of its exotic setting and romantic interludes, its author asks and discusses essential questions about how we discover who we are and what we truly want from life. Reading groups may well find themselves doing the same. (Elise Vogel)

Discussion Questions from the Publisher
1. “Even as I am drawn to Venice, so I am suspicious of her.” Why did this well-traveled author deliberately shun Venice for so long? Why was she so suspicious?

2. The author’s family and friends respond in many different ways to her decision to move to Venice and marry Fernando. Without the benefit of hindsight, what do you think your initial response would be to a friend or a relative planning such a drastic life change?

3. When she and Fernando first kiss, de Blasi recognizes that they “are not too old” for love. Yet her love affair inspires awkwardness, suspicion, and even embarrassment in many of those around her. Discuss the internal and external barriers to love found later in life.

4. In the midst of a quarrel with Fernando, the author wonders “why there always hovers, just an inch or two above love, some small itch for revenge.” Discuss this statement. What other emotions and reactions hover just above love?

5. Throughout the novel, de Blasi refers to her partner and then husband as “the stranger.” How well do you know those you love? Do you ever consider them strangers?

6. The author and her husband both struggle to keep their personal demons in check to make their relationship work. Do you agree with de Blasi that this can be easier to do later in life? Why or why not?

7. Why does de Blasi move to Italy as opposed to Fernando moving to the United States?
8. The author is forced to jettison most of her material possessions upon her move to Italy, which she finds liberating. Could you or would you do the same? If you could keep only what could be shipped overseas at a reasonable cost, what would you choose?

9. The author’s friend Misha warns her that she will “neither understand nor be understood” in Italy. How does she navigate the cultural barriers that threaten to isolate and overwhelm her? What role does her love of food play?

10. In the end, do you think de Blasi has found a satisfactory means of communication in her new culture?

11. Discuss what places in the world inspire you the way Venice inspires de Blasi. Is there a culture different from your own you can imagine immersing yourself in? If you have done so, how does your experience compare with de Blasi’s?

12. The author chooses to embrace the complications involving her wedding. Discuss the expectations surrounding such special events and the potential for disaster.

13. On the impact of her life-changing decision on her adult children, de Blasi muses “that their childhood was ending and…in a strange way, my childhood was beginning.” Discuss the meaning of this statement.

14. Like Fernando, have you ever felt imprisoned by the expectations of others? Have you lost track of dreams you once had?

15. De Blasi makes her husband feel connected to the world. Who or what makes you feel connected to the world?

16. Cooking for a crowd, real or imagined, helps the author stave off the loneliness that plagues and frightens her. What staves off loneliness for you?

17. The author argues, “Too often it is we who won’t let life be simple.” Do you agree or disagree?

18. Do you think “a little suffering sweetens things”?

19. How do you think this narrative would unfold if told in Fernando’s voice? How might it differ and how might it remain the same?

20. How do you think Fernando would describe his wife in his own words?

21. In the final line of her acknowledgments, de Blasi hints that another memoir might be forthcoming. Would your group be interested in reading another installment of this memoir? Do you want to learn about her life in the Tuscan village of San Casciano dei Bagni?

22. Did you find this memoir to be a satisfying read? What are the benefits and drawbacks of this literary genre?

23. How would you describe this book to prospective readers?

24. If you were to write your own memoirs, what story would you tell?

25. Is your group satisfied with this selection? Why or why not? What is your next selection?

26. Have you or will you try any of the recipes found at the end of this novel?

Interviews

Author Essay
Plan to be in Venice on the third Saturday of July for La Festa del Redentore, when Venetians thank the Redeemer for delivering their ancestors from the plague. When you book your lodgings, ask if the pensione (hotel) can help you rent a rowboat for the evening of the festival or, better yet, book seats for dinner on one of the larger boats. Being a spectator, rather than in the midst of it on the water, is only fun if you're lucky enough to be the guest of a host whose palazzo (palace) has an altana (rooftop terrace) from which vantage you can see and feel the spectacle. Enjoy the moonlight, fireworks, food and wine, and mandolins on the earth's most splendid waterway.

