Venezia- day seven, the last one

Min sista dag i Venedig, för dem som orkar läsa, :). Bildhistorien hittas på: http://www.flickr.com/photos/37879402@N07/sets/72157621812022209/

25.4 Saturday

The sun is shining; the sky is blue, wonderful! I headed out and walked along Riva degli Schiavoni up to the gates of Arsenale. This place intrigued me, the symbolic meaning of it, the mystic it is shrouded in. Standing in front of the beautiful entrance I could only marvel at the machinery of the docks, and that this was the source of the power of the Venetian state. This was the worlds first production line and employed 16 000 people in the 15th century. This was where the great galleys were made. The galleys, which brought La Serenissima its wealth. This was in so many aspects the heart of Venice. The root for its grand buildings and art. The reason we today flock to see this wonderful city. Since it still is a military zone, you can’t go inside, and there probably isn’t that much to see anyway, Napoleon burned the whole place down when he conquered Venice. The locked renaissance gates still keep up the illusion of greatness.

I loved the lions at the gate, their ancient looks and soft, rounded features. They didn’t look harmful in any way, just like gigantic teddy bears you want to cuddle. I found the runes on the lion standing on the far left, traced the curving spiral of the block characters of the runic inscription. Graffiti made by Vikings working for the Byzantine Emperor, that’s the consensus among scholars. The Vikings in Constantinople were called varjags and they worked as the lifeguard of the emperor. Ruthless and fierce warriors, who didn’t fear death, the legend tells. No-one conquered Constantinople with its varjags, no-one dared to, and when the great city finally fell, the varjags were the last to fall, fighting til the very end. Some of them were one day on a mission in Greece and busy carving runes on one stone lion, a lion which now stands in Venice.

It is amazing how well preserved they are, how you see many letters clearly in so many parts of the beautiful spiral. I wonder what they say, these letters, what kind of story do they carry forth. I should look it up; someone has surely studied and translated them, or at least the parts which still can be read. Bold and strong they are, those runes, and I studied them for a long time, felt the lapse of time diminish, could feel the presence of great warriors, their words channelling through time. Right there for us to see.

They cut him down in the midst of his
forces. But in the harbor the men cut
runes by the sea in memory of Horsi, a
good warrior.
The Swedes set this on the lion.
He went his way with good counsel,
gold he won in his travels.
The warriors cut runes,
hewed them in an ornamental scroll.
Æskell (Áskell) [and others] and
ÞorlæifR (Þorleifr)
had them well cut, they who lived
in Roslagen. [N. N.] son of [N. N.]
cut these runes.
UlfR (Úlfr) and [N. N.] colored them
in memory of Horsi.
He won gold in his travels
source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Piraeus_Lion

I sat at the campo for some time, writing post cards and watching the hustle and bustle going on around me. Several dogs roamed around, adorable small creatures and I followed them, smiled at their doings. There were many, many dogs in Venice, small ones and of breeds I had never seen. Most of them walked free, next to their owners, sniffing here and there, but never venturing far. I was amazed at how obedient the dogs were, the owners didn’t even have to call out, the dogs just came when the owners went. And not one dog I saw was interested in other people, not one came to sniff me or show some interest in other ways. It was like people didn’t exist for these dogs, just the owners. Remarkable.

I eventually continued, walked over the wonderful wooden bridge at Arsenale and lead my feet towards the eastern parts of Castello. There were people everywhere, speaking, laughing, strolling, and the vast majority of them were locals. I realised this was the first day I really saw Venice lighten up, saw all the locals up and about, enjoying the weekend with family and friends. It was probably also laundry day, because every calle was clad in numerous clotheslines filled with linen, flowing wonderfully, throwing shadows on the walls and giving you a very surreal feeling as you walked beneath them. It was like being in an artistic movie, like walking through a set. How can such an ordinary thing become something so beautiful? How can something done out of necessity wrap an entire neighbourhood in a shimmering light of cosiness and warmth? The abstract shapes of the clothes and the linen, the shadows and the light they created filled my mind with an outer-worldly feeling. To stand still, look up, see clotheslines go on forever, fill the sky, the strokes of the sun guiding their way in-between. I sometimes felt like flying, being afloat.

I bought an ice-cream on Via Garibaldi, menthe and pear, and strolled slowly through Giardini Garibaldi, suddenly feeling like I was in some big city-park, far away from Venice. A big area with trees and trails, this was a very different Venice, and I loved how the city continued to surprise me, take on another shapes and forms, transform itself beyond the beliefs of a random tourist. The huge trees gave some shade from the sun and I dwelled in the shadows, drank of its nurturing powers. I continued through other spots of greenery, seeing blooming bushes and trees, people relaxing in the sun. The air felt so much lighter here, it was easier to breath.

I strolled along the shore towards Sant Elena, indulging on the view of the turquoise water, gleaming in the sun, enhanced by the white marble of the railing along the street. Here it really felt like being at the Adriatic. The scent of pine trees lingered in the air and I felt a summery whiff of sun cream as I sat on a bench near the Sant Elena vaporetto stop.

I just love the turquoise colour of the water and could watch it forever. It is not as clear as in Croatia, but it is of the same lovely shade, part of the same bulk of water, which is so intense in its colouring, that it can be recognised from space. There I sat, resting my spirits, thinking about the short amount of time I had left, about the time I had already spent. I really felt content; I had seen almost everything I wanted, almost everything I felt I could take in. I probably could have seen the things I had seen in much less time, had I hurried on, scheduled my days and walked with the clock, but that’s not how I want to travel, how I want to take in a place. I need to take in it at my own pace, rest whenever I feel like it, cross my own steps, make detours and get lost. Just do whatever I set my mind on doing, and not feel bad about it, even if it is a 3h sleep in the middle of an afternoon on a precious day in Venice.

What was there left to do, I wondered as I sat at the pier. Campo Santa Margharita was one thing. A vaporetto came in and I decided to hop on, get back to the hotel and then arrange the rest of the day. But behold, what did I see as I stepped on the boat? Several unoccupied seats right in front of the vaporetto, precious place of sightseeing, not occupied by other tourists. I sat firmly down on the best seat, the one right in the front on the right side and decided there and then that I would sit on this seat the whole way to P.Roma. This was an opportunity too rich and valuable to be left unused. So there I sat, like a queen, trying not to feel guilty about my situation as the boat soon was filled to its breams with people. The grandeur of Canal Grande was on parade and I let my eyes sink deep into details, colours, balconies, window panes. This could be my last vision of the main road of Venice. San Marco was more than filled with people as we went past, it was like looking at an ant nest and I decided this would be a good day to stay out.

