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Venerable Venice.

Though slowly sinking into the Adriatic, Italy's city of canals still remains a historic, cultural, and artistic mecca.

COLE PORTER kicked off "Kiss Me Kate" with the rousing number, "We Open in Venice." Taking a cue from this Broadway immortal, we decided to launch our tour of Europe via the fabled Orient-Express from this ancient island-city. Our intent was to experience a leisurely, luxurious way of traveling that is all but extinct in these hectic days of jetting to far-flung corners of the globe.

Of all major European cities, Venice perhaps maintains the closest resemblance to its storied past, with much of its architecture hundreds of years old, but still in use. Aptly christened the Pearl of the Adriatic, this magnificent city, sprawling across 117 linked islands, was founded in the fifth century by refugees fleeing invasions of barbarian hordes. By the 15th century, it was Italy's most powerful maritime republic. Despite repeated clashes with the Ottoman Empire for domination of the Adriatic, the Venetian doges and their navies held fast against the fierce Turks.

For hundreds of years the center of European diplomacy and commerce, Venice drew traders, soldiers, and statesmen. Behind them, lured by its temperate climate, eager to see the light and sights portrayed by the leading artists of the times and vividly described by writers from Lord Byron to Henry James to Thomas Mann to Ernest Hemingway, travelers poured into the city. Today, Venice is a tourist mecca, thanks to its rich historic, cultural, and artistic heritage.

Because of its geographic uniqueness, clinging precariously to relatively small chunks of land constantly under siege from the encroaching sea, Venice is like no other metropolis. Visitors quickly become aware that there are just two ways to get about--an assortment of water-going vehicles or walking. The automobile is as nonexistent in the last decade of the 20th century as it was when the city was founded. Without cars, trucks, and buses forcing the tempo, life is slow-paced, and tourists soon come to appreciate that there is no impetus to race from place to place when a casual stroll will accomplish the same purpose. Should you decide to pause for an aperitif en route, there's no need to feel guilty. After all, the attractions have been there for hundreds of years and an hour or so will make no difference.

The heart of Venice is the Piazza San Marco (St. Mark's Square), the entrance to which is marked by a pair of granite columns brought from Constantinople. Topping one is a winged lion, the symbol of St. Mark; the city's original patron saint, Theodore, crowns the other. Standing between them and gazing the length of the piazza, we were awed by its size--the equivalent of two football fields laid back-to-back.

Flanking the square are two outdoor cafes--Florian's, a meeting place for Venetians over many centuries, and, on the opposite side, the relative newcomer, Quadri, dating back only to the 1700s. Each has an orchestra, including pianists at baby grand pianos, to attract customers, but, because of the size of the piazza, the music does not conflict. Rows of folding chairs and miniscule tables allow you to rest your feet, read the paper, consult a guidebook or map, enjoy the music, and indulge in the most Venetian of activities--people-watching. One can linger for hours over a cup of cappuccino or espresso, but we selected a richer delight--the formidable glace concoctions with which the two cafes strive to outdo each other. Confronted with a gondola bearing three flavors of ice cream, bananas, nuts, syrup, whipped cream, cookies, and a paper flag, we didn't know whether to eat it or just sit and admire the artistry. Gluttony easily won over aesthetics, and we dug in enthusiastically. We were pleasantly surprised to discover that there was no need to jump up the moment we were finished. The waiters never rush you, so just sit back and watch the light as it crosses the square and plays with the pink and gold colors of the surrounding buildings.

Sooner or later, it becomes time to explore the piazza and give others the opportunity to watch you. As we stood in the center of the square, we couldn't decide whether it felt more like the setting for a Cecil B. DeMille version of the Tower of Babel or Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds." All around us were tourists chattering away in French, German, Dutch, Japanese, Spanish, English, Arabic, and even Italian. Underfoot, circling overhead, or swooping down in phalanxes after scattered bread crumbs or birdseed, thousands of pigeons competed for sovereignty, exploding upwards in panicky flight every quarter-hour as the bells of the square rang out.

