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.