At the Dogana da Mar several men with huge cameras stood on a pontoon, aiming at an opening guarded by men in black suits. The cameramen looked like paparazzos and I wondered what was going on. Were there celebrities around or? Yes there were. I encountered one of them at the airport the next day, almost bumping into her and therefore was given the evil eye, almost quite literally in fact, as it was given by the person, who is said to have inspired Meryl Streep’s character in The Devil Wears Prada. Anna Wintour. The God of American Vogue. She eyed me with narrowed eyes and I shrank. Back home I read that Salma Hayek and François-Henri Pinault were wed this day, right here in Venice, and many stars and celebrities were present.
I stepped out at P.Roma and tried to get away as soon as possible. I hate the view of the cars, the buses; they intrude on my Venice, my experience of it. Having spent a week without these monsters, made them look exactly like that, monsters, loud buzzers spitting out poison. My Venice didn’t have cars. I had to find some place to eat so I tried to find my way to C.S.Margherita. As I crossed one of the bridges leading there I encountered three fellow countrymen, who apparently just had arrived. They marvelled loudly about the flowers they saw, “oh roses, already?!”, then it was time for the first photo, “and now everybody smile!” I couldn’t but help smiling as I listened to them, saw their initial reactions to this place I had had the honour of visiting for a week already.


I arrived at C.S.Margherita and sat down at one of the restaurants, again, not a fancy establishment, only a typical tourist-befriended place really. The food was actually delicious, tagliatelle with fungi. During my meal I slowly understood that my forehead and one of my hands were not enjoying the sun anymore... I had gotten severely sunburned, my hand was flaming red and I suspected my face was of the same colour. Great. That’s what you get when you sit on a boat for one hour in direct sunlight. Thank God it was my last day; I wouldn’t have survived another day in the sun after this. Today it was Festa del Bocolo, people walked with red roses and church bells were ringing all around, but here at C.S.Margherita another group took the platform. It was an anti-fascistic demonstration and I couldn’t help but love the contrast of the church bells and them playing a song that said “f*ck religion”. I finished my food by listening to the tunes of Blondies “One way or another” and apparently upset the waiter by not having any dessert. Was not in a mood for any. As I walked towards my hotel and San Marco (yes, I just took the quick-route back to the hotel) I tried to shield myself from the sun, as my skin was very irritated by now and I could feel waves of heat and pain all over. The bathroom at the restaurant showed some beautiful lines from my sunglasses, and I didn’t particularly like the idea of being the new panda in town to be honest. I’d rather have Jack Black keep the title. I was suddenly tired, fed up and just finished overall and I didn’t have any patience with the crowds, which grew ever bigger as I approached San Marco. Tried to walk swiftly and fast, but it didn’t work, this Saturday turned out to be the worst day when it comes to crowds.

People blocked the way everywhere, standing, making these unbelievable stupid moves and colliding into others. I almost felt like crying as I tried to get somewhere, tired, fatigued, probably very hormonal, so frustrated, that I almost gave up and just nailed my a$$ to the ground and screamed. Almost, but not quite. The last straw was a moment of action and tension at one bridge near the piazza. A group of African men came running with fake bags, ramming everyone in their way, fleeing past me. There was commotion in the air. With feverish eyes I took in the scene taking place in front of me. A lonely carabinieri was trying to hold on to one African, pulling him back, fiercely trying to get a grip, while the one who was caught furiously tried to get away, wrenching, pulling. When the others noticed that one of their buddy’s were caught, they ran back and together started to pull him away, while the constable tried to call for backup. The carabinieri really had no chance in his nice uniform and nice ceremonial knife hanging from the glowingly white belt.

.....(here you see how they are dressed...).....

There were lots of people around, not being able to cross that bridge because of the happenings and following it with interest and disbelief, commenting to each other. The Africans succeeded in their attempts and their friend became free. Together they ran over the bridge and away, once again ramming everybody in their way. I was slammed into the railing and found myself looking deep into the water of the canal. I froze there for a moment, looking at my reflection, seeking something in there, trying to get grounded. But I heard “the click”. The click that says it is over, that I’m done with this place, I’m done. Not as in “I hate this, oh how I long to be anywhere but here”, but as in “I’m tired, I can’t do this anymore, I don’t have room for anymore impressions, sights and unfamiliar ways, I need to go home and let my senses have a rest”. I had been out there for a week now, wide open, indulging everything I saw, everything I sensed, everything I smelled and felt. Analyzing it, breaking it into pieces, wrapping myself in a thick blanket of depth and newfound instincts. It takes its toll, it drains you and makes you exhausted, no matter how wonderful and utterly beautiful all the moments had been. I was ready to go home.

The lonely carabinieri stood at the foot of the bridge, looking quite ridiculous to be honest, like he tried to regain some dignity as he rearranged his jacket and straightened the angle of his hat. He had gotten a catch though, lots of bags scattered around and he began to collect them, soon standing there his arms covered with bags. The flow of people continued, the hammock was gone, the tension slowly evaporated. I truly disliked these bag-sellers throughout the week. Disliked that they occupied bridges and campos. These people are everywhere in Europe and I suspect many of them lack legal papers and a right to be in a certain country. Don’t get me wrong, labour is labour, work is work, but when it is done like this, it does not get any points from me.

This incident was the only thing even remotely resembling something criminal, the only thing, which caused some unrest during my whole week in Venice. Not one second did I feel unsafe or troubled walking the calles, sotoportegos, salizzadas and fondamentas. Not one second did I feel a need to be aware and careful, to look out and around, at my surroundings. Venice is truly one of the safest places I have ever visited, ever experienced and this little incident did not cloud these opinions.

A few steps and I was at the piazza, suddenly able to breathe more freely, feeling the air move around me. I inhaled and exhaled and felt my steps becoming lighter, brisker. The flagpoles in front of the basilica were not empty anymore, both the Italian and the Venetian flag flew grand and proud out over the piazza. The flaming red banner of the Venetian republic looked marvellous against the blue sky, vibrant and alert, strong and steady. This was the second time I saw the flagpoles adorned with these flags, the other time being the day I arrived, last Sunday. Are the flags only up on weekends, or what is the rule? I wondered. As I stood beneath the flags a cruise ship suddenly appeared, filling the whole view out from the piazzetta towards the Bacino di S.Marco. People gasped and directed their cameras towards that huge thing slowly going by. It diminished the buildings around the piazzetta into nothing, making them look like Lego bricks and miniatures. It was grotesque somehow, looking like it would ram the dock any second, tearing down this precious place it loomed over. Its gigantic shadow resembled that of the spaceships in the movie Independence Day as they approached. How are these ships allowed to come so near the square, how are they allowed to travel by with such a small marginal? I could not understand and shrugged at the sight.

People onboard where waving their hands, waving goodbye. The crowds at the piazzetta responded, waved back and connected. It brought tears to my eyes, the sight of the people waving, saying their goodbyes, seeing them slowly float away, descend into the distance. Just like I would tomorrow. Just like I would be saying my own goodbyes. My farewells. Gloomy and sobby, I got to my hotel and fell asleep.

