I had to be at the Palazzo Ducale before 9:55, when the Secret Itineraries-tour was set to start. After practically running the few hundreds meters from my hotel, I was a few minutes early, fortunately. See, mornings aren’t really my thing...
I have been a history buff ever since I was little. When I was five years old, a wooden sofa from the 18th century completely enthralled me as I stood next to it, staring, imagening all the people that once sat on it. My interest is based on the people long gone, and the traces they left, the faint markings of their existence still visible, details. The grandeour of buildings and a pompous surrounding isn’t necessarily my thing. So what were my thoughts as I walked the mostly remade floors of the Venetian palazzo numero uno?
I generally know quite much about the history of Venice, but when it comes to politics, I go blank. Politics and moi don’t go good together, even if we are talking about the good ol’ times. The Republic of Venice is a well known grouping of words, if you may, but I have to confess, that I hadn’t thought about it in a modern context before, I had not realised, that it actually WAS a republic, even compared to many modern states. And take that knowledge and look at the rest of Europe at that period of time (1000 years), and it becomes quite remarkable. Or that the doge only was a figurehead, a symbol, for the republic, and not a man of power. Much like the royalty today, or the presidents of Italy and Germany. Major tidbits like these, were among the things the guide told us, explained, while we ventured in the cramped cabins and starcases, behind the glory of the stately rooms, which were ment to dazzle and showcase the power of the republic. On the tour you see some of the places where the dirty work took place, where court orders were written and seals stamped. In some of these offices you also see the original furniture, layed out as they were back when these quarters were the hot spot of a successful nation. I couldn’t help wondering how poorly protected they were though... 20 people in a tight space, on and around these objects, heads pushing golden mirrors with candelabras, a boy almost sat down on one of the 18th century chair. His dad stopped him before he put all his weight on it. You really had to watch out at times, if you were aware of the value of these objects, of their age. I wonder how many of the people poking around are, aware I mean.
Casanova was a central figure at the tour, his cell, the attic, where he was allowed to walk around to stretch his limbs. The guide tolds us what the worlds greatest lover wrote about his escape, and the known facts etc. I liked the original floor of one of the rooms, the checkboard pattern, that gives the three-dimensional appearance.
All in all, I enjoyed the tour, the small details here and there, the general information about the republic, how it worked. Somehow, in those small spaces, you could sense the people, who once roamed there. Calling it the Secret Itineraries tour may be slightly misleading, I think, maybe giving some people too much expectations. There are no big, mindblowing secrets, which you go wow over. In fact, there was hardly any wow-factor at all. But I don’t think that’s the point of this tour, the point is to give a slightly different view of the republican machinery than the splendid halls on the other side of, some of them, secret doors, do. And yes, if you are a hardcore politician, with a expertis in the politics of the Republic of Venice (I’m exaggerating of course), than you might find this dull, one-dimensional. The tour doesn’t go deep, doesn’t dwell on matters, it gives info here and there, aiming at the average tourist. Or so I think, others might disagree.
When the tour was over, we were let back to the official parts of the palazzo. I’m not sure, but it would maybe be better to take the tour first, and then see the rest of the palace... at least I overheard some people saying that they were unimpressed by the tour, having already seen the great chambers, all those fine paintings and golden frills. I, on the other hand, being somewhat abnormal I guess, failed to be fascinated by the big, grand rooms. They were cold, sterile somehow, despite their voluptious embellishments. Like court rooms in a way, despite their Tintorettos. Room after room which were once occupied by zillions of different councils, a bench here and there and nice ceilings. They didn’t speak to me, touch me, I couldn’t get a feel of them. They lacked all humanity, all traces of what went on behind those walls, leaving only the fine art and empty rooms for us to gaze at. For some people that’s fine, for me... it just isn’t enough. I was more fascinated, seeing it on the tour, by the technic, by which the painted ceiling of Sala del Maggio Consiglio, is held and kept together, than I was by the ceiling itself. Background, details, the life and difficulties behind the glorious masks, that’s what makes me go bananas. Although the Scala d’Oro was a marvellous sight as we entered. All lit up and glistening.
I scrolled the grand chambers and then I went lower, towards the dungeons and the Bridge of Sighs. As I stood there, on that famous overpass, all alone, I gazed out of the small windows, on the people with their cameras. I was perfectly still, fixing my gaze on the lenses, feeling like a ghost, trying to be captured by the frenzy down below. Did someone see me? I don’t think so, but I stood there for a while, looking at all the markings people had made on the walls inside the bridge. And then I stepped back inside the palazzo.