Dominating the scene are St. Mark's Basilica and the Doges' Palace, Venice's most magnificent treasures. St. Mark's, originally a small church built to house the remains of its namesake, stolen from Alexandria in the ninth century by Venetian mercenaries, ultimately grew to become the royal Chapel of the Doges. Construction of the new edifice took 400 years, from the 11th to the 15th century, and embodied Greek, Byzantine, Romanesque, and Gothic styles. The inside of the church recounts the life of Venice's patron saint in a series of hand-set mosaics, covering the floor, walls, and ceiling, while the altar over St. Mark's tomb lies under a green marble canopy supported by six 13th-century statues. Much of the marble floor has been worn down over the years by countless footsteps of worshippers and other visitors, requiring that some areas be roped off from the public as restoration efforts try to counter the ravages of time. The front doors are adorned with precious and semi-precious gems, carefully inset by hand to depict awe-inspiring religious scenes.

The central of five arches that frame the facade of the open gallery running across the Basilicals exterior contains full-sized copies of the famed Hellenistic bronze horses, looted from the Hippodrome in Constantinople in 1204 during the Crusades. The four original statues are housed on the second floor of the church, shielded from environmental harm. So realistic are these surging steeds that one almost can hear their snorts as their rippling muscles propel them in spirited flight. Dwarfed by these mighty creatures, dazzled by their burnished finish shining brighter than gold, we admired the craftsmanship of the unknown artist who poured his talent into their creation. It is no wonder that Napoleon coveted them and had the bronzes removed to Paris after his conquest in 1797. Venice's civic pride was restored with their return in 1815 after Bonaparte's reign ended.

Next door to the Basilica, the pink-and-white marble Doges' Palace once housed Venice's rulers and leading magistrates. The former splendor of the now mostly empty apartments still is apparent, though many have fallen into disrepair. The golden staircase designed by Sansovino in 1558 leads to the chambers and competes for attention with the vast collection of frescoes and paintings by Tintoretto, Titian, Paolo Verenese, and other famed artists. Tintoretto's "Paradise," the largest oil painting in the world, dominates the Grand Council Chamber, where 1,000 legislators once met to ratify laws.

Behind the Doges' Palace is the legendary Bridge of Sighs. Despite the name, which conjures up visions of dolorous lovers, there is nothing the least bit romantic about it. The covered bridge, connecting the courts with the prison, was the link between freedom and doom for many condemned prisoners, whose mournful lamentations gave this span its title. Tourists can walk in their footsteps, albeit with a happier fate.

Deeper in the piazza is the 324-foot-high Campanile (bell tower). The original 10th-century tower collapsed in 1902 and has been rebuilt to include an elevator that whisks visitors to the top for a spectacular panoramic view of the city. More hearty souls can climb the stairs, but we opted for the saner approach, marveling at Venice's centuries-old architecture radiating out before us.

On the north side of the square, the 15th-century Clock Tower is a visual delight. As each hour nears, the hustle-bustle of the piazza comes to a near standstill and faces turn upward to the zodiac dial, awaiting the moment when the two huge bronze Moors strike the bell with giant mallets. As the echoes ripple through the square, visitors grin widely, cameras and camcorders record the scene, and pigeons careen frantically. (One would think that they would have gotten used to coexisting with the tumult after all these years, but apparently not.)

The perimeter of Piazza San Marco boasts a variety of shops with a rich selection of leather goods, lace, jewelry, linens, and the omnipresent Venetian glass. The key word here is "rich," with prices that can put a severe dent in tourists' wallets. With the lira running around 1,300 to the dollar, a seven- or eight-digit price tag is not uncommon. We often found ourselves gasping in shock before our brains could recover sufficiently to do the conversion arithmetic. Especially in a time of a weakened dollar, admire the displays, but consider doing your shopping off the square.

Accordingly, we passed through the arch under the Clock Tower into a maze of narrow, winding streets, bridges spanning canals, and a seemingly endless array of shops, some no more than 10 feet wide. One lesson we quickly learned was that, if we saw an item we were interested in purchasing, we should buy it immediately, because it was odds-on we never could find that store again, especially as we penetrated deeper and deeper into the Rialto shopping district. In addition to the wares mentioned above, keep an eye out for traditional Venetian carnival masks, ranging from thimble-size to wall hangings, trendy clothing, and fine Italian-leather shoes. Naturally, souvenir shops abound, with T-shirts sporting the city's symbol--a stylized lion's head with its mane forming a sunburst effect--the hottest seller. We couldn't resist a genuine gondolier's straw hat with a jaunty blue ribbon and crisp white cotton shirt with blue-and-white-striped dickey, the traditional uniform of the Venetian oarsmen.

