Venezia- day one

Jag har skrivit en trip report om min resa till Venedig och för att känna att det har varit till någon nytta, så lägger jag ut den här också, en dag i taget. Maybe some of you can enjoy it.


"Well then. Time for a trip report about the wonderful city of Venice. A world of its own, a dimension so different from the mainland. A bubble of air, water and shimmering light. A place without time, without directions. That was my Venezia, 19-26.4.2009.

This will probably be rather long (and that will probably be a severe understatement), I apologize, but maybe someone can find something of enjoyment in some of my words. I need to tell the story of my Venice, the whole story, need to print it, make it solid. I don’t even know where to start... Venice was truly like a bubble, there was no beginning nor was there an end, I spent seven days in that remarkable space and felt more relaxed than ever. That is, staying away from San Marco during the day... Oh man those crowds! Anyway, I feel my thoughts are also very circularly linked, and I don’t know where to cut them open, or if I’m even able to do so.
But, let’s just start from day one and take it from there.

Sunday 19.4
As I sat on Finnairs retro-painted plain somewhere over Central Europe I thought about my upcoming adventure, what had brought me here, what would I be doing in a city I didn’t have a clue about, why was I going there? I had barely done any research, any planning. Yes, I had read many, many guidebooks, spent days in front of the computer, read through at least the 300 first pages on the Venice-forum on TA, but I had not planned my trip. I couldn’t get a grip about the place, couldn’t understand all those Italian names, didn’t really have anything particular I badly wanted to see. I just couldn’t get a grip. Fortunately I had made a last minute purchase of a Venice Connected card for seven days, and reserved a place on the Secret Itineraries-tour. But that was that, I barely knew how to get myself and my luggage to the hotel. And oh, I wanted to see Burano, Torcello and maybe spend a day each in Padua and Verona.

Why Venice? I didn’t know, couldn’t remember, as I sat there on the plane, looking at the Alps, shining white in the sun. Just a whim maybe. I had never been a fan of Venice, never had any plans of going there, wanting to go there. A place for romance, kisses, roses, singing gondoliers and all that bla bla huha, not something that interests a single gal traveling alone, hah? Venice is really a terrible cliché, isn’t it. At least that was how I saw it, before I actually went and took a look around. I knew I wasn’t interested in all those paintings, Tintoretto, Tiepolo and the likes, nor was I interested in baroque-churches, not really my taste. So why the h**l go to Venice, you may think. That’s what I thought on the plane as well. But I was going to let Venice take the lead, let it show me what there is to see, I would take it for its uniqueness, its waters, the absence of cars, the thousand opportunities to photograph, to walk until my feet would fall off. I was wide open. And usually, that is the best approach, to any place, anywhere.
I saw the city from the plane as we landed, its terracotta roofs and all the grey stone, and oh so tiny it looked. Seven days... oh my. Why didn’t I go to New York instead…

After catching my bag before it went full-kazaboom into the opposite wall (man those Venetian baggage claim bands are effective…), I went to look for the place where I could validate my Venice Connected card and get a ticket for Alilaguna. The airport was really small, and it should have been very easy, I assume, but I failed. Or then it was just my lack of listening and understanding. I suspect the latter. I’ve had this before, this feeling of total lack of sense, when entering a new place, a tunnel vision and a fleeting hearing. Got my ferry tickets and decided to validate my VC at P.Roma.

It was warm as I stepped outside, following the signs to the dock. +20’C, a slight breeze, daisies and lavender was abloom. It felt like summertime at home. I still didn’t shed my jacket, something about the air gave it a slight cold undertone, the temperature was like a summer at home, but the feel of it, wasn’t quite the same. With all the cool, attitude vibrating Italian men in short jackets and pilot sunglasses, it felt like being in a Gant commercial. Strange.
I found the right ferry, stepped down in the damp, warm cabin and looked at all the three other people sitting there. Where did all the other people from the airport go?

