On the Island of Dreams
Squid ink pasta was always something that fascinated me. I couldn’t believe it was edible, and I was a bit afraid of what it would taste like.
Some years ago, on a solo trip to Venice, I took a vaporetto from the main lagoon out to the island of Burano. I had been traveling on a shoestring budget - renting rooms from religious sisters in convents to save money on accommodations, and surviving solely on sandwiches I would make myself.
(Seen at left is the view of the convent’s courtyard from my room. It’s kind of weird at first to stay in convents, and there can be some rules regarding curfews and guests, but I’ve always found it a cheap way to stay in central locations, and in beautiful old buildings, too).
I knew I wanted to "splurge" on one new experience, and settled on eating out at one of the restaurants on my day trip to the outer islands in the Venetian lagoon.
Burano and it's cousin island Murano have become increasingly touristic in these past few years, but when I went there was still plenty of room to walk freely about, and plenty of elderly island-dwellers willing to have a chat.
After spending a few hours walking around and having a look at the shops and lace museum, I picked a place for lunch. I ended up in outdoor seating at a restaurant just off of one of the main canals. And even though squid ink isn’t a specific specialty of Burano itself, I took the opportunity to give it a try.
Not only was the sauce black with ink, but so was the pasta itself, and it was served with some of the fish. I found it to be quite salty, but still delicate in flavor, with a rich umami-like feeling that is unlike any other product of the sea I've ever tasted. Certainly not for daily consumption, but proof of a deft hand, culinary expertise, and a commitment to not let anything go to waste when harvesting squid or cuttlefish.
Later that day, as I was at the dock waiting for the boat back to Venice proper, I struck up a conversation with an elderly woman who was alone on a bench, taking in the breeze. We got to talking, and I told her that for me, the island was like a dream. A place so peaceful, colorful, and caught in time, that I couldn't imagine what it was like living there full time. She looked me dead in the eyes and said wryly, "This island is beautiful, but it's no dream."
And from her point of view, it makes sense. Everything that makes Burano special - its remote location, its small size, its reliance on fishing and craftsmanship (and now tourism) to survive - has made it a picturesque snapshot of a reality that no longer exists for most young people, who choose to leave and find work elsewhere. It’s a common problem across Italy (and other parts of Europe) and makes travel, especially in the search for “authenticity,” a debate in and of itself.
