T H I S+W E E K > Veritable Venice By John Krich A summer resident savors the city's eternal spirit -- and contemporary contradictions Australia by horseback By Pippa Gordon Here's a novel way to see Queensland -- and to share a mother-daughter journey D E P A R T M E N T S Road Warrior By Don George Adventures of the Business Traveler The Surreal Gourmet By Bob Blumer L'eau de vie: Cognac with every meal Mondo Weirdo Hippos in the night Readers' Tips and Tales Lost in the Sahara - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Your virtual travel agency - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - LA S T+W E E K Tuesday, Sept. 16, 1997 Lost in the Sahara By Jeffrey Tayler A simple overnight trip becomes a battle for survival A N D Dunescapes By Pamela Roberson A desert portfolio A full list of all Wanderlust articles

______________ veritable ______venice _______A SUMMER RESIDENT SAVORS THE CITY'S ETERNAL _______SPIRIT -- AND CONTEMPORARY CONTRADICTIONS. BY JOHN KRICH | you come back to Venice to see how much you have changed. Because Venice scarcely changes at all. "We are in the 16th century here," shrugs Roberto, the tireless proprietor of the bar La Palanca, main communal meeting point of my adopted neighborhood of La Giudecca (pronounced Jew-decka, but having nothing to do with the Jews). Though this communist barkeep's claim is disproven by the bottles of Campari, Johnny Walker and Coke lined on the shelf above the gleaming marble slab where he plies his trade, I know Roberto is referring to more than the physical limitations on the world's most wholly preserved city. Venice has no room, and zero tolerance, for billboards, neon, poured concrete, electric lines. More than that, life on this quarter's long spine of an island, which looks across the broad Giudecca Canal at the changeless spectacle of the centro historico's glowing domes and tottering towers, is still regulated by codes and beliefs from the days when Palladio built his churches. The workmen, bargemen and fishermen who stop into Roberto's gleaming white drinking hole for an ombra (white wine) exist comfortably within the sway of church bells, family ties, football clubs. The fruitsellers, bakers and salumerias are still humble, one-family shops, not outposts of conglomeration. And when people wish you a buon giorno, it still means a whole lot more than "Have a nice day." As I return to inspect the condition of a house inherited from parents who once came here to escape the tyranny of King Richard Nixon, I renew acquaintances with these Giudecchini, asking Fabio the tobacconist just when he's going to take that long-dreamed trip to the Grand Canyon, ordering a roast chicken from the merry butcher in rimless glasses who can't help belting out Verdi arias as he pounds his scaloppini. Over the years, my assessment of the Venetian character has been somewhat tempered by scoundrel lawyers charging millions (in lire, luckily) and taking decades to get the authorities to "forgive" a technicality in our deed that was the fault of owners 40 years back; by oh-so-Christian neighbors who demand more cash at the first drop of condensation that can be imagined to travel from my house to theirs; by dear friends who volunteer to keep an eye on my house only to use it for dinner parties, boat storage and a small "commission" in rentals of which I'm not informed. Untroubled by the smell of the canals, I am more sensitized to the smell of corruption. (I take my revenge by refusing to pay the exorbitant non-resident prices for the boats -- no one ever checks because I look dour enough to pass for native.) But given that my presence here is due to various quirks of fate and real estate, I can hardly complain about this time to sip sparkling prosecco (sparkling wine) and grow gloriously indolent. I don't mind an enchilada that's just bad lasagna with a tortilla chip on top, served at the Iguana, Venice's only and the world's worst Mexican restaurant, so long as my outdoor table has the world's best view. Is it possible to grow immune to such beauty the way most people grow accustomed to the usual ugliness? After 20 years, I may still feel that I float down my neighborhood's long water promenade like a ghost. But I'm well aware that no other walk for morning coffee could be so photogenic. The cappuccino's not too bad either. NEXT PAGE | "hell with the world's best gelato" ________- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - ILLUSTRATION BY ANDREW POWELL

S A L O N +|+ C O N T A C T+U S + A R C H I V E S + N E W S L E T T E R + T A B L E T A L K + M A R K E T P L A C E + S E A R C H DAILY | COLUMNISTS | COMICS | FEATURE | MEDIA CIRCUS MOTHERS WHO THINK | NEWSREAL | SHARPS & FLATS | SNEAK PEEKS | TELEVISION WEEKLY | 21ST | ENTERTAINMENT | GAMES | WANDERLUST