The ride to Venice proper was slow, unadventurous. Boat taxis swished by along the marked waterways, causing waves to crash into the ferry. I dosed off watching the turquoise-grey water through the dirty windows. I had barely slept the night before my departure. Just in time for my own stop, San Zaccharia, I woke up and saw the glory of Venice in front of me. Still couldn’t quite feel it, but what made me happy was, that on the other side of the pavement, I saw my hotel, Paganelli. Just there. I looked around and almost laughed, the area was packed with people, ridiculous really, tourists, tourists, tourists. Everywhere.

I got my room and was escorted to the annex, at Campo San Zaccharia. Excellent location, although I came to dislike the crowds around there, and the room in itself, just perfect. A sigh of relieve. I had to get myself going at once; there was a slight danger in the air that I would just fall asleep on the cozy bed and waste hours of my time, so out I went, with Piazzale Roma and my Venice Connected-card in mind. Better to get that sorted right away, I thought. I walked over two bridges, glanced aside at the other one and there I saw the Bridge of Sighs. People aimed their cameras at it like crazy. That was it? All I saw was that gigantic Chopard advertisement. Many times during my stay I couldn’t help wondering how much money that company had paid to wallpaper that hot spot with their lady in sunglasses… Same goes for Replay, Swatch and Roccobarocco, covering other sites, like Ca’Rezzonico. I guess it’s good though, to gather money for the reparations this way. Brightens up the boring white scaffolding a bit, doesn’t it?

It rained a bit at this point, and umbrellas were everywhere, as were souvenir sellers, offering masks, t-shirts…. And then I was there. At Piazzetta San Marco. And had my first Italian encounter. As I gazed up on the beauty of the buildings a man approached me and asked me, in Russian, if I speak Russian. A few bewildering thoughts later, I told him, also in Russian, that yes, a little bit. Then came a few more questions, some in Russian, and then in English, when he finally realized, that I wasn’t actually from the former USSR. When asked, I told him where I was heading, and he insisted that he, from Vicenza I learned, would escort me to the bus station. No thanks. “Oh, it’s no problem, I’m going that way anyway”, he replied, adding: “I’m no bandit. We can meet tomorrow and I show you the best of Venice.” Still no thanks. With a smile I left the site. On my first steps on Venetian ground, the stereotype of Italian men almost hits me in the face. Quite funny.

I bounced over Piazza San Marco, registered what I saw, without thinking so much about it, but I do remember, that I thought the basilica looked awfully small. I don’t really know what I was expecting though… With my tunnel vision on I continued towards Rialto, following the signs, walking rapidly, buying an ice-cream on the way, seeing canals, fixing my gaze on my goal. I’m used to this phenomenon, this incapability to let it all sink in, to settle in, to actually see what you’re eyes are looking at. It takes a while before you adjust to the milieu, before you’re soul starts beating in the same rhythm as the odd place you’ve entered. Was that it, I thought. Just this, small alleys, churches, canals, houses that look exactly alike, was that it. How on earth would I get seven days to pass in this place? I would be done in two days, at most. By the end of my journey, I couldn’t but laugh at these initial thoughts, pat that newborn Venice-tourist inside me on the head and smile lovingly. I had no clue whatsoever what this place eventually would do to me, what it would show me. How many dimensions, how many quiet resonances it radiates. If you just stop to listen for awhile.
I was at Piazzale Roma in about 20 minutes. Cross the town, in 20 minutes. It is really a small place, a small place with sights and wonders enough to fill a city at least three times its geographical size.
Got my ticket running and decided to hop on a vaporetto back to the hotel. Saw nr 2 coming in, heard the blip from the machine as I showed it my card and on I was. And very glad that I got a seat in the front, beginners luck, I thought. Wrong… I was going the wrong way, out of the Canal Grande, out into the waters of the bay. Should have read the signs on that dock more carefully, and then stepped on another one. Oh well. No harm done. It was freezing cold, heavy wind gusts, although no rain at that moment.

