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.
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