It's the sense of serendipity that makes wandering these streets so fascinating. You never know what the next twisting turn will uncover, whether an old church converted into a museum featuring a stunning exhibition of Picasso art, a famous landmark like the Rialto Bridge, the dark serenity of a centuries-old church, or, in many cases, a dead-end wall or canal, forcing you to retrace your steps and seek another path.

Water, water, everywhere

Since Venice is a city of islands, built around an intricate, sometimes haphazard system of waterways, everything from food deliveries to garbage removal is done by boat. That includes public transport, and it was a delight to discover how quickly and conveniently the city's 21 vaporetti (water buses) operate. For less than a dollar, the Number One vaporetto proved the best--and by far cheapest--way to view the Grand Canal. Get out your guide book and take in the Vendramin Calergi Palace, where composer Richard Wagner died, as well as other stunning palazzos-turned-museums along the route.

As corny as we knew the experience was going to be, we couldn't resist a gondola ride. For maximum romantic effect, try an early evening cruise under the stars and pull out all the stops--an accordionist and balladeer in addition to the gondolier. The entire package will run about 100, but no trip to Venice would be complete without wending one's way along a winding canal while being serenaded with "O Sole Mio" or some other lilting air.

Another alternative is a water taxi. These sleek speedboats zip around with all the kamikaze daring of a New York cabby, weaving in and out between slower-moving craft, unconcernedly bouncing through each other's wakes. There is no question that it's the fastest way to travel, but this is Venice and what's the hurry? Moreover, the tariff is prohibitively high, making a U.S. cab ride from any big city to the airport seem like petty cash. Our advice is to take the far more leisurely and inexpensive vaporetti.

A 10-minute ride one morning on a vaporetto brought us to an off-the-beaten-path neighborhood where food stalls lined the center of the main thoroughfare. Housewives diligently pawed through the fragrant fruits and vegetables that perfumed the air--and the fish and meat that did anything but--filling their string bags for that evening's meal. Other vendors offered pots and housewares, as well as an assortment of moderately priced, utilitarian clothing, in sharp contrast to the stylish outfits along the Rialto.

Just a five-minute walk from there brought us to the original Jewish Ghetto where, in 1516, the Venetian government sought to confine its Jewish community behind locked gates. Today, a half-century after the forced deportation to Nazi death camps, only a small number of the survivors who returned and their families remain in the area. A storekeeper sadly told us that, with the aging of the population, it had been five years since a wedding had been celebrated in the community. A small museum provides glimpses into the history, daily lives, and culture of the people who lived there before World War II, determinedly keeping the Judaic traditions alive.

Across the lagoon is the island of Murano, home of the glass industry that is Venice's chief export. (The city restricted the industry to the island in 973 in order to lessen the dangers of fire triggered by the roaring ovens.) Since their products are almost irresistible to tourists, many of the factories arrange for complimentary motorboat trips from dockside at Piazza San Marco, and it is hard to walk more than a few steps in Venice, especially in the morning, without such an invitation being thrust into your hand. To whet potential buyers' appetites for the world-famous Murano glass, many of the factories invite visitors into their workrooms to observe the manufacturing process. We sat enthralled as skilled craftsmen and their apprentices toiled in front of 800 [degrees] furnaces, shaping molten glass into intricate flowers which would be formed into bouquet-like chandeliers, as well as jewelry, figurines, and larger sculpted pieces such as sailing vessels. We expected that these delicate wonders would require working with fine tools, but the chief implement of the artisans turned out to be a rather crude set of iron pincers. It was almost like discovering Michelangelo using a roller on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Once the exhibition was over, we were herded deftly into the showrooms, where the finished products--ranging from tiny animals to majestic wall pieces--were displayed to maximum advantage. Among the most exquisite was a large globe encompassing a microcosm of underwater life, with a stunning variety of colorful fish and crustaceans swimming inside. Alas, the artisan insisted that the mystery of how this oceanic spectacular was created must remain a trade secret. There is something for every taste, from a few dollars for souvenir-hunters to thousands for serious collectors. We discovered that the prices on Murano are not necessarily cheaper than the mainland, but the selection is infinitely greater, and the experience makes for a most interesting day-trip.

