Graham Reid: Come in from the rain

Roma is the first restaurant you see in Venice when you get off at Santa Lucia station and turn the corner on to Fond dei Scalzi. For that reason it is a tourist trap and the food, while good, is certainly not the best you'll find in the floating city.

But it is certainly pricey, and I doubt many Venetians eat there.

But after tramping around the Biennale in the rain, with thunder booming overhead and water lapping the streets - plus the fact that it was fewer than 100m from our hotel - it had the advantage of convenience on a miserable night.

I arrived before our small party to do some paperwork and, with a Chianti in hand, sat under the awning outdoors and had time to enjoy the passing parade of those making for this refuge from the rain which served something warming.

The couple next to me ordered pizzas. "Kinda ordinary, but okay I guess," she said when I asked.

"I know what you mean. Pizza is pizza - and back home we have guys who bring them to the door, right?"

She laughed. She was from Orange County ("so I don't get to see much rain, this is a real treat") and he was from London. They were flying out later so this was just a quick snack before heading to the airport.

The rain got worse. He went to check on getting a boat to the airport. I chatted with the waiter who spent half a year in California at another restaurant. He guessed I was Australian from the accent. Not bad - but then again he had heard a lot of accents come through Roma.

A middle-aged couple splashed across the piazza and checked out the menu. He was wearing a wind-cheater with the badge of the Canadian Air Force on it. He spoke to the waiter in Italian. They decided to go elsewhere and splashed off into the gently falling dark.

The Londoner came back. There was no boat to the airport now. "No reason, just 'no boat', the guy said."

They grabbed their bags and made for the bus station as the few remaining hawkers packed away their stalls selling cheap souvenirs. The only person doing business was the woman selling umbrellas. Thunder shook the walls.

Six American teenagers arrived, two of them texting. They crashed in and ordered pizza and sat around laughing about the school trip they were on. They were here because they were studying The Merchant of Venice.

"I still haven't read it," said one girl and they all laughed. It seemed few of them had.

A couple of their friends arrived. They joked with the waiter about traffic in LA.

The wind rose and the rain slewed sideways across the piazza. An old Scottish couple arrived and looked at the menu and left. He'd wanted bacon and eggs and she'd wanted a cup of tea. They didn't see them on the menu.

The rain was now lashing the city, which hardly needed any more water.

A young Japanese couple ran through the rain then hesitantly entered the restaurant when the waiter assured them there was a menu in English.

An Indian family came out from the restaurant and sprinted across the piazza and into a side street.

A group of young Italians at the end table finished their coffees and left.

And for a few minutes I was the only one there under the sagging awning. The piazza was dark and deserted. A church bell rang, and the rain stopped briefly.

At that moment every discomfort of the day disappeared.

Across the piazza I could see my family arriving, ready to join me for dinner at the over-priced but interesting Roma.