My second evening in Venice I made the obligatory pilgrimage to Harry's Bar, which made me think of Paul Theroux's line that "Nobody's ever described the place where I've just arrived."
Over the years I had read numerous accounts of the watering hole on the water, most recently in Jan Morris' new book Contact!, but it looked nothing like I expected it to. It was smaller, brighter, plainer, a world-famous and admittedly more refined variation on a rec room to which a small bar is added as an afterthought and then populated with punctilious men in white jackets and black ties.
The patrons, for the most part, were tourists in jeans. I took a seat at a small table against the wall, ordered a 15-euro Bellini, and received the celebrated cocktail in a champagne glass accompanied by a plate of green olives.
I took judicious and well-spaced sips.
At one point a couple walked in and the man said to a waiter in an American accent: "I know we came here for some reason, but I can't remember what it is. Is this place famous for something?"
Venice is a city of countless riches, and the poor man's head was probably so full of Titian and Giorgione that he had completely forgotten about Harry.
