The Venetian Time Machine

Personal Notes from the Quiet Season in the Canal City

On a Saturday night last month, my friend Matthew was lost in the web of narrow bridges, canals, and alleyways that crisscross Venice. We had a table booked in a small and unpretentious osteria I like, and until we were all there, we couldn’t order.

The place only had five or six tables, and I didn’t want to be asked to give ours up on what must be the busiest night of the week. I apologized for the situation at least twice to the waitress. “No stà preocuparte¹,” she smiled each time -- “Don’t worry.”

It took a while, but Matthew eventually found the spot. We placed our order around 45 minutes later than originally planned. It was delicious.

Other diners came and went as we waited and, finally, as we ate. There were young Italians at the bar eating cicchetti and laughing. A well-dressed older couple at another table was there when I first walked in the door and they were still lingering when we left. The staff moved briskly and was attentive, but the mood in the place was unhurried and almost conspiratorial, like the evening was a secret and we were all in on it.

Keep in mind that this osteria is five minutes from the Rialto Bridge and the Grand Canal. On a map of Venice we were right in the middle. But nobody tried to rush us. I think I even had to ask for the check multiple times.

As we stepped out the door, our footsteps and voices echoed against the high alley walls. Someone was practicing piano in a nearby apartment. A distant boat horn sounded. Seagulls cawed above.

Try having that kind of experience in that part of Venice during the canal city’s unforgiving high season, when empty seats are a contested resource.