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.
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