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.
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