Dining in Venice can be as casual or formal as one might wish, from a simple trattoria to the poshest of restaurants. Cooking is in the northern Italian style, far more subtle than most Americans associate with Italian dishes. For instance, there is practically no reliance on tomato sauce, and spaghetti and lasagna almost are rarities, gracefully giving way to more delicate pasta. Accustomed to American-style pizza, we were given an education in the local version, with its crisp, paper-thin crust, designed to be eaten with a knife and fork, please! Whatever your preference--veal, seafood, pasta, etc.--your palate is sure to be satisfied, especially when the meal is accompanied by the local wine, whether a modest house red or the finest vintage from a well-stocked cellar.

No visit to Venice is complete without a stop at the celebrated Harry's Bar. The oft-told legend behind it is that, in 1929, Giuseppe Cipriani, a young barman at the Europa Hotel, loaned an American, Harry Pickering, 5,000 to help get him out of a financially embarrassing situation. Two years later, Pickering returned to Venice to repay the loan plus present Cipriani with $20,000 to open his own establishment, which he was to call Harry's Bar. Cipriani long had dreamed of running a restaurant and knew exactly what he wanted--an elegantly luxurious, but comfortable, place that served excellent food. Almost instantly, Harry's Bar became the gathering place for the literati, movie stars, and royalty, as well as anyone else astute enough to realize that its commonplace name belied a four-star restaurant where the impeccable service was exceeded only by the magic of its kitchen.

It almost is compulsory to start one's meal with Cipriani's version of ambrosia, a tall, refreshing Bellini. We dutifully ordered this concoction of one part icy cold white peach puree to three parts dry Prosecco (Italian champagne) served in a chilled glass. The drink was invented in the 1930s by Cipriani and christened in honor of Giovanni Bellini during an exposition of the artist's works in 1949. Its reputation is well-deserved.

We opted to forgo the downstairs room featuring the wood-paneled bar for the bright yellow upstairs dining room with its vista of the lagoon. The waiter, a master of several languages to cater to the international clientele, patiently guided us through the intricacies of the menu, translating the descriptions of the courses in mouth-watering detail. Americans who equate liver with cod liver oil as the banes of childhood never have savored fegato alla Veneziana, a deceptively simple blending of thinly sliced liver (no more than one-fifth of an inch thick), sauteed sweet onions, salt and pepper, olive oil, and parsley. It is served with polenta, the traditional Italian peasant dish of cornmeal mush, a seemingly odd choice for such an elegant restaurant, we thought, until we tasted it. Ravioli filled with crab, shrimp, and lobster and linguini in a heavenly cream sauce swimming with clams barely left us room for dessert, but we bravely struggled on. The trolley of fruit tarts, zabaglione, meringues, poached peaches, mousse, and layer cakes is irresistible, but why not cast all caution to the wind and go for crespelle alla crema pasticerra--crepes flambe served with vanilla ice cream? Fortunately for our waistlines, Piazza San Marco is but a few blocks away, and several laps around the mammoth square helped us burn off the calories and atone for our gastronomic indulgences.

The epitome of elegance

With all that Venice has to offer, the city often seems stretched to the bursting point, especially during the peak summer season, the September film festival, and school holidays. So, although fine hotels abound on the mainland, our choice lay across the lagoon on a small island to get away from the crowd.

Giuseppe Cipriani had three dreams as a young boy--to own a luxury bar, a luxury restaurant, and a luxury hotel. Harry's Bar fulfilled the first two; the Hotel Cipriani completed the trifecta. Built on a three-acre site on the tip of Giudecca Island, just four minutes by boat from Piazza San Marco, this tranquil, luxurious hotel has a well-earned reputation as one of the finest in the world.

The tone was set from the moment we boarded the hotel's motor launch at the airport dock. As we lounged in the glistening teak, velvet, and lace-curtained cabin, we were whisked to the island. Upon arrival, the strong arm of the major domo who presides over the mooring dock helped us ashore. He is reputed to have an uncanny ability to know in which language to greet incoming guests, probably a combination of advance intelligence and a prodigious memory, which he demonstrated at our subsequent comings and goings.

The walk to the main lobby from the dock is through a garden bursting with color and redolent with the aroma of dozens of varieties of flowers. New arrivals are welcomed with friendly, calm efficiency that contrasts sharply with the cold, computerized registration procedure that prevails in most hotels today. A pleasing touch was the bowls of polished red apples for guests to help themselves to, set on period-style tables around the lobby. Groupings of sofas, armchairs, paintings, and lush floral arrangements lent the impression of an elegant country house.

