COMMENTS & CURIOSITIES:

Last week, it was Sicily. Now, it’s on to Venezia, the city Italians call “La Serenissima” — “The Most Serene.”

To say Venice is unique is to say nothing at all. Venice shouldn’t exist; it shouldn’t be there; it doesn’t make any sense. So many things in life are like that, no?

The entire city is built on wooden piles sunk deep into the marshes surrounding the Venice lagoon.

It was founded in the 5th century by people called the Veneti who fled their inland villages to escape Germanic invaders called the Lombards.

Over the next thousand years, Venice became the greatest sea power on earth — more powerful than Britain or Spain or anyone else — which explains why the place is bursting at every turn with marvels of the arts and architecture from around the world.

We arrived in Venice for a week’s stay the Sunday before last, on a dark and stormy night. More on that later.

As soon as you leave Marco Polo airport and head for the city, you’ll find out straight away how you’re doing in the seasick department.

Venice is divided into seven neighborhoods, or sestiere, and the only way to get from one to another is by boat.

Whether you’re visiting Venice for a half day or a month, you’ll spend a lot of time on the public water buses — the vaporetti — or private water taxis, which are molto caro — very expensive.

OK, I know you’re going to ask so let’s get the gondola ride out of the way. Yes, it’s romantic, and no, we didn’t take one.

First of all, it is pricey — about $100 for a half hour and $175 for a one-hour ride. If you bargain with the gondoliers, which you always, always should, you might get that down to $70 and $125.

Second, as far as the Grand Canal goes, you don’t go anywhere or see anything in a gondola that you don’t go or see on the vaporetti, which you can ride as often and as long as you like for about a buck apiece if you buy a three- or seven-day pass.

Lastly, keep in mind, Venice is always chock full of tourists and I’m just not sure how romantic a gondola ride is when every bridge you pass under is packed with 730 tourists waving and taking pictures of you and your fancy black boat.

We were not totally immune from tourist lore though. We did make it to Harry’s Bar, Hemingway’s hangout in the legendary Hotel Cipriani, and ordered his favorite drink, a Bellini — a hot pink thing made from prosecco and peach juice.

Back to our arrival, which as I said, was a dark and stormy night. As our water taxi makes it way to Piazza San Marco, it starts pouring.

We wrap ourselves in our rain gear, hoods pulled tight, and begin the ritual that welcomes all visitors to Venice — dragging your bags to your hotel. Keep in mind that it is dark, which happens a lot there at night, it is pouring, and the city is a maze of tiny little streets punctuated by small and large bridges over a boatload of canals.

My wife leads the way because she has an excellent sense of direction, which I do not. Drag the bags, stop, pull under an awning to get our bearings, drag some more, clunk the bags up one side of a bridge and down the other, stop, ask directions, drag the bags.

By now, it is a full-on downpour that would make a tropical rain forest proud. Drag, clunk, stop, drag.

The most exciting moment is when Sharyn realizes we’ve made a wrong turn (I must have been in the lead momentarily) and heads down a small walkway beside a bridge.

What she doesn’t realize, chugging along with her head down, fully hooded, bags in tow, is that the water level in the canal is now a perfect match with the street level and she is about two steps away from walking directly into a canal.

I can yell really loud, and when I see a small ripple on the “walkway,” I do, in an effort to avoid the prospect of one American woman and two wheeled bags floating down a dark Venetian canal and into the Adriatic.

A little more dragging and we finally arrive, a little late and a lot wet but arrived.

As we settle into our room, we hear what sounds like an air raid siren but what is in fact a warning of “acqua alta,” or high water…what the Venetians call the occasional tidal surges that flood the city.

Over the next few hours, we have the odd experience of finding a nice restaurant nearby then watching the tuxedoed waiters pull on rain boots and ask us to move to the back room because water is rushing under the front door.

We slog our way back to the hotel through the flooded streets, then hang out the window of our room, which is directly above Piazza San Marco, and watch the square fill up with some two feet of water.

Are the Venetians worried? Not at all. Every side street is stocked with risers that an army of city workers lay out in perfectly straight lines whenever the siren sounds.

People still make their way from one place to the next, walking carefully along platforms that rise above the floodwaters. It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen.

The next five days were a dry run, mostly, and a vortex of museums, churches, more Italian designer bags and shoes than I ever knew existed and Venetian restaurants, of course, where you will find some of the very best seafood in the world, all prepared and presented with a touch of class and a stroke of genius.

And there you have it. Medieval invaders, water taxis, Italian fashion and waiters in waders.

Venice makes no sense whatsoever, but you have to see it while you can still see. La Serenissima, there is no place like it. Ci parliamo presto, e Buona Pasqua! (We’ll talk soon, and Happy Easter!)

I gotta go.

PETER BUFFA is a former Costa Mesa mayor. His column runs Sundays. He may be reached at ptrb4@aol.com.