Fill a picnic basket with bread and zaletti (cornmeal cookies) from Colussi, a bakery in San Marco; cheese and cold meats from any one of the no-name shops gracing every Venetian neighborhood; wine, pastry, and chocolates from Rosasalva -- and take the vaporetto (water taxi) to the Lido where you can board the number eleven bus for i murazzi, the immense rock wall that protects the island from the sea. Walk a hundred meters, find a flat rock on which to spread your meal, then dine to the accompaniment of crashing Adriatic waves.

At crepuscolo (dusk) head for the terrace bar at the Monaco Hotel, housed in the seventeenth-century palazzo of the noble Vallaresso family. It looks out on a particularly glorious section of the Grand Canal, proving that the Venice of one's dreams is the real Venice. But first, check to see it's not Paolo's night off. Let him concoct aperitivi for you. Just say, "Ci pensi lei" (you decide).

Stroll in the Dorsoduro, the Venice neighborhood that some have likened to Paris's Left Bank. Tucked here and there you'll find boutiques, cafés, and restaurants. Begin at Venice's only wooden bridge, the Accademia, constructed in 1932 to replace the great iron monstrosity built by the Austrians during their mid-nineteenth-century reign. Along the way, you might be inspired to renew your marriage vows at la Madonna della Salute. Afterward, secure a table in the jasmine-scented gardens at Locanda Montin: start your meal with canoce, thin, sweet shanks of Adriatic shellfish; next consider a silky risotto alla zucca (risotto with pumpkin), or try the roasted lagoon duck stuffed with local sausages and wild herbs. And when you've emptied that bottle of Bianco di Custoza, crisp white wine from the nearby village of Bussolengo, call for due sgroppini, the classic close to all Venetian suppers. What will soon appear are two flutes filled with lemon sorbet, vodka, and sparkling wine whipped to a thick, icy cream.

Go early, about 7 a.m., to the Rialto markets and watch the "getting ready" drama. Then follow the farmers and merchants to their favorite bars for cappuccino and hot cornetti filled with apricot jam. Walk back through the open-air stalls of cheeses, fruits, vegetables, and meats as more shoppers begin to arrive and by 9:30 a.m. make your first stop at Cantina do Mori, the oldest wine bar in Venice, where the extraordinary circumstances of your visit might make it possible to drink a glass of simple wine from the barrel along with panini ripieni con prosciutto crudo e uove sode (crisp buns stuffed with cured ham and hard-cooked eggs), just as all the contadini (farmers) are doing.

Pack a blanket and head for the nearby island of Torcello. Take the motonave (ferry boat) from Lido, preferably the one that departs at 8:20 a.m., and sit outside sipping the cappuccino you picked up at Chizzolin on the Grand Viale. On Torcello spread your blanket in the tall grasses on either side of the main path and just stay quiet, feeling the ancient stillness of the place. When you're ready to move, visit the bedizened basilica, the site on which the original seventh-century church was erected, then head to Ponte del Diavolo (Bridge of the Devil) for lunch. Ask for a table where the waiter with the salmon-colored cravat and the pomaded hair parted in the middle can take care of you. If it's May, don't forget to order risotto con i bruscandoli (risotto with hop shoots).

Go late, after supper in the summer, to sit outdoors at Florian, sipping cold moscato, sweet, amber-colored wine, and listen to the orchestra. Dance to the last piece of the evening and have a nightcap with the musicians before you and your companion wander back home.

Watch the sunset on the vaporetto Number One. Board the boat at the San Zaccaria landing stage just as the light is beginning to change and head out to the train station. It is essential to sit outside and drink champagne from a pair of crystal flutes! Debark at Santa Lucia and reboard a Number One heading back toward the center of Venice. You'll be starving by the time you reach the Ca' d'Oro stop, but la Vedova waits only a few meters away just off the Strada Nuova. Have a simple supper there, and please give Ada, one of the best cooks in Venice, a hug for me. (Marlena de Blasi)

Copyright © 2002 by Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill

Foreword

1. “Even as I am drawn to Venice, so I am suspicious of her.” Why did this well-traveled author deliberately shun Venice for so long? Why was she so suspicious?