Indeed, simple, comfortable elegance was what Giuseppe Cipriani aimed for when he put forth his idea to investors for a hotel away from the hurly-burly of Piazza San Marco. Backed by the three daughters of the Guinness family, who later became his partners, Cipriani purchased the island property and, in 1958, the 98-room brick-and-tile villa-like hotel opened just minutes after, the story goes, the last tree had been set into place. Since 1976, the Cipriani has been owned by American entrepreneur James Sherwood, chairman of Sea Containers, who also has restored the Venice Simplon-Orient-Express to its former glory. Giuseppe Cipriani remained on the board of directors until his death in 1980.

Like everything at the Cipriani, the rooms are elegance personified. Our suite was ablaze in golden yellow, from the brocaded furniture to the silken wall coverings and velvet bedspread. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors along one wall threw back the color and picked up the sunshine pouring through the skylights.

Remote-control buttons on either side of the king-sized bed caused a television screen to rise from a mirrored console at the foot, as well as operated the room's several skylights and shades. Double French doors led out to a wooden-decked balcony, perfect for sunning, room service dining, or admiring the superb view of the Doges' Palace across the lagoon.

The ultimate in sybaritic luxury was the bathroom with what seemed like acres of marble. A wall-to-wall Jacuzzi, almost large enough for synchronized swimming exhibitions, was flanked by dual sinks, wall-mounted hair dryer and magnifying shaving mirror, and shelves laden with shampoos and conditioners, bath gel, and every other amenity one might need. Set into the opposite wall was a large glass-enclosed shower, while a separate water closet with toilet and bidet was tucked discreetly behind its own set of doors. The electrically controlled skylight could be opened to admit fresh air and sunlight or the shade extended to afford total privacy. As has come to be a given in top-of-the-line hotels, thick terry robes are provided, but the Cipriani goes one step further with terry slippers, emblazoned with its logo, set out each night atop a linen mat on either side of the bed. Although the robes are meant to stay behind, the slippers are yours to keep.

Add in a living room with comfortable chairs and a sofa, writing desk, and well-stocked bar and small touches such as fresh fruit and flowers, a box of sinfully rich chocolate, and a programmable safe, and it's clear that the Cipriani touches all the bases--and then some.

We easily settled into a comfortable routine, beginning the day with a leisurely breakfast on the sun-dappled terrace overlooking the swimming pool. A veritable groaning board of a buffet boasted warm croissants, freshly baked pastries, a profusion of fresh fruit, cheeses, Parma ham, cereals, and juices, with a variety of eggs cooked to one's specifications.

Fueled for the day, we then would head for the dock to be shuttled across to the mainland. The Cipriani's private dock at the San Marco wharf has a phone to summon the launch around the clock, so we could prowl the city to our hearts' content, knowing that, when we wearied, we would be sped back to the hotel in minutes. With warm, sunny days during our springtime stay, we quickly would change into bathing suits for a refreshing swim in the pool, whose size virtually guaranteed that we never would bump into another guest. Cipriani legend has it that, when the pool (the only one in Venice) was constructed, there was miscommunication concerning feet and meters, resulting in it being built to Olympic-like scale. A brisk set of tennis, sauna, and massage or sharing the swirling waters of the Jacuzzi would bring the day's activities to an end and lead to thoughts of dinner.

While the motor launch was ever ready to run us over to San Marco, most nights the decision was to remain at the hotel. The wide-ranging menu at the Ristorante Cipriani featured food that blended northern Italian delicacy with outstanding presentation. After an assortment of anti-pasti (hors d'oeuvres) and choice of minestre (soups), the specialties of the house made decisions difficult indeed. For meat lovers, there were delicacies such as pan-fried veal rosettes with a ham mousse filling and sauteed fillet of beef with spicy pureed spinach. From the sea came poached sturgeon seasoned with capers and sultana grapes and a deceptively simple sounding fresh salmon cooked in foil. When we chose to dine more lightly, there were pasta alternatives such as risotto with pumpkin perfumed with rosemary or the Cipriani specialty, home-made black noodles with scallops and fresh tomato slices. (What made them black remains a closely guarded secret. One theory is olives; another diner claimed squid ink. The waiter wouldn't tell. Suffice it to say that they were as delicious as they were different looking.)

