The Price is Right

Long before I packed my bags or set foot on a plane I knew one thing:  I was going to the island of Murano to claim the ultimate souvenir of my first trip to Italy.  Even as the train from Rome pulled into the Venice station, I was looking off-shore towards the famed island where glass factories have been making exquisite creations since the 14^th Century.  Thus, I put my blinders on as I embarked from the Vaporetto onto the dock in front of my hotel, turning my head away from the hawkers who try to entice passersby with plastic masks, Chinese-made glass gondolas, and colorful drops suspended from chains or earwires.

A Murano excursion requires an early start before the sun reaches its burning point in the sky.  We arose early to catch a public boat, but the hotel concierge stopped us.  Pulling out a brochure, he offered a free ride directly to a “wonderful factory” with which they had private arrangements.  We had set our sites on visiting some other shops further down the main strip; however, we were assured that we could visit those easily.  Boarding this convenient water taxi, we made a beeline for an exclusive destination on the tip of the island.

We were greeted by our own assigned salesman, who did not leave our side and perversely eavesdropped on our private conversations.  We enjoyed the glassblowing demonstrations, and then passed through the shipping room where, we were assured, our purchases would be safely crated and shipped tax free to our home.  The showrooms were impressive, although I was beginning to tire of the sales guy’s hovering.  I had to be very careful not to linger too long on any one object, or to point out any interesting characteristics to my husband.  Anything more than passing disinterest opened up a carnival of hard-handed salesmanship.  The piece was whisked onto a lighted platform, wiped down with glass cleaner, after which we were treated to a lengthy description of artist and process.  The price, we were assured, was high, but this was to be expected with a piece of such quality.  When I inevitably turned my attention to something else, the show began again.  After a while, I realized that a series of showrooms had become littered with the road kill of my shopping adventure.  But the works I loved most—a set of wine glasses layered with emerald green glass—were apparently beyond my reach.  The sales hound clicked his tongue and admonished, “Madame, these glasses are over 900 Euros EACH.”  There was no show, no chance to hold them in my hands.  They sat on the shelf and kept to themselves until such time as Kate Middleton, or some other worthy soul, lavished the proper attention upon them.

Sales guy made a vain attempt to refocus our attentions, but when we rebuffed him he disappeared.  Before we were out the door, he was already at the dock, attaching himself to his next victim.  Feeling that we had to be surreptitious, we extricated ourselves out the back courtyard and made our way into the main part of town—a narrow canal surrounded by endless shops on each side.

I came to Murano to buy something for my house.  I always buy artsy household objects on vacations.  This way, our home becomes an album of memories from our various trips.  But in such a touristy location, it took dozens and dozens of shops to find the truly unique pieces that combined originality, artistry, and function.  As with most things, I knew it when I saw it.  It was a mirror, but not a traditional “cotton candy” Venetian mirror.  This mirror was contemporary, framed by tiny mosaic pieces, many of which were themselves Murano millefiore treasures. 

The price made me laugh, more so when I did the conversion to US dollars.  But I was determined that this piece could be wrestled into my budget--my one big splurge of my vacation.  I always try to get my husband to negotiate price.  Being a tough negotiator is not, shall we say, feminine.  Tom is a nice guy, and nice guys are pushovers.  He only wanted to rationalize the high price, reckoning that the hours and the materials with a reasonable mark up could easily add up.  He looked at the shop clerk, but could not form the words of a hard bargain.

Frustrated, I turned around to face the clerk, boldly offering him half of the quoted price.  He feigned surprise, even outrage, launching into a heavily accented tirade on the gold in the tiles, the thousands of tiny pieces, the setting of each by hand, and the one-of-a-kind nature of such a piece.  I stood quietly and stared into his eyes, using a rare genetic trait to raise one eyebrow high in an inquisitive fashion.  He came down 50 euros—not what I was looking for, but at least he joined the dance.  “You are going to have to do much better than that,” I said, smiling.  I came up 100 euros on my original offer.  I glanced around the gallery, making note that we were the only customers.  He picked up a phone and called downstairs, beckoning the owner to take over.  The owner spoke no English; holding a calculator, he typed prices into its display.  I held my line as he continued to drop the price 50 euros at a time.  Eventually, he stopped, but not before he fell 50 euros below his imposible price.   It wasn’t my favorite number, but it resembled it close enough.

I will love having this mirror in my house, perhaps even replacing the one that currently hangs over our fireplace.  But more than anything, I will enjoy the memory of the day spent treasure-hunting and haggling in one of the world’s greatest tourist traps.