63 - Looking back at Venice ... and Paul Newman

 

Newman circa 1975 (Spokeo photo)

     By the advent of my thirties, I had resided and traveled in several countries on both sides of the Atlantic; I was beginning to speak a semblance of fluent French, and had acquired an interest and a certain experience in art and theatre.  YET,  in many areas I remained extraordinarily green.   In some ways I was like the most Ozarkian hillbilly, just slightly camouflaged behind a more urbane mask.

I remember on my first trip to Venice, I was traveling alone, and had reserved my hotel through a travel agency.   It was a small, unexceptional hotel among thousands.  Though I have long since forgotten its name, I did at least know that much when I arrived at St. Mark's Square.  I knew the hotel was in the neighborhood, but hadn't the minimal savvy to even note its complete address.  

 

Pigeons on St Mark's Square 1976

  To be fair with myself, I had understood the address to be "St. Mark's."   However, I had only the name of the hotel, but no street number.   I didn't understand that St Mark's denoted a whole, vast neighborhood, far larger than all of Aberdeen, and not a precise street.
 

As I had a horror of being taken for a tourist (as if I would have ever been taken for anything other in a city of which there is little else), I didn't carry a map.   So with  neither the full address nor a street map, I proceeded --suitcase in hand-- to spend the next hour or more meandering around, in and out of every little side street off the mind-bogglingly enormous Piazza San Marco. 
  

If my memory is to be relied upon,  I think at some point when I was just about to drop from exhaustion and/or divulge my true identity as a TOURIST by asking help in English, I suddenly saw my hotel in the distance.  The only really crazy part of this story is that at the time I don't think I found anything particularly peculiar in my behavior.  It is today that I look back on it in dismay, and am grateful that I somehow, gradually got my act together a bit better in the decades that followed.

Paris 1976, Gare de Lyon.  Ready to embark

 on the Simplon Express for a first trip to Venice

While dragging my suitcase through the narrow streets around Venice's major piazza, I made an unexpected sighting: the actor Paul Newman.  He was strolling around Saint Mark's with a young woman who I later learned was his daughter.  

I did NOT ask Paul Newman if he knew where my hotel might be located.  I didn't ask him anything, though I certainly could have, as the international superstar was nonchalantly wandering about, anonymously, totally unimpeded by any sign of fan recognition.   That is, no one except me seemed to be paying him the slightest attention.  

The world of movie stars is a volatile one,  however.  After I checked into my  hotel, and went back out into the neighborhood to look around, I again spotted P.N.   This time, everything had dramatically changed.  In the span of about a half hour, he was now surrounded by a really enormous crowd.  Virtually unable to take a step, it was only thanks to a hefty contingent of local carabinieri  that he was separated from the growing mob, and escorted back to his hotel.

For the record, his hotel was the Gritti.    I had never heard of it then, and for a number of years afterwards I always associated The Gritti with Paul Newman.

* * * * *

Ever since the Paul Newman connection, I dreamed of one day staying at the Gritti, myself.  And of course I did.  It was not too many years later, I found a special off-season rate for a back room and took it for just one night before catching a train for Rome.  It was the time the hotel was flooded (see musing No. 31 "Fire, Water, and a Bloody Fall"), but that was only one of the inconveniences from that trip.  There was also a 24-hour transportation strike, and the following day all trains out of Venice were cancelled.  

I had no choice but to stay another night, and unfortunately an additional 24 hours at The Gritti --promotional special or not-- was financially out of the question.  So I had to move myself down the street to one of the city's  more modest and least expensive hotels, The Do Possi.  I don't know how it is now, but at the time the only thing to recommend it was the price.  It was a depressing comedown after my night at the Gritti.   

 I learned one thing that trip:  when you have to go from one extreme to the other, it's a lot better to do it the other way around!   

October 2013, on the Academia bridge ... 35 years later (photo Brenda P.)

That's all folks ... It's the end of the season

Another season of hotel musings now comes to an end.  I hope there will be other musings in the future, but for the moment I'm not quite sure.   I'll take a  break, and in the Autumn I'll see where my creative juices lead me.  

In the meantime, many thanks to all who have followed my posts these last two years.  Some of my old friends and a few new ones met out there in cyberland have been particularly loyal and supportive.   It's been a rewarding and sometimes cathartic experience.   I hope this will just be an au revoir!

 

Your input is welcomed:  frank.pleasants@libertysurf.fr

CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other postings

The Gritti Palace was also featured in blog No. 10 "Danny, the Night Porter", No. 17 "Celebrating the Holidays Away From Home",  No. 23 "Mrs. X at The Gritti", No. 31 "Fire, Water and a Bloody Fall", and No. 48 "Back to Venice ..." (to access, click on titles).