What made Ristorante Cipriani our kind of restaurant was the fact that it even has a separate dessert menu. Despite vows of will power, we could feel our resolve failing each time we began to read the succulent descriptions: fillets of oranges flavored with grenadine syrup and pine-nut ice cream; lemon parfait with yogurt and strawberry sauce; bombe of pistachio, lemon, and strawberry ice cream garnished with fruit sauce; and the piece de resistance, Venetian tiramisu (sponge cake filled with chocolate cream and drenched with chocolate liqueur and espresso) with a dark chocolate gondola afloat in the sauce. Even for confirmed chocoholics, this was almost too much.

Thoroughly sated, we would stroll around the hotel's Garden of Casanova, under the vine-entwined trellises, admiring the artfully landscaped flowers and the sculpture of contemporary artists. The utter serenity was further evidence of why the Cipriani appears on every knowledgeable list of the great hotels of the world.

Our stay ended, a water taxi carrying us to the railroad station and the Orient-Express to Paris, we cast a last admiring look back at Venice, now well aware why it truly is the Pearl of the Adriatic. We left behind our heartfelt wishes that Venice wins its perpetual battle with the sea, which continues to encroach upon the land. (During the record high tide in 1966, the flood waters reached chest height in Piazza San Marco.) Though many of the ground floors of homes fronting the canals have been rendered uninhabitable by erosion and the ravages of the sea, heroic restoration efforts may be making an inroad toward saving many of the historic buildings. Buona fortuna, Venezia.

Flying in the Lap o Luxury

During the year-long celebration of the 500th anniversary of Christopher Columbus' epic journey to the New World, much was made of the length of time it took and the hardships endured. How times have changed.

Today, Delta Airlines provides a most comfortable and civilized way to traverse the Atlantic in a mere seven hours, its first-class dinner flight most closely resembling a langorous ancient Roman orgy of food. The Delta treatment means putting back the voluptuously comfortable leather seat and allowing the flight attendants to ply you with wine and champagne (the airline's wine cellar encompasses the finest from the vineyards of California and France) while you browse through the menu. Should it be the lobster radicchio or shredded duck in profiterole for an appetizer, or the indulgence of beluga caviar? After the Louisiana turtle soup (a deliciously creamy concoction laced with wine) and salad, the tough decision must be faced: chateau Florentine (tenderloin of beef with pate and spinach wrapped in puff pastry with perigourdine sauce), veal Oscar (scaloppine of veal garnished with crabmeat and asparagus tips and topped with a cream sauce), or coquille de fruits de mer (shrimp and scallops in a wine and ginger cream sauce)? If all this seems a bit too heavy, Delta also provides an alternate lighter fare choice. Of course, this means passing up the final decadence--Black Forest torte or baked apple with brandy sauce.

Appetite satiated, we settled back in our fully extended sleeper seats, curled up with a pillow and blanket, and drifted off, only to be awakened gently a few hours later for a continental breakfast preparatory to landing in Rome. At this point, ignoring the fact that our bodies were screaming that it was still the middle of the night, we resolutely set our watches to Italian time. Instantly, it was eight o'clock in the morning. Over the years, we've learned that this is the best way to battle jet lag and get into the rhythm of another continent.

To help passengers get unfrazzled, Delta provides a complimentary cosmetic kit with all the necessities to deal with morning mouth and other nighttime ravishments. Off we stumbled to the lavatory, returning a few minutes later refreshed and ready to rejoin the human race. Unquestionably, Delta Airlines beats the Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria hands down.

Since Delta does not fly directly into Venice, it is necessary to transfer in Rome. What better way to travel across Italy than with the national airline, Alitalia? There is none, especially since the connecting flight to Venice is only an hour later, allowing sufficient time to stroll through Rome's Fiumicino Airport, undergo a cursory examination by a languid immigration officer, and board the connecting flight. Meanwhile, Delta and Alitalia are coordinating the transfer of your luggage efficiently so that both you and your bags arrive at Venice's Marco Polo Airport together in mid morning. All that is required then is to retrieve your luggage and walk out to the dock to meet the Hotel Cipriani launch. Eat your heart out, Columbus!
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Title Annotation:Americans Abroad; includes related article; Italy
Author:Rothenberg, Sheila; Rothenberg, Robert S.
Publication:USA Today (Magazine)
Date:Jan 1, 1993
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