I woke up a few hours later and stared at the picture of myself in the mirror. Not good, not at all. My face was red and my hand (the one that holds the camera) was exceptionally so, refusing to stand even the slightest of touches. This was my last evening in Venice, so I got out and walked a little. Still tired, still gloomy, still finished, I sat at the loggia at the Doge’s palace, writing my last post cards, listening to the orchestra at Café Chioggia. I didn’t have any strength left and no desire to go further into the maze of alleys. This was it, I was content sitting right there, just there. I felt the cool of the marble beneath me and the gentle dampness of the grand wall behind me, solid, firm.
My week had been absolutely fantastic, exhilaratingly refreshing, tantalizing and luring. A week without a watch, a cell phone, internet, without any demands. Roaming free, breathing freedom. Detached from the real world, interred in a bubble, surrounded by air and water. Feeling at peace. Slowing down, listening to the sounds of history and waves, loosing the sense of time. Wrapped in shimmering, reflective waters and lingering strings of music, grasping through the centuries gone. I have never felt a place like I felt Venice, have never been able to see so many layers and so much texture. Shapes and rustic decay, glory and fading vain.

I thought about romance, and about the clichés of Venice, about the labels put upon it. My first nights I had dreamed of old crushes, resurrected gone feelings and brought hidden memories to the surface. This puzzled me, made me wonder. Was it the gathered feelings of love and affection lingering in the air that affected me, brought me back all those broken records? Did all that passion between couples present generate something in the air, subtle vibrations of lust and heated moments? I don’t know, but what I do know, is that I didn’t feel Venice was a place for romance, a place for solely romance. Sure, it could be very romantic, very tentative and seductive, if that is what you make it, if that is your mood and manner, but for me, travelling alone, feeling apprehensive about going alone in the first place to this city of love, I found a place where romance wasn’t needed, where romance was not in your face. Where one could easily be alone and enjoy it immensely. A city of love for those wanting to be in love, a city of something else for those that seek another path.

I dove deep into the layers of this city during my week; here I found a soulmate, a tone I recognised, a song where I could sing along. I hope others could see glimpses of the Venice I got to know, hope others would divert their steps from San Marco and Rialto, look beyond, hope others would sit down and listen, find the same tune I did.

Tomorrow I would be bursting the bubble, re-enter the world of time and place. I wondered how it would feel, to cross a street looking out for cars, to hear the sound of a world where living was made easy and straightforward. Where water and narrow alleys give way to concrete and wide motorways. That world was only one bridge away, yet it felt distant and absurd. To me, Venice became another reality, another dimension. Perhaps I created that Venice, took to heart the pieces I wanted and made a picture of them, projecting my needs and wishes into it. Maybe the timing was right and the conditions perfect. There must be so many different pictures of Venice out there, so many people with so many views and memories. This was my Venezia, my La Serenissima, my April dream.

The orchestra played at the Chioggia, the sounds of the violin swept the grounds. The row of gondolas moved slowly up and down, dark shadows lifted by the sea. A lonely dove flew up, past the lion on its piedestal. I followed it, saw it fly away.

Venezia- day six

24.4 Friday

The more I saw of Venice, the more there was to see, the more time I used, the more I needed. That’s the beauty of staying in one place, giving it all the attention you can. A rosebud is beautiful, yes, but to see it open up, and show the layered inside, see the beauty of the complete rose, that’s even better. This, my sixth day in Venice, was to become a very leasury one, no stress, just being. The first thing I decided was, that I would not venture away from this city, I would not go to Padua or Verona, there was still way too much to see and experience in Venice. What a relief that was, I could exhale and enjoy my just-being, and I didn’t feel one bit reluctant about giving up the opportunity to see the other cities, Venice craved all the attention I had to give.

I started my day by heading out to the post office at the piazza to buy some stamps. It had almost become a ritual for me to go through San Marco every day, see it take on different shades and faces, see the best of it, the worst of it, getting the whole picture. This day was no exception from the other times of daylight, packed and busy, but I took my time, watched all the people take pictures, feed the pigeons, saw them laugh and cry out when the birds landed on their arms and shoulders. It is fun to be a by-watcher, see families interact, amuse themselves, argue and hassle along. A secret delight.

I found the post office, got my stamps and continued through the maze of alleys between San Marco and Rialto. As I went, I realised, that I had visited this area mostly after dark, when the shops were closed, now it was a hustle and bustle all around, and I even took time to do some window-shopping, watching everything on display. A little jewellery store caught my eyes and I went inside, admired all the glimmering crystal on display and of course had to buy a few earrings. Those are my weakness; glittering, colourful, dangling beauties, *sigh*. A moment of shopping bliss. Lula was the name of the place, I think. I also found a store, which sold some lovely pasta in every colour of the rainbow, blue for blueberry, red for rosé pepper, black for sepia etc. Lovely tagliatelle, flowers… I decided to come back later and buy some to take back home to my family. A perfect, lightweight gift.

It was a beautiful day, an almost cloudless sky and so warm that you had to keep your coat open. Quite lovely. I sat at the foot of Chiesa di S.Maria Magdalena for some time; watching people go by, photograph each other at a bridge next to the church. I wrote in my journal and eyed the pigeons cooing around. Once in a while I offered to take a pic of a couple, couldn’t watch as they tried to do it the automatic way, with one of them racing towards the bridge after placing the camera. It felt good, to be aware of everything around you, watch it, contribute, be of some help. I dangled me feet there as I sat, felt free and peaceful, on ease with everything. Loving just to be. An American woman with two young boys came up to me and asked me if I spoke English, could I help her to find Rialto? Sure thing, we compared our maps, I showed her where we were and which way she would have to go to reach Rialto. She also asked me if it was worth seeing, was it something special. I felt so comfortable with my surroundings at this point, knowing where I was, where Canal Grande was, I enjoyed being able to help her out, and doing it with such an ease. The day was splendid, the day was warm, and I felt like one of the pigeons where I sat, overlooking the people, the happenings. Like a little fly in the roof. It was perfect. Until I started to freeze my butt off.

My intention was to go to Il Ghetto, take a look around, scroll the streets of Cannaregio and just do whatever felt nice. The entrance to the ghetto was a wooden bridge and a sotoportego which seemed way too low for any adult to stand straight in. That was an illusion, enhanced by the arch of the bridge. The Campo del Ghetto Nuovo was a spacious place, with high buildings and some trees. It didn’t have a distinct Venice-feel, I thought, not as rustic and old somehow. I sat on a warm bench, bathing in the sun, writing postcards and getting the feel of the place. I saw some Jews in the area, betrayed by their kippa’s. I wonder if any Jews live in this area anymore… or is it just a relic, a place of wonder and the origin of the word “ghetto”? A place of history and legend. But is it still alive? I don’t know. Probably not. There were many kids on the campo, playing with the water fountain, giggling and playing hide and seek. Their guardians watched over them and chatted with each other.

I left the campo after a while to take a look at the horizontal fondamentas further north. These straight lines of streets proved to be hot in this weather; no shield from the sun as you went, blazing hot. Elderly men cared for their nets and trimmed their boats in the canals, shop- and restaurant personnel chatted with each other. It was really calm and quiet, no noise; you could hear a laugh a long way. Peace and quiet. Here you got a sense of how much walking you did in Venice, those straight-lined streets made you weary, they just went on and on and on. So much easier to be in the maze of streets and alleys, they fool the eyes and the mind, making you forget all about distances and time. The northern parts of Cannaregio felt very residential, cheap cafés and small shops, clearly not catering towards tourists. I almost felt out of place at times, in a good way. At some point I found myself sitting at Fondamenta Case Nuove, under shading pine trees. Behind me were fairly new-looking buildings and on the bench next to me sat a mother with her two little daughters. They were arguing about some candy the older one wanted to have, a very universal subject indeed.

