Published in · 5 min read · Aug 19, 2017
--
“I drink to make other people more interesting.” — Ernest Hemingway
There we were: Venice, Italy. Like a soap opera flashback, a dreamy haze surrounded the Grand Canal. Striped gondoliers wearing straw hats navigated under arched bridges teeming with pedestrians. The entire city seemed soft and blurred around the edges; like last night’s dream, I wanted to remember it, but it was always just out of reach, even while we were in it. We got delightfully lost down every narrow, cobblestone alley in the evening rain. Shop keepers hustled ornate masks and sparkling jewelry made from Murano glass to hoards (and hoards) of tourists who had arrived via cruise ship, lanyards dangling from their necks. There were lines to enter Basilica San Marco and lines to take the elevator to the top of the Campanile and lines to purchase scoops of pistachio gelato. But there was no line to enter Harry’s Bar.
I’d read about Harry’s long before we took the train from Florence to Venice. It was a favorite haunt of Ernest Hemingway (he mentions it in Over the River and Into the Trees) and Orson Welles. I’m a writer, so naturally I’m obsessed with all things Hemingway, cliche be damned. The idea of possibly sitting in the same booth as the writer of all writers made my right hand itch to grab a pen and write about war or boxing or Paris. The bar is remarkably nondescript. It sits at the edge of the Grand Canal, its entrance a simple frosted glass door etched with its moniker. Most of the cruise ship crowd walks right past it. We ducked inside and the hustle and bustle of the street gave way to cool quiet. A tuxedo-clad waiter led us to a table with an excellent view of the small but elegant room furnished with wood tables. A note on the menu kindly asked patrons to refrain from photography, a disappointment for sure but obviously a way to protect the bar’s storied clientele. (Side note: Would Hemingway have posed for a selfie? Methinks not.)
Due to my meticulous research for this trip (read: over planning), I didn’t need to crack the menu to know what I was going to order: a Bellini. Harry’s was reportedly the place where the Bellini — a cocktail of Prosecco and peach puree — had been invented (another reason that it was high on top of my list of Venetian sites). Nonetheless, I glanced through the cocktail list and felt my breath catch in my throat at the sight of the prices. The Bellini was 16.50 euros, which was approximately $25 back in 2012. Before I had a chance to alert my traveling companion, a man who hasn’t looked at a price tag since we got married and I took over the finances, our waiter approached. Determined to suck it up and not lose my cool, I ordered my Bellini, expecting Mr. Moneybags would do the same. Instead, he requested a single-barrel Scotch that wasn’t even on the menu. By this point on our trip, we’d visited Paris, Rome and Florence. In my mind’s eye, I began tallying up the trip to Hermes in Paris, the wine-fueled dinners in Rome, the leather jacket, gloves and satchel we’d purchased in Florence, and the colorful glass carafe and matching tumblers that we couldn’t live without, which was currently being shipped back to Arizona from the island of Murano. I’d be paying off this trip for many moons. But Moneybags had been battling a nasty head cold since we left Rome, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him that his Scotch probably cost as much as a night at our hotel. It’s funny how tiny details like credit card limits are forgotten when one is traveling (and trying to be cool).
Suddenly the door opened and a couple entered the bar, sans lanyard but obviously American just by the volume of their voices. They were pushing a massive stroller. The young woman wore a sundress and her partner was decked out in shorts and a T-shirt. Without waiting for the host to lead them to a table, they clumsily maneuvered the stroller across the dining room and chose the table next to ours. Our waiter hurried over and began to explain to the couple that Harry’s Bar has a strict dress code, even during the day: Absolutely no shorts allowed. The man began to protest. Loudly. Arrogantly. Indignantly. Then he proceeded to make a point of pulling out a pair of pants from the backpack strapped to the stroller and pulling them on over his shorts in front of the entire bar. The waiter was nonplussed. If you ever wonder why Americans have a bad reputation, just travel abroad once or twice, and you’ll get the picture.
The couple finished their drinks before we did, and I watched as they freaked out over their bill while my partner calmly sipped his Scotch like a gentleman from another era, oblivious to the meltdown happening next to us. When our bill was delivered, I quickly excused myself and headed upstairs to the restroom — let the gentleman pay, I thought. When I came back downstairs, I noticed that he was pale, and it wasn’t due to his head cold. Wordlessly, he showed me the bill: 51.50 euros or $77 for two drinks. We looked at each other…and burst out laughing. It’s moments like this that tell you what kind of a traveler you (and your companion) are. Do you burst into tears? Let it ruin the rest of your trip? Skip dinner to save some money? Nope. Instead, I carefully folded the receipt so as not to wrinkle it and then gave it a prominent place in my scrapbook when I got home. Harry’s Bar has become the butt of many a joke between me and Moneybags, but I’ve never had a Bellini that’s tasted quite the same.
