Some people will tell you they are ski families. Others call themselves hockey families, or tennis families. I am sure there are violin families and foodie families. Some families define themselves based on what they are not: no-tv-families, or no-refined-sugar families. I have envied families who decided what they were, what sport or political proclivity or eating habit an outsider could define the whole family by. It seemed so secure, knowing you were an "X" family: it set expectations and eliminated confusion. Still, the more I tried to come up with what our family of six could be, the less I could satisfyingly settle on an answer. As much as I wanted to be the Broadway-show-tune family, some members where just not fully embracing the idea; my husband could have gone along with a home-beer-making and fly-fishing-family, but that had me concerned about social service intervention given the fact that our children are all under 11. So, we remained undefined. That is, until our weekend trip to Venice. Last weekend, as we toured a frozen and wind-chilled Venice, it finally became clear to me: we are the off-season family.
My husband and I are contrarian in nature, which is certainly why I was drawn to law and probably he to academia: we love to argue "the other side." We also both refuse to pay retail. It must be some combination of these two traits that has created this strange phenomena of ours: we travel to many beautiful and special places, but rarely do we travel on-season. Sometimes, we might hit a shoulder season, but usually, off-season. Give us a period of total quiet before a place fully opens or the period before it fully shuts down for the season, and we will be there. Often times, it works to our advantage: we stay in places we would otherwise not be able to, for a period less than the minimum; we don't have to deal with many other tourists; we are greeted with a friendly smile, not yet exhausted, or exhausted but finally relaxed.
Usually, the activity that brings other people to the place on-season is not available, so we have to imagine what it would be like to be there, doing whatever it is you are supposed to be doing. On a cool fall day at Moonlight Basin ski resort in Montana, we imagined the great skiing trip that we could enjoy; at the Tuscan coast on a cloudy and cold December day we ran the beach fantasizing about swimming under the Tuscan sun; in Ireland we spent a fair amount of time picturing the beauty of our old rented manor if it were surrounded by the abundant flora that lay brown and dormant in the winter chill. The unrealized expectations of these places -- the idea that at another time there is more beauty than what we were enjoying at that minute and that we can imagine it without blemish -- is satisfying. The times we have come back to a place on-season after an off-season trip have been disappointing, because there is no way to have the quiet rhythm and realistic pricing of off-season and the full bloom of on-season travel.
So, when planning our trip to Venice, a February weekend seemed like the perfect time for us -- the off-season family-- to explore. The weekend before carnevale, but long after the thick holiday crowds, the second week of February would offer low [or lower] prices and quiet streets in a town that has become as known for its hordes of tourists as its charm.
We arrived by train from Verona on Friday, and I was immediately taken by the loveliness of Venice. The streets were relatively quiet, the town empty but still alive. We walked around a bit, enjoying the small streets, the enchanting views, the [for me] top-notch modern museum. We ate at a local joint we carefully sought out before arriving, and its food and ambiance were pitch perfect. I went to bed in love with Venice and giddy with our luck. We had seen Venice as it must have been many years ago, before 12 million tourists a year descended on this string of islands.
The next day brought a cold wind from Siberia and thousands of tourists preparing for Sunday's carnevale commencement. Suddenly and overnight, my sweet little Renaissance town had turned into a fraternity party, a freezing cold Marti-Gras. By 10:00 am the streets became packed with young people dressed in masks and paint, drinking too much too early; beggars on their knees, yelling for money; vendors hustling masks and striped Gondola shirts. After lunch, frozen and overwhelmed, we retreated to our sweet apartment, our heads buzzing with the noise and crowds and our fingers and toes red and swollen from the cold. "But everyone is supposed to come tomorrow night," I said to no one as I took off my littlest daughter's snowsuit. Our plan, my plan, had been thwarted by over-eager exchange students and a Sunday start date.
Sunday morning, with temperatures again below zero, we woke up early to take a little walk before heading back to Mantova. It was still cold, but bearably so, and the crowds of party-goers were still in bed. We enjoyed, once more, the beauty of the town, the remarkable buildings and small paths. The gracefulness of the city, once at the height of power and sophistication, could once again be enjoyed. The canals were free of all boats except those delivering or policing, the famous Venetian gondolas quiet in the wintery sea.
"It would have been fun to take a gondola ride if it weren't so cold," said one of my older girls as we looked out at the row of black, sleek boats, covered and docked.
"Next time, when you come again," I said, imagining one of my girls enjoying a semester abroad, taking a boat ride in full view of the Venice moon, being sung to by a handsome gondolier, perhaps with a good college friend or--dare I hope--sister, by her side.
"You know," I said, "when you come by yourself. . .in early summer."
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