I heard a loud noise from the canal and saw a boat coming closer and closer. It played some kind of pop-music and the voice protruded the silence in a clash. Oh dear, this is the equivalent of the pimped cars the youth drive back home, I thought. Sighed and smiled. I still looked, out of curiosity, didn’t stare, just watched discretely, or so I thought. The boat came close and I saw that the driver was a white-haired man with a huge belly. Oh… The music, which was still loud and strong, didn’t really fit in with the image of this man. He must have seen that I took some interested glances, because he drove up to where I was sitting, going the wrong way doing that, shut down the music and asked me, in Italian, to come for a ride. I smiled and said my no thank you’s and felt a bit ashamed because of the situation, with the woman sitting next to me and all. This was not a touristy place and I didn’t want to stick out, get all this attention. He tried and tried, said that there was no gratuity, asked me where I was from etc. No deal. At the same time another boat came in from the opposite direction, unable to move forward, because this pop-loving-old-man blocked the whole canal as he tried to get me onboard… Can’t say I was too thrilled by the situation. Eventually he gave up, turned the music back on, backed his boat, and continued towards the open waters. Phew. I watched him drive away, my cheeks coloured red. On the other side of the bay, airplanes took off and landed, their white frames gleaming in the hazy, sunny air.
My next stop would be at the Campo dei Mori. I sat there all alone, changing lenses on my camera, watching the withering walls around me, looked at the house of Tintoretto with its statues. Music came from one open window, something by Robbie Williams. A woman sang along with the tune. Down one alley some clothes left to dry moved silently in the occasional stir of air. I was tired by no, fatigued really, mainly because I hadn’t eaten anything after breakfast, besides some very distasteful candy I bought earlier near San Marco. It was definitely time to grab some decent food, so I took some quivering steps towards the ghetto and the restaurant Bam Bam.
I didn’t know how lucky I was as I sat down on one table outside. Just ten minutes after I arrived one couple were turned away, because the place was closing for the Sabbath. I had never eaten kosher food and eyed the menu with curiosity and settled for a humus dish. As I waited for my food to come I watched the busy Canal di Cannareggio, boats and barges came and went in an ever ending stream, the drivers honked horns, threw their fists in the air, shouted at each other as they tried to pass. Very entertaining. A real Venetian traffic-jam.

I got my humus and looked at it suspiciously; it looked like dough with minced meat and chickpeas. Yes, it was the first humus I had ever even seen. But I dug in and enjoyed my meal very much. It felt like the first genuine meal I had had during my journey, as it was so homely and delicious. The waiters and waitresses were a mixed bunch, young men and women, who looked a bit lost at times. I thought it was cute and that it added to the cosy and home-run atmosphere.
After I had eaten, I strolled through the ghetto once more, reading some articles about the place in some windows, seeing the area get ready to calm down for the Sabbath. I didn’t feel so good, dizzy and light-headed to be honest. Weak and floaty somehow. I guess my body revenged the very late lunch, giving the congestion all its attention, stealing energy from my limbs and my head. I leaned against walls as I tried to put one foot in front of the other and must have looked like a drunkard trying to get home. I was definitely afraid that I would faint and end up in a Venetian hospital, driven there by an ambulance boat. On the other hand, the thought intrigued me in my delusional state of mind; it could actually be neat to get such an experience, something to tell the folks back home. Yes, a very entertaining thought and it made me a bit cheerful, and yes, I have a very sick sense of humour and can’t take things too seriously.

I bought an ice-cream, hoping it would keep me from falling into pieces and give me strength to get back to the hotel, and sat once again at the church of S.Maria Maddalena, waiting for that energy to arrive. My body calmed down bit by bit and I gathered myself enough to start walking again, towards the hotel, San Marco et al. I felt like a new person by the time I stumbled upon a delightful bookshop at Calle Lunga S.M Formosa. Heaps of books everywhere and the place even had a whole gondola placed inside, also filled with books. Outside a sign read: “Welcome to the most beautiful bookshop in the world”. The name of it is Libreria Aqua Alta di Frizzo Luigi. The owner was really something, a middle-aged man who chatted with everyone entering, giving remarks and laughing loudly. The archetype of a jolly elderly man. Cats roamed around the books, which mostly were about Venice in one way or the other and about art in general.

I bought a few books, one about Venetian ghosts and another about the nuns in Venice (from that book I learned, that the old convent at S.Zaccharia was practically a brothel, where bored upper-class nuns were visited by numerous lovers). The owner put on all his charm as I paid, saying “I love you” and that I would have to watch out as there were many Casanovas in Venice. And the touché: “if one rose is beautiful, you are a bouquet”. You could not be in a happy mood after exiting this place, no.

I didn’t take many steps before I discovered the next place I would enter. A shop that sold masks. The masks in the window captured my eyes with their beauty and drove me in like a magnet. The room was small and the walls were all covered with masks, each more glorious than the other. Signorina herself sat at the desk, painting with a small brush, colour jars surrounding her current project. The masks were reproductions of famous and less famous paintings, Mucha, Klimt etc. Remarkable. I just watched in silence and awe, almost disbelievingly. I needed to buy a mask, I had to, but which one…? I could not choose, I wanted them all! I, who just the day before sturdily told myself I wasn’t interested in any masks. Now I was drooling over these pieces of art, marvelling at the utter beauty of each and every one. Signorina told me that she and her husband had made masks for 30 years now and that their daughter had joined them 8 years ago. She tried to help me in my agony about choosing but crazy as I am, I decided to splash out and bought three… two for myself and one for my mother. They were all so beautiful and I hadn’t shopped up until no, so that justified me spending almost 400€ for them… Or so I tried to convince myself. Yes, they were over 100€ per piece, but I gladly paid out, they were pieces of art, handmade in Venice. The name of the place is Schegge and it is situated on Calle Lunga, near Campo S.M Formosa. Do take a look if you are close by.

Feeling a bit light-headed about my purchase I hopped on a vaporetto at Rialto and got back to the hotel. There I changed clothes, put on a nice dress and my new dangling earrings and ventured back out into the darkening evening. I didn’t get far, only to the piazzetta, where heavenly tones of music captured me, prevented me from taking another step. The same violin I heard on my first evening, the same beautiful violin, played with the same passion and elegance. I had no other choice than to sit down at Café Chioggia and order tea and cake.