Back at the hotel I really needed a nap and sank blissfully into deep sleep, woke up a few times by church bells, and eventually forced myself to get out of bed, 2.5 hours later… God, I felt nauseated, dizzy, and above all: hungry. So I ventured out, started to stroll the alleys next to my hotel. All the crowds were gone; the streets were partly dry, an atmosphere started to arise. I started to connect.

My camera was happy to get a Venice-test-drive, as were my feet, happy to touch that grey stone, to feel the vibe of this ancient place. My steps started to get lighter. I let my eyes divulge on the canals, the buildings, the bushes and trees that were blossoming here and there. I felt the scent of that lovely lilac flower, which sprouted over some walls. Was that the flower of the wine grapes…? I don’t know, but oh what a lovely scent it had there in the darkening night of Venice. This, my first night in this city, I learned the wonderful art of getting lost. Going in circles, standing in that same campo for the third time, scratching my head and trying to figure out where the heck I chose wrong. And then doing the same thing all over again. Round and round we go. My map stank, but I didn’t really need it anyway, wasn’t going anywhere in particular, so I tossed it away (well, not really, just down in the bottom of my bag) and let my senses free, let my feet guide me, my eyes, the city.

I truly enjoyed the place by now, the quiet, solid strength of it, the feel of whispers in the air, a resounding aura of magic. The canals were mirroring the houses and the bridges. I’m not at all surprised that the Venetians were the masters of glass and mirrors so long ago, they had their inspiration all around them, a natural mirror, a natural shimmer, that they wanted to replicate. Or so I liked to think as I stood there on some random bridge at some random canal, gazing, listening, seeing myself pictured in the stillness of the water.
And then my stomach growled. Loudly. I had forgot I was hungry.

Somewhere behind San Marco I resolutely sat down at a trattoria, pizzeria, whatever, and ordered a pizza. How original. Prosciutto e Funghi. Very good indeed. The rain had started to come down as I looked for a place to eat and it continued to do so while I ate. Pouring down from the roofs, cascading in the wind. It started to get late (about 21), and the weight of the first day of traveling got all the more to me. It was time to go to bed.

I wandered towards Piazza San Marco, realized the rain had ceased and that there were barely any people around. What a bliss. The streets glistened in the lights here and there. And then I was back at the piazza. Emptiness surrounded me, the majesty of the buildings made me gasp. Only a handful of people shared this evening with me, this remarkable place bathing with reflections, with gleaming gold of light in water. The sight dazzled me, made me inhale, smile, adore. Was it really the same place I had crossed earlier this day? It couldn’t be. This place of pure wonder was a world away from the chaotic cacophony of the day. A reflection of the basilica hovered at my feet, accentuating the curves and the pillars of that masterpiece. This place must be absolutely breathtaking during aqua alta, despite the inconvenience.

I walked further, to the piazzetta, stood at the water and listened to the splashes of waves; saw the long row of gondolas move up and down, their graceful shapes making me sigh of pleasure. It was time to go to bed, it definitely was and I guided my feet along Riva degli Schiavoni. And then I heard it. And abruptly froze. Turned slowly around and walked back. An orchestra was playing at the Chioggia, well shielded from the weather and their tunes painted the darkness in bright colors. My Heart Will Go On. Like under hypnosis I went closer yet and hexed I listened. That song always touches me; it moves a string inside me, reminds me of teenage years, of agony and joy. It symbolizes a whole era of life and with the words of another Celine Dion song: It’s all coming back to me now… That’s what this grand, too much played-song, does to me. And there I was, at San Marco in Venice, with water all around me, twinkling lights and a shimmer in the air, listening to My heart will go on. The violin was so beautiful it almost broke my heart. Passion and longing, it portrayed. Cascading the tones out on the water, on the piazzetta, into our hearts. Such an incredible feeling, such an other-worldly taste of glory. It was one of those moments I will remember my whole life. I wanted to stop the time right then and there.

All too soon it was over, and I felt bereft of something, the cold crept upon me and my feet were suddenly heavy as I silently walked the few steps to my hotel. I barely moved my body, felt I would break the spell. And then I passed out, after this first evening in this place of rare wonder. In Venice.