2. The author’s family and friends respond in many different ways to her decision to move to Venice and marry Fernando. Without the benefit of hindsight, what do you think your initial response would be to a friend or a relative planning such a drastic life change?

3. When she and Fernando first kiss, de Blasi recognizes that they “are not too old” for love. Yet her love affair inspires awkwardness, suspicion, and even embarrassment in many of those around her. Discuss the internal and external barriers to love found later in life.

4. In the midst of a quarrel with Fernando, the author wonders “why there always hovers, just an inch or two above love, some small itch for revenge.” Discuss this statement. What other emotions and reactions hover just above love?

5. Throughout the novel, de Blasi refers to her partner and then husband as “the stranger.” How well do you know those you love? Do you ever consider them strangers?

6. The author and her husband both struggle to keep their personal demons in check to make their relationship work. Do you agree with de Blasi that this can be easier to do later in life? Why or why not?

7. Why does de Blasi move to Italy as opposed to Fernando moving to the United States?
8. The author is forced to jettison most of her material possessions upon her move to Italy, which she finds liberating. Could you or would you do the same? If you could keep only what could be shipped overseas at areasonable cost, what would you choose?

9. The author’s friend Misha warns her that she will “neither understand nor be understood” in Italy. How does she navigate the cultural barriers that threaten to isolate and overwhelm her? What role does her love of food play?

10. In the end, do you think de Blasi has found a satisfactory means of communication in her new culture?

11. Discuss what places in the world inspire you the way Venice inspires de Blasi. Is there a culture different from your own you can imagine immersing yourself in? If you have done so, how does your experience compare with de Blasi’s?

12. The author chooses to embrace the complications involving her wedding. Discuss the expectations surrounding such special events and the potential for disaster.

13. On the impact of her life-changing decision on her adult children, de Blasi muses “that their childhood was ending and…in a strange way, my childhood was beginning.” Discuss the meaning of this statement.

14. Like Fernando, have you ever felt imprisoned by the expectations of others? Have you lost track of dreams you once had?

15. De Blasi makes her husband feel connected to the world. Who or what makes you feel connected to the world?

16. Cooking for a crowd, real or imagined, helps the author stave off the loneliness that plagues and frightens her. What staves off loneliness for you?

17. The author argues, “Too often it is we who won’t let life be simple.” Do you agree or disagree?

18. Do you think “a little suffering sweetens things”?

19. How do you think this narrative would unfold if told in Fernando’s voice? How might it differ and how might it remain the same?

20. How do you think Fernando would describe his wife in his own words?

21. In the final line of her acknowledgments, de Blasi hints that another memoir might be forthcoming. Would your group be interested in reading another installment of this memoir? Do you want to learn about her life in the Tuscan village of San Casciano dei Bagni?