The orchestra played and played and dazzled me with every tune, with every vivid interpretation of classics. There was so much strength in their performance, so much presence and power, that you could not stop listening. The music painted the air with cascading drifts of notes, luring people, making them stop and listen. The musicians all looked so professional and knew how to take a crowd; they made eye-contact and blinked, played songs the crowd wished for, the violinist made his instrument sound like everything from a race car to an airplane to a bee. It was like magic at times. I sipped my tea, wrote in my journal, listened and enjoyed my evening there at Chioggia tremendously. The music made the evening special, made the air vibrate with passion and a sincere joy of living. The musicians played like there lives were at stake, giving it all, using their instruments to the max. Rarely have I seen such a performance.
Out of all the three San Marco cafés I visited during my week, Chioggia definitely was the best, in many aspects. The waiters weren’t intrusive, very polite and I liked that this café did not charge extra for the music, which was miles better than at the other cafés. I felt really sorry that most of the tourists seemed to be stuck at the piazza, not coming to the piazzetta and cheer for this orchestra.

To drink four cups of tea does take its toll and I had to get back to the hotel after having spent more than an hour listening and relaxing. I was tired but very content, very pleased with my day and with my evening. Very ready for bed. I walked over the few bridges, tried not to destroy anyone’s picture as I walked past the Bridge of Sighs and fell asleep almost immediately.

Venezia- day five

23.4 Thursday

This was the day I had intended to travel to Padua or Verona, but I just didn’t have any energy, I was tired and weary. Travelling does take its toll. The weather wasn’t too inspiring either, it was drizzling and a cold wind swept the grounds. Not at all like the beautiful weather yesterday, which really gave me a Venice-high. The morning was slow and I probably just stumbled around for a while, strolling some streets here and there, shielding myself from the weathers.

At some point before noon I decided to have a look inside the grand basilica and ventured towards San Marco. Every day I had marvelled at the crowds in this area, but again, this day surpassed all the others by the amount of people present. It was a complete and utter zoo!! Children and teenagers everywhere, it seemed like all the schools in northern Italy had send all their kids on a daytrip to Venice. Fortunately the line to the basilica was quite short (the line for the groups on the other hand, not…), and I only waited for about 15 minutes to be let inside. People swarmed the lobby, pushed others to get in, it was loud and I thought: “oh no, this is one of those places, that should be sacred, but due to the amount of people, has lost all the feeling of it, like Notre Dame in Paris”. My heart sank. I just think a church is a church and should be treated like one, no matter how big the attraction is. I stepped inside and it blew me away. All that golden shimmer, all that space and free air. All those mosaics sparkling, glittering. Mind-blowingly beautiful! Especially the mosaics made in the Byzantine style got my attention. They are so pure and clean somehow, straight lines and strong colours. Just like the ones in the basilica of Torcello.

I continued to walk the marked trail, towards to centre of the church, moving along with the crowd, looking up and tracing the glorious man-made pieces of art. The movement of the crowd took serpentine traits, squirming ahead like a snake. There wasn’t much room to divert your steps from those of the others. I spotted a sign that said Pala d’Oro and followed it ahead. Paid 2€ and entered a secluded area around the altar. Here it was suddenly calm, quiet, peaceful. It felt like being in a church, you felt a whisk of holiness and dignity. I looked at the exquisite Pala d’Oro for a while, all that ancient bling bling and hammered gold, and at the view of the ceiling. A mass of some kind was held in one of the side chapels and the simple beauty of the hallelujahs sang by the priest lingered in the air, moving among the great cupolas. It sounded so beautiful that my eyes filled with tears. Like a touch of heaven, right then and there. I stood still next to the altar for as long as it lasted, as long as the spell played its magic.

Under the altar you could see a stone coffin with the inscription that meant “body of Mark the apostle”. A simple coffin, with letters carved in the stone. The enormous symbolic meaning of that object moved me, made my heart skip a beat. Was it really the body of the great apostle, lying in that coffin, right there in front of me? It felt incredible and the history-buff inside me swooned.

A couple stood in front of the altar, doing some gentle smooching. The platinum blonde girl was clad in tighter than tight jeans and sky-high heals. In secret I gave them the evil-eye, I just thought that it was disrespectful and cheap, to be all over each other at the altar of the Basilica di San Marco. The next minute when I glanced at them, the girl was standing alone, eyes closed, hands clutched in prayer, head bowed down. Don’t judge a book by its cover, eh.

I continued to explore the basilica by entering Tresoria, paying 3€ for it. Incredible glass objects, carved out of rock crystal, from Constantinople, all the way from the 10th century. How on earth have these objects survived the centuries?! You can say what you want about the ways and means of the church as an institution, but it has managed to keep so many fantastic things safe all the way to this day. There was one bowl, which looked completely modern; stack clear glass, totally smooth, and the paper sign next to it read: Alexandria 1st century AD. Apparently it’s one of the largest known objects carved from one single rock of crystal. I could not believe my eyes as I stared at that magnificent treasure. 2000 years old…unbelievable. We underestimate the skills of the people long gone way too often, everything in this little room was proof of how we, the people of today, can not really be so much superior to those who came before us. Alabaster, crystal… everything was so exquisite.

As I moved to the other tiny room, which had some relics on display, for example those of a 900th century doge, an American couple came to the cashier. They paid and asked for the audioguides. The cashier said that sorry, unfortunately they were all broken. The woman then responded in the lines of: “okey… but then we might reconsider…see, we need the audioguide”. The cashier then said that the guide wasn’t necessary, because every item had a label, which stated what the object was, where it came from and how old it was, but the woman said that it might not work. She asked her partner what his opinion was: “should we change our minds about this?” The man responded: “yeah, we wouldn’t know what all the stuff is”. They asked for their money back and explained, that it wasn’t about the money and that they would have liked to see the place, but not without an audioguide. I was completely stunned, and could not believe what I was hearing, two tiny little rooms, where everything had a label… Stuff?! Can’t people use their eyes anymore; does everything have to be explained to them, given to them on a silver platter?! My blood pressure went through the roof. Yes, I was upset, and besides, they were very loud.

I went back to the nave of the church, joined the snake and departed again on the other side, to the side chapel where a mass for children was being held. Silently I stood in the back, watched the small ones kneel down, cross themselves, heard them sing loud and clear. It was very charming and heart-warming somehow.

Then it was time for the terrace. Steep stairs lead up to the entrance, I could see many older people turn away at the sight of them. Here I paid 4€, walked through a book-card-souvenir-store and entered the loft looking out into the vast spaces of the church. Suddenly I realised that it was dark, much darker than before I ventured up the stairs. The mosaics had a dull gleam to them and many could not be seen at all. By mistake, I had managed to be in the church right when the lights were on… Quite a coincidence I might say. I stepped out onto the terrace, carefully holding my umbrella. The rain came in heavy gusts and it poured down from the roof, I kept myself somewhat dry by standing with my back towards the wall, having a few centimetres of shelter from above. The quadriga stood proud and tall and I marvelled at how the bronze-horses really looked like real ones, the muscles, the noses…

Out on the piazza and piazzetta people walked with umbrellas, rushing ahead, the umbrellas becoming splashes of colour in the midst of all the greyness of the stone and the weather. For a moment I was all alone up there, looking out on the grand buildings, thinking about the doges and other dignified people, who once stood exactly where I now was standing. The bells of the campanile rang and the metallic echo jumped off the facades surrounding the piazza. It was a beautiful moment.
I made the decision to leave just in time before a herd of teenagers rushed to the loggia, screaming and shouting, just like teenagers do. I had to wait for a while before I even was able to get back inside, because they completely blocked the entrance. Back inside the same pattern continued, suddenly I was surrounded by teens, going all jolly around and messing with each other. I sat down on the stone benches up on the loft and listened to all the noise. It was irritating to say the least. Why couldn’t people respect the church and keep their mouths shut? Or is it that different cultures have different definitions on silence, being silent? Maybe so, I come from a country where you can hear a needle fall to the ground before services start in a church. All extra sound is very frowned upon. I don’t know if this is the case in other parts of the world… Maybe I, with my background, have too big expectations on people? Although, you could say, that taken into account the amount of people moving in and out of the church in a continuing stream, it was pretty quiet anyway. It could have been much worse.