I was out pretty soon after that, making my way through the crowds of the piazza. What stood out for me, was there were so many teenagers, children. Groups. It was something I thought about often during my week, how many kids there were in Venice, youngsters. I had always imagined Venice to be the place for adult couples, a place where you see people strolling two and two, peacefully taking in the views. Yet again the stereotype, and of course I knew beforehand, that these images weren’t probably accurate ones, but I was still amazed at the amount of, especially, teenagers around. Often even more than adults, it seemed. And the noice... Well, like teenagers of any nationality. Many of them seemed to be French and Spanish. The kids ran around the piazza and piazzetta, chasing the pidgeons, making them take a hike and fly over your head, so you could feel the breeze of their wings mess with your hair. People were always feeding the birds, luring them on their hands and arms so that the photographer of the family could get some nice pictures. I snapped away discretely as I walked by. The carabinieri walked among the people, trying to stop the feeding, with somewhat poor results.
I decided to head up to the campanile. There was hardly any queue at all so why not. I was up in a matter of minutes. It was a cold day, with showers, and a wind which made some serious tries to get the hems of my dress on the same level as my ears. So maybe not the best day to be up there above the Venetian roofs. This was maybe the one thing I felt I could have left undone. Not that it was that expensive or timeconsuming, but it didn’t give me any deeper insight or knowledge about Venice. I feel that this is not the town to be seen from far above, where the canals become invisible, where the buildings become one mass of stone. This city is, for me, about the details, the hidden gems here and there, the up-close-and-personal. It is not about a great skyline, which comes to its rights seen from above, like in New York, Venice is a city which can be touched and fondled, and should be so, if you know what I mean. Its grandness isn’t in its size or its spires reaching for the sky, it is not about the contour, the silhouette. It is about the flaging paint on the windowpanes, the soft splashes of water in the canals, the sealed wells on the campos, the withered marble figure on a random wall, the smell of vinegar in the alleys, the laughter from the bars. From the campanile Venice looked like any other Adriatic city, in a way. Although you did understand the size of Piazza San Marco looking down at it from the top.I was done with San Marco for now and headed into the maze of alleys away from the tourists, away from the Merceria. At one time I found myself sitting on a broken bench at Campo Bandiera e Moro o de la Bragora, breathing, contemplating, writing down my thoughts for the day. Listening to the merry chattering of elderly people, watching kids play football. As I explored the western parts of Castello, it started to rain, first a few drops here and there, then more and more until my feet were soaked and my camera was of no use. The gates of Arsenale intrigued me, and I couldn’t help but smile at the great lions guarding it, they looked so charming, soft and kind. Because of the weather I only walked past the place, continuing towards the Riva degli Schiavoni, wanting to find a place to eat, a shelter from the rain. I know, it is a bad move to get closer to San Marco, but when you’re hungry, you’re hungry, and I’m not picky when it comes to food. Unfortunately I sat almost exaclty behind my hotel after a while, on the terrass of another random pizzeria, eating a pizza with sausage on it (!). Quite peculiar I might say.
My feet took me towards my hotel, I needed to get those wet shoes off me, and maybe rest for awhile. I came out on Campo San Zaccharia and saw some people going into the church. I got curious and crossed the campo and stepped inside. No fee. The first thing I noticed was that beautiful Bellini on the left. It was lit up and sparkled with colour. Pink, blue, green... A painting you could sit and marvel for some time indeed. Every now and then the light went off and it abruptly cut the magic. Until the light went on again and the colours were once again on fire, dazzling. I wonder how the people of the time of Bellini saw these paintings. Did anyone see them as we can see them today, in their full glory? Because when the light went off, the colours became dark, muted and the people on the painting blended into the other motifs on the wall. Do we see this Bellini today as it was meant to be seen, or have we artificially enhanced it? By lighten it up, do we hide something, that Bellini wanted us to see? I don’t know.
I payed one lousy euro to enter the chapel, the museum side of the church. According to legend, this church is where the father of John the Baptist, Zachary, is buried. In the chapel, which is the nave of the old church, is an interesting painting of Tintoretto, portraying the birth of St John the Baptist. Elizabeth is still lying in bed, while the attending ladies are taking care of the newborn. I liked that painting, the everyday value of it.
