Venezia- day four

22.4 Wednesday

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.

Venezia- day three

21.04.09 Tuesday

Monday evening I scrambled through my guidebook, looking for something I otherwise would have missed. That’s what I do when I come to a place I haven’t visited before, I read the guidebooks before I go, but everything gets a whole new meaning when you’re there, you realise where everything is, what you’ll be able to do and see. This time I found two things I wanted to take a look at. A. Museo Diocesano d’arte Sacra and B. Chiesa di San Geremia e Lucia. Why A? Because the setting of the museum, the cloister of Sant’Apollonia, is the only example of Roman architecture in Venice, and because of the beautiful courtyard. Then why B? Because this is the resting place of Santa Lucia, the only catholic saint still celebrated in the Nordic countries. I could not be in Venice and not visit her. To tell the truth, I had not known that her relics even existed, and definitely not that they are in Venice, of all places. This was a Sicilian girl after all.

I stepped out of the hotel and immediately returned inside, to toss my jacket away, for the first time, what a joy! The sun was shining, it was warm and cosy. The city was suddenly up and alive in a way it hadn’t been for the last couple of days, a buzz in the air, people more energetic and alert. My steps had a whole new swing to them and the hems of my dress swayed along. A bit too much actually, as the wind had some strong objections to me covering my thighs and my butt… Oh well, maybe I made some men happy as I went. On my way to place A I bought some postcards, I would have to start writing them now, or so I thought, as I always do in a reliable fashion. In reality I always end up panicking with the last cards the last moments before I step through security on the airport, scribbling down some words, having no time to make an effort. But it’s good to start with noble thoughts and goals, isn’t it.

Sant’Apollonia was a remarkable place. There was something magical in the air, a calm, a resonance of voices long gone. A stillness. I was alone in the courtyard, breathing in and out, enjoying the atmosphere, the istrian pillars, the floor tiles in a beautiful fishbone pattern, the light spilling through the pillars, creating mesmerizing shadows. I have visited other similar places, and always felt that same feeling in the air, so refreshing, a moisture and a refuge from heat. You feel like you just drank a glass of cold spring water.

The rest of the museum was somewhat, I don’t know, not depressing, but gloomy. All those paintings and artefacts from forgotten churches, taken from the places they were intended to be seen at. I became sad watching them, all their possible glory was diminished somehow by hanging here amongst other “abandoned” items. An orphanage, yes that’s it, it was like an orphanage for church dedicated items. But no, I did not want to cuddle them or bring them home with me. There’s a limit to everything, even when it comes to silly me.

I re-entered the real world after a while and guided my steps towards Ferrovia, walking slowly, embracing the splendid weather, photographing and looking at all the details on the buildings. I felt so free now with my camera and my moves when the rain didn’t hinder me in any way. The cold didn’t stiffen my limbs. Somewhere along my way I stumbled upon an internet café and gladly went inside. It’s not like I’m addicted to the net, but I did feel a need to check out what was going on in the world. The weather forecast also needed to be looked at. It was some depressing info I obtained… rain for almost the rest of my stay. Oh well, you can’t do anything about the weather can you, but now when I had experienced Venice in sunshine, I didn’t want to see one single drop of rain anymore. Thank you very much.

Strada Nuova was a surprise, the width and open space felt almost alien after days spent in the maze of the Venetian alleyways. It didn’t in fact feel Venetian, but just like a random street in a random Italian city. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, just different. I popped into the supermarket and bought some snacks and strawberries. My first ones this year. Strawberries and sunshine, could it be any better… A bit later I found myself sitting at Campo San Marcuola, reading my guidebook, munching on the strawberries (which didn’t even have a hint of taste…), watching the boats go by, people emerging from the vaporetti. Even the stone I sat on was warm and comfortable. On an impulse I decided to go to Ca’d’Oro. I would be backtracking myself, but who cares, this was all about being in Venice, experience the place, rather than checking off an itinerary as efficiently as possible. Besides, Venice is a small city, you can jump here and there, make detours, in fact that is something you should do. Let the city guide you, go with impulses, let your feet, your eyes and nose lead you, while you relax and enjoy the ride. I jumped on a vaporetto to take me to the Golden House. As I walked down a narrow alley down from the vaporetto stop I almost missed the entrance to the museum. Not only was it quite anonymous, but it also only said Galleria Franchetti, which I didn’t realise, was the name of the collection inside. Nowhere did it say Ca’d’Oro, or then I just missed those words. But as the bold creature I am, I stepped inside into the wild unknown and behold, I, in fact, was in Ca’d’Oro. I was lucky, because for some reason I did not hear/understand etc, the museum was free this particular day. No fee. Yippiaiei.
I went straight up