22. Did you find this memoir to be a satisfying read? What are the benefits and drawbacks of this literary genre?

23. How would you describe this book to prospective readers?

24. If you were to write your own memoirs, what story would you tell?

25. Is your group satisfied with this selection? Why or why not? What is your next selection?

26. Have you or will you try any of the recipes found at the end of this novel?

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A Thousand Days in Venice: An Unexpected Romance 3.9 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 11 reviews.
nanasummers More than 1 year ago
I picked this from the travel book section, and it was an interesting personal love story and reflection on her life in Venice. Took me to parts of the city that a tour wouldn't take me. I think my return trip to Venice next year (2015) will have more of a personal touch to it because of reading this book.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Reading this book was literally 'painful'. It was like reading someone's 'to do list'. The chapter about her wedding was so drawn out, I got to the point that I could care less if they did get married, I just wanted the book to be OVER WITH. Ms. De Blasi should stick to COOKING.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This book was sweet, honest, and lovely. I enjoyed the author's take on food, Venice, middle age and being a newlywed. I read A Thousand Days in Tuscany first, and just had to find out how they met. A terrific book.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book is like receiving a letter from a dear friend. She includes the sounds and smells of her new life in Venice. Just as she herself was swept up in a great romance with Fernando, I found myself swept up in the romance of Venice. I truly was saddened when I reached the end of the book. I wanted it to continue. Wonderful word pictures of a place I now hope to one day visit. Brava! I look forward to more books from her.
PippiL More than 1 year ago
PARTS of this book are interesting. The author OVER romanticizes everything. I have a large vocabulary, and I still have to look up words. I can't put my finger on it, but there's something uncomfortable about the writing style. I'm wondering how this book got published. I wish I had spent my money on something else.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I've read this book multiple times and liked it each time. It starts off slow, but becomes better as you progress. I generally like reading memoirs or biographies. Being younger, I had to look up a few of the references, but it did not detract from the overall story.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
It fed my mind, my heart and my appetite
Kimberly_Book_Addict More than 1 year ago
In recent years I’ve become a voracious reader of the memoir genre. I love learning about the interesting lives of other people! In some instances I want to be them and in others I’m glad I’m not them! When I saw that Barnes and Noble was having a travel themed eBook sale I quickly grabbed some of the memoirs. A Thousand Days in Venice by Marlena de Blasi happened to be one of these selections! In this autobiographical tale of food and romance, Marlena De Blasi first takes us to Venice, Italy in the late 1980′s. She is a food journalist and chef, and is on her first trip to Venice. In the Piazza San Marco, a man, whom she affectionately calls “the stranger”, spots her from across the Piazza and instantly falls in love with her from afar. When he sees her again, this time a year later, he decides that it is fate and that they must be together. Marlena, fresh from a divorce, politely declines the man’s affections, thinking herself too damaged and hurt to be of any use in a relationship. However, as luck would have it, only a few short months later she finds herself packing up her life in America to move to Venice and marry this “stranger”. Although the culture shock is enormous, Marlena finds herself embracing the new and exciting smells, sounds, and life that this exciting city has to offer. She cooks traditional American dishes for her new Italian friends to try, while they teach her to dance in the candlelight. Complete with numerous recipes of her own creation, Marlena tells her tale of life and love in one of the most romantic cities in the world. At the end of this novel, I had very mixed emotions. I’ll start with some of the areas of the work that could use some improvement, then work towards its strengths. Initially, I thought the book was very hectic – I kept reading and felt like I was being thrown all over the place. The concept/true story element is what kept me reading, but the flow of the book was rough. The best way to describe what I mean is it felt like I was reading something that had been translated oddly. It’s extremely difficult to try to explain what I mean here, it wasn’t poor word choices or the story proper, more the way it was structured and pieced together. Additionally, the relationship between Marlena and “the stranger” seemed really odd at times. He wanted a marriage, yet it was completely one-sided (when he quits his job at the bank, he just does it, even though they discussed waiting till they got their affairs in order). She up and leaves her life and her children in America, moves to Venice for this man, and yet she feels restricted in the things that she can do and say to him. One example is her cooking. Obviously, cooking and food are HUGE parts of her life, having been a chef and restaurateur. She becomes ashamed of this at certain points, and she writes of having to hide her trips to the market. It’s almost as if she has an alternative life outside of her marriage, creating an entirely different life out there with the merchants and market people. What was great? Her descriptions of Venice and food are astounding. Having been to Italy before I know that it generates strong feelings in a person. The landscape and buildings are stunning to see. To read her words and thoughts so eloquently put was very rewarding. I found myself at a loss for words on many of the things during my trip to Italy/Spain, so it was rewarding to find someone who could write about the beauty of it all so well. In all, this beautiful imagery that de Blasi is able to conjure up in her book was enough to keep me from becoming too upset over the odd flow of the book. It’s still definitely a worthwhile read for the recipes alone! I can’t wait to try some of them out, they look quite delicious! So, if you’re in the mood for a book that will take you on a mini-tour of all the sights and sounds that Venice has to offer, as well as a personal back story, give A Thousand Days in Venice a try. (Reflections of a Book Addict)
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Guest More than 1 year ago
Marena captured my heart and held my hand on her journey,her courage to follow her dream was inspiring. We have only been to Venice once but I was entranced by her and empathised with the sentiments that she is a seductress. beautifully written with exquisite word pictures, I would love to be able to take a tour with this couple when we go to Europe next year, but no details were included. thank You