I sat there on that bench for a long time, writing in my journal, just being, resting my feet. It was nice to sit up there, hearing the smatter of rain outside, letting the hems of my skirt dry a bit. The museum-part of the basilica was good, you got the opportunity to look at old mosaics up close and personal. The original quadriga was lit up and looked splendid, almost ready to rush out to beat all other chariots.

I came out from the basilica almost 3 hours later… Unbelievable. But there really was so much to see, and the weather made it the perfect place to rest a bit, to linger for a while, to regain some strength. My stomach growled madly at this point and I headed towards ponte di Accademia, looking for someplace to eat on the way. Giglio served my needs and I ate a wonderful caprese and a tiramisu as smooth as silk. The Milanese-styled chicken was not something to write home about, dry fried chicken with a few french fries.

As I crossed the bridge the sun made some careful attempts to show itself, and that immediately lifted my spirits. The wooden bridge was wonderful; the sound of people’s feet, thuds, soft, the span of it, wide and steady. There was a warmth to it, which I enjoyed. I walked to the Zattere and as I needed to visit a bathroom, I sacrificed myself, sat down in a cafeteria and ordered a bowl of ice cream. Oh poor me, oh the poor soul.

Next I slowly strolled towards chiesa Santa Maria della Salute, taking photos, enjoying the neighbourhood, the slight gritty feel of it. It was somehow more open than the rest of Venice, more space, it felt easier to breath. The pier in front of the chiesa served as a resting place for me for a while. I sat there, looking out onto the Canal Grande, letting the warmth of the sun embrace me; clear away the coldness of the wind. A gondolier was working on his gondola right in front of me, cleaning and polishing. The magnificent silhouette of the grand chiesa hovered behind me, looking stunning, impressive.

A few pigeons carefully walked towards me and I tried to remain as still as possible, to not scare them away. I watched the vaporetti dock and undock, people walking away, coming and going. The alga on the lower steps of the pier was of a bright green colour and glittered in the sun. As I sat there I once again contemplated on my trip, on Venice, wrote in my journal. I was still thinking about Padua, to go or not to go, but all the more I felt I did not want to leave this place of utter magic. I didn’t want to break the spell, to re-enter the real world with cars and honking horns, with traffic. I wanted to stay in Venice, to have an extra day without ever having to look out for cars, not having to cross any busy streets, only people around, people walking. It was so surreal and so wonderful, that the thought of vehicles other than boats, almost frightened me. Why go when I could stay? I don’t know for how long I sat there, but decided to move ahead when new clouds started to shield the sun.

I continued to walk the streets and calli of Dorsoduro, enjoying everything I saw. There was something of the same atmosphere here as in New York’s East Village and Lower East Side, something like Montmartre in Paris. A bit alternative, something untamed and wild. More rugged, more real. Graffiti, youth, crumbling palazzos, grass and flowers protruding from the walls. More charm. It was a feast for the eyes, for the camera, for the senses. Students gathered, laughing and playing music, no tourists anywhere, well, not any cameras anyway. People walked in and out of buildings, greeting each other. A little girl practised to ride a bike on one wider street, her father pushed and guided. Seeing a bicycle was funny and made me look twice. That’s how integrated I had become to the walking-nature of this city. I completely succumbed to this neighbourhood, roamed and indulged myself.

My spirit felt so free here, I felt free, in this place of authenticity. Blooming bushes and trees, random pots with flowers on windowsills, intricate old carvings on random walls, withering stone figures, closed-up buildings. This wasn’t cleaned up, polished and I loved it. Truly loved it.

I walked, walked, walked and walked, until my feet cried for relief. At that point I had walked continuously for over 4 hours and felt the weight of the day starting to wear me down. It was getting dark as well; there was an interesting rosy shade in the air. I decided to get to the nearest vaporetto stop and let me be driven back home. Easier said than done though… Not once did I directly find my way to a place in Venice, not once did I walk straight to somewhere I was going. So, not this time either.

I knew which way I should be heading and followed signs according to that. Somewhere along the road I passed Frari and S Rocco, making a mental note of those and continued. Sometime after this I realised that I was going the wrong direction. One wrong turn and tadaa! you’re lost. I found the right signs after a while and tried to stick to them, and… was eventually back at Frari again. I had walked a full circle, and the best part of this was, that the last time I was at the same place, was one hour ago… Very frustrating, especially as I at this point was very tired and just wanted to get to bed, to give my feet a well-deserved rest.

At one narrow calle I encountered two young men, who asked for directions to, I don’t remember where. I could only tell them, that I was almost as lost as them, and show them the area we were in. It was nice, though, to be able to guide them towards the right direction, and they turned back. I continued forward, until I got to a dead-end… As I walked back, I suddenly saw the vaporetto-sign. It was on a wall, which only could be seen from the direction I now was coming from. Way too invisible I may say, but I found San Toma and got the well-needed ride home to San Zaccharia. The Canal Grande gave one of its best faces as the vaporetto rushed through the waters. A beautiful ending on a perfect day.

Venezia- day four

22.4 Wednesday

A beautiful day. Blue skies and a scorching sun. Warmth! This was the only day, which, according to the weather reports, would most possibly be sunny and bright, so I had decided to head out to the islands. Torcello with its basilica, Burano with its colours. With sunglasses planted firmly on my face and a smile radiating from inside I steered my feet towards Fondamenta Nuove. I had studied the map beforehand, memorized the way and thought I had it all covered, but no…. not this time either. Circles, wrong turns etc. made me more and more irritated. It felt like I wasn’t going anywhere, like I was trapped inside a maze without a way out. Well, I wasn’t in any hurry really, so I just relaxed and started to enjoy the weather, the mostly empty streets, the feeling of total freedom. I stopped, focused, figured out my whereabouts and with my senses on high alert; I guided myself north, not letting my focus drift away for one second. And I made it to the north bank. The sea was of an intense turquoise shade and the sun created thousands of dazzling diamonds on the surface. A warm wind swept my face as I emerged from a narrow calle.
A silhouette of a gondola hovered far away on the bay, a delicate black curve, like drawn with a single stroke of a paint-brush. A perfect shape lifted as a mirage above the water, painted strong on a light shimmering canvas of air. That picture etched itself in my mind; it dazzled me by shear grace. The gondolas of Venice are works of art, their curves and precious bows embracing the waters, the gleaming black surface ever reflecting the liquid shimmer. Even in the midst of night. I could watch them forever; see them float silently, dignified and proud. There is something ancient about them, a touch of Viking longships, an elegance the modern world seldom is able to produce. My eyes indulge in shapes, love to trace lines and contours, sense their power, make them mean something.