The church of San Zaccharia was completely remodelled during the reniassance, but there are some traces of the medieval church and the beauty of it, especially in the chapel. I don’t care for the baroque- and the renaissance-styled churches. They are layered, covered, pompouse, flowing, you sometimes almost feel like drowning in the plentitude of marble folds and creases covering everything. It is too much. I like the pure beauty of the medieval style. The gothic influence. The clear lines and colours. The simpleness, which doesn’t allow your eyes to go blind because of overload, which forces you to trace the lines, follow them, forces you to focus on the simple pictures on the chalk coated walls. I’m a medieval kind of gal, that’s for sure and that chapel area, with blue and red painted gothic arches and vaults, made me happy. Made me stop and stare. The crypt, the only one in Venice, was a spooky place to walk through. The graves are not visible, but knowing they are there, seeing the water covering everything, hearing the echo of your own footsteps, it gives you the chills.
Some people still sat and stared at the Bellini when I came out from the chapel. Not that I blame them, it is a truly wonderful piece of art. I lighted a candle in the midst of that peaceful atmosphere, watched the flame flicker for a while and then I was ready to move on. To my hotelroom.
I felt awfully refreshed when I came back out on the campo, but I still ended up sleeping for a few hours.
When I finally woke up, it had stopped raining. I started to walk somewhere, not having a goal in my mind, just letting my feet take the lead. The locals were out, making noises on the campos, gathering at some smaller restaurants with a glass of wine. Children with packbags walked home with their parents, older kids with heavy bags futuring badges of Venetian sportclubs rushed through the narrow alleys. People walked their tiny dogs and chatted with friends as they met. Most of the time I felt like the only tourist around. No cameras, no maps, no distinctive touristic vibes. I don’t have a clear memory of where exactly I was this evening. No map, no goal, no nothing. Much of Venice is the same, and I could often not distinguish one campo from another, one canal from another, one bridge from another. This was the reason I initially thought you could see this place in a short amount of time. I feel that Venice has to be taken as a whole, I don’t think there are some very distinctive places that stand out, expect from San Marco. I felt that I was in Venice once I stepped out of the door of my hotel. I mean, I didn’t need to be some place special to feel like I experienced Venice, there was no: “now I have seen this, therefore I shall walk this way to see that other place”, like in many other cities, where you use time to go from one place to another, maybe not seeing anything of interest in between. I felt that being in Venice was enough, walking any alley, any bridge, soaking it in. Venice is the only place, where I have experienced this phenomenon, that there’s no need to go anywhere specific, no need to do anything. Being is just enough. It was very meditative.
As I looked at my map afterwards I recognised some campos I had crossed during my evening stroll. Campo Santi Giovanni e Paolo, Campo Santa Maria Formosa, Campo Santa Maria dei Miracoli... Just a few of the places I visited, rested at, peoplewatched. I loved the evenings in Venice, loved the calm of the twilight, the silence of the back alleys, the slight shift in the air, the soft tones of music. The absence of the crowds.
After darkness I popped back on the radar as I found myself at Rialto and all the tourists. I decided to hop on a vaporetto to San Marco.
At the piazza I listened to the orchestras playing, there was a saxophone at the Chioggia and some, I think, Russian musicians at Quadri and Lavena. I fancied some dessert, maybe icecream, and sat down at Lavena. I was the only sitting, and paying, costumer. A crowd stood and listened to the orchestra and I felt watched to say the least. But it was okey. The icecream was huge and the hot chocolate I drank was divine. I have never had anything quite like that, it was like drinking chocolate soup, like liquid chocolate, so thick and creamy. Oh my. The bill was a big oh my as well, but who counts the pennies when you’re traveling... I don’t, I just cry when I’m back home and receive my credit card bill.
I didn’t really like the style of the waiter though. When he gave me the menu, he pointed very clearly out the 5€ charge for the music and when I was about to pay, he asked if I would like to put the tip on the card as well. I just felt it was so... cheap. So money oriented. Of course, that’s what it is, but I felt a few of the other cafés I visited during my visit handled it far more gracefully, doing it more subtle.
The band played fast Russian folkmusic as I savoured my dessert, and the audience cheered and clapped. I was content. Until it started to rain and it became a good time to call it a night.
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