As I walked past the hospital an ambulance boat just docked and a patient was taken inside to the emergency room. It was fascinating, seeing them load the stretchers of the boat and back. How different things can be done here. I also had to smile when I saw the red and yellow painted boat of DHL, this was such a world of its own, a place where everything had to be altered. Boats rushed by in an ever ending line, people on board looked like movie stars in Cannes with their hair flowing in the air, their huge sunglasses marking their faces. The drivers stood up in the boats, looking at ease, relaxed. In their element.

I found the vaporetto dock and got on. The vaporetti started coming in, one by one. Each and every one full with people, you couldn’t have cramped an ant in there. The dock was heaving at this point and every time a new boat was incoming, all the people rushed forward, making it hard to breath, crushing people towards the sides. Hotness! Apparently everybody was going towards Murano, because boats to Lido didn’t interest anyone, expect for some locals, who shouted “permesso” and tried to get through. In vane. The tourist ranks were like cast in concrete. Indifferent for the furious, smattering Italian swearwords (well, that’s what it sounded like) throwing Venetians. With every boat, I got an inch closer to the landing stage, and felt the beautiful day just move swiftly forward, soon it would be over. I didn’t give up though, not when I had already waited for an hour, it would have made my time there a total waste.

Finally some time after an hour, an empty boat came in, apparently hailed because of the huge crowds, I even got a seat! Off to Murano it was, and I let my eyes lay upon the Venetian silhouette, which we went ever further away from. On the other side of the lagoon airplanes lifted and landed and the snowy curve of the Alps created an amazing, watercolour-like background to all the turqouisness of the waters. The sight couldn’t be captured by any camera, so I just, for once, looked upon it without a viewfinder, admired the raw edged, subtle softness of the sight. I got off at Colonna and headed towards the Faro landing stage. At this point I had realised, that I probably chose the wrong dock at F.Nuove… I could have taken a direct boat to Burano, but somehow I managed to miss that, was blindfolded by the text: “Burano” on the side of the first dock. Well, it didn’t hurt me that much anymore; I did get to see a glimpse of Murano on my way through, didn’t I. Some glass sculptures adorned campos and windows, peculiar works of art, modern in their interpretation. I liked how the light played with the surfaces, made the air full of prisms.

Murano was like Venice in miniature, not so cramped, not so towering, not so narrow, but it didn’t thrill me enough for me to go back, at least not this time around. I waited at the Faro landing stage again for some time and then got onboard to Burano. This time I did not have a seat, I just grabbed hold on to a pole of some sort and stood there the half an hour journey, painfully aware of my feet and the agony they started to get into. Me feet just don’t like standing. Walking, yes, no problem, but keeping my weight on both my lower limbs for a longer time… that’s when they start crying hallelujahs. I just took a brief glance at Burano before I stepped on the boat to Torcello.

Torcello was a place I definitely wanted to visit, having read about it in several guidebooks and on the internet, just the place to satisfy my interest in the past and the slight air of mystery surrounding the disappearance of a large dwelling. Now it was really hot, for my Nordic preference that is, the sun felt scorching as I walked along a wall towards the hotspot pf the island. It felt a bit swampy here, a bit dry, very Adriatic somehow. Bushes and insects. I wouldn’t call the sight pretty in any way. But it was not for the sights I was there, it was for the churches. And there they were. Standing alone, steadfast and strong. Inside it was wonderfully cool, a moisture that would most definitely be terrible in the winter, but oh so delightful in this more than warming weather. I could not believe that the church of Santa Fosca is 1000 years old; it did not feel new, but somehow very… timeless maybe. Outside a black cat played on the grass and bounced between the cooling shades of the vaults.

The basilica di Santa Maria Assunta dazzled me. The walls covered in golden, Byzantine mosaic, gleaming in a few strokes of sun. This place felt ancient, anchored in the past, with ruins behind the altar and crumbling steps. I dwelled in there for a while, rested my mind, felt comfort in the absence of people and heat. Next on my agenda was the campanile, for now completely covered in scaffolding. As I entered the tower and took a look up, I almost regretted my choice…Stairs, stairs, stairs, steps, steps, steps. A more fainted hearted would have given up, but strong in spirit, I leapt those steps, I flew all the way to the top, like a jaguar I raced the floors and felt refreshed as I was finished. Not really… Once again I could only curse myself for letting me fall out of shape. Breathing heavily and sweating like a pig I fell and kissed the ground. The sights were ok, gave you a good look on how narrow the line between water and land is around here, how those two easily mix and struggle. The camera was of no use though, as the scaffolding made the view checkered. After having let my body calm down I began the downward journey. A lot easier on the legs, may I say. I was getting hungry by now and looked at the menus on the few restaurants on the island, but I didn’t find anything appealing, no ingredient that made my mouth water. So I just bought a lemon gelato and went to the dock to wait for the boat back to Burano. On the other side of the not-so-wide canal on the colourful island of Burano it felt a lot cooler, trees giving shade and a refreshing taint in the air. Or maybe it was just the sight of all the exploding colours that made me feel embraced and cheery. It was like being in candyland really, all those combinations, my eyes indulged everything with an orgasmic lust and I could feel my soul soak up the energy evaporating from the walls. I adore colours, how they affect me, give me energy, sooth me, cheer me up, how they represent all different kinds of moods. I felt like dancing and couldn’t help but laugh out loud at times. There was this deep blue house with blood-red rouses climbing the walls, a green house with red clothes hanged to dry, flaming orange, pink on turquoise…
I walked tiny calli, explored every tiny little bit of side street I could find. Here too, it seemed, that most tourists kept themselves to the “main street”, flocking the fondamentas and jamming the walkways. Just a few metres away, I had the colours entirely for myself. What is it with this lack of adventurous minds, why does everyone have to walk the same path as those going ahead of them? I wonder. A little later I sat down to eat some pasta Bolognese, quite distasteful actually, but got me through the afternoon.

It was about 15-16 o’clock and I noticed fewer and fewer visitors around. Local children roamed the streets, playing and laughing. Elderly men cared for their nets and boats. Women with aprons took down dry clothes from the clotheslines. On one little street I encountered a woman, sitting in her doorway, making lace. I slowed down for a few steps and looked as her fingers made gentle moves above the pillow. We smiled at each other and I continued, feeling happy about having seen such a rare occurrence, off the beaten path, away from the eyes of tourists. She was genuine. One of the few lace makers on Burano, a true privilege. I visited the public bathroom (which was super-clean, as every public bathroom I used) and had to laugh as I looked at myself in the mirror. The sun had made its mark and I had some wonderful stripes on the side of my face from my sunglasses and a distinct band from my camera bag on my shoulder. Sunkissed and happy.

Burano had a wonderful village-like feel; the people seemed to know each other and also greeted strangers with warmth and with smiles. Children played freely and there was a sense of life all around. I could definitely live there, I could. I ended my visit with a delicious fragola gelato and sat at the pier people-watching, waiting for the ferry to San Zaccharia. The ride took forever it seemed, rocking me gently to sleep once in a while, soothed my limbs and my mind. I thought about many things during this voyage, reflected on my trip, let my thoughts drift away. One remarkable thing was, that I had not shopped at all. I.Had.Not.Done.Any.Shopping. Wow. It’s not like I’m a shopaholic, but I do confess that I enjoy my trips to the stores and to flash away the credit cards. But here in Venice, I hadn’t found anything to buy. It was a major relief really. I’m not particularly fond of Murano glass, it’s too… colourful, too… patchy and… I don’t know. I just don’t like it. I can appreciate it, and see the art, but I would not buy any for myself. Maybe a chandelier if I had a place for it. I wasn’t too fond of the masks either; they were a bit corny, especially those which were sold from moving trolleys. There were shops in Venice, many of them, but I didn’t find anything outstandingly different from home, nothing sparked that shopping fanatic in me. Great, I had so much more energy to put on other things as a result, and my wallet thanked me as well. For now…

I had planned to visit both Verona and Padua on my trip, but I just didn’t feel like going. The thought of leaving Venice, when I could be spending it right there, in the midst of calm, was not an inspiring one. The weather also played a part, as the forecast showed rain and thunder. It was so much easier to be in Venice during bad weather, having all the hotel amenities at hand, to be able to pop in anytime, for change, for rest etc. I was so happy that I had decided to stay in a hotel on Venice proper, my first choice was a hotel on the Lido, and although more expensive, I found the Paganelli to be much more convenient. Well worth the extra money indeed. My head was on a Venice-mood and I couldn’t get the feel and vibe of Verona and Padua off the many pages I had printed about those cities. Still undecided I slumbered on my bench, looking at the sea, listening to the other passengers.

The sight as we approached San Marco was absolutely wonderful. All that glory right there before you, coming closer and closer. The sun was shining and made the facades of Riva degli Schiavoni glow. People were swarming all over like ants and once again I was astounded about the sheer amount of tourists and made my way through laughing to myself. It was once again ridiculous in all its massiveness.

I made a quick stop at the hotel and then I headed out again. To look for a gondola. Yep. It was time. The most common question I got during the months before my trip was about the gondola, or statements about me getting one. The stereotypical image of Venice, and even if I had never set my foot on Venetian ground, I already detested it, I did not have one single thought about getting a gondola, “bah, nothing for me”, “oh please, that’s so Disney-touristy”, no, I don’t think so”, “Venice is so much more than that” (says she with a firm tone, certain to avoid the most terrible of clichés). But here I was, looking for a gondola, feeling the urge, the frantic need to be onboard one, to even on the slightest level merge with the Venetian elements. Now I got it, understood the meaning of the gondola, how it represents a way of life, a way of living, it symbolizes the life of Venice, the beauty of it, the grace. To me, now, it has an aura of Serenissima itself, and that, how much it indeed is a cliché; there is something genuine and honest about these delicate boats. That’s more than can be said about the gondoliers though… At least the one I chose for my ride. As always, when you go to look for something, you just can’t seem to find it. All the days leading up to this one, I encountered several gondola docks, several gondoliers begging me to come on a ride, yes, there were even those who didn’t hesitate to do some serious flirting and almost stalking one as you went. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride” combined with a wink and an all too telling movement of the hips. No thanks, no ride for me. But no, they didn’t intimidate me in any way, you just laughed and walked away, and that was that.
It is of course so easy to be smart about things in retrospect, especially when you are like me, quite impulsive and rather take as a norm not to think before acting, but this time, I have to admit to pure stupidity.

I came out at Rialto, and behold, there were two gondoliers, sitting idly before a row of gondolas. I marched up to them, said my buona seras and climbed in. Then I was given the price. 125€ for 30 minutes and 250€ for 1 hour. Oh… but guess who paid up, although with a slight bad taste in my mouth, for the shorter tour. “You have to pay now”. I handed the money over and then we embarked. I felt stupid and conned, but only for a few minutes, because when the gondola was set free, I was in heaven. To be so close to the water, to feel the bow plough through the twinkling surface, to sit on that gorgeous brocade clad couch, to feel like you were floating in the air, ever so slightly above the water… is was exhilarating. I forgot about money and everything else unimportant and dreamed away. I felt like royalty, like a queen overlooking her subjects, privileged in every way. Which was ridiculous really, since this was the most Venetian thing you could do in Venice, something that every one and their mother set forth on doing while there. No privilege here, no diversion from the masses. But still I felt like it was, this was my moment, my private time with Venice. Heck, it almost felt like having s*x with the spirits of that ancient city. And yes, I am exaggerating, but that’s the only way I can describe my joy and the feeling of complete and utter contentment. To float into the darkness, through narrow watery lanes, in complete silence, hearing only soft splashes of water and the soft thuds of wood against stone, feeling the gondola rock ever so slightly. People photographed me and my gondola as we approached bridges, and for once I didn’t mind, didn’t feel singled out, this was something I could treat them to, and I only felt proud, almost wanting to give them a graceful royal wave along with a distant smile. I didn’t of course, but oh how tempting it was. We quietly floated past the houses of Marco Polo and the Casanova family. I learned that the house of the Polos was now a private apartment and that of the Casanovas was some kind of office. The gondolier didn’t say much, and I didn’t ask. The tranquillity of the night was to be undisturbed. I saw walls go by, bridges, lights here and there, at one point we encountered another gondola and we continued our journey together. The two gondoliers spoke softly to each other, only adding to the enthralling atmosphere. All too soon it was over, and we were back at Rialto. At this point I wished I had taken the one hour trip instead, I didn’t want it to end, I wanted to continue my love affair with the waters of Venice. After this, the roar of motorboats and the resulting aggressive surges felt invasive, almost monstrous. I had had a scent of Venice old and loved every minute of it. But here again I could only feel sorry for those tourists, who take a gondola in the middle of the day along with hundreds of others, it looked like some of the canals were literary stuffed with vehicles, slamming into each other, hustle and bustle all over. I would not want to have it that way, no way jose. But then again, everyone doesn’t have a choice, do they. With a peace of mind and a foolish grin on my face I walked towards San Marco. I had to top this lovely evening off with orchestral music and something sweet. And there I sat the rest of the evening, at Quadri’s, listening to the duelling orchestras, sipping on my outrageously priced camomile-tea (8,50€..) and a nice bowl of cold ice cream. Florian was leading this evening, for the first time during my week, they had the biggest crowd and hence the biggest cheers. I watched some pigeons going commando, quietly sneaking under chairs, one by one. I pictured them carrying MI5’s under their wings and helmets on their heads, glancing hence and forth, giving instructions to those behind. Those sneaky bastards. They were hilarious. I was experiencing a perfect Venetian evening, and loved every minute of it. Indulging on the flavours, the scents, the vibrations in the air. Just embracing the beauty of it all, going beyond the stereotypes, finding that feel of authenticity behind the obvious outlook of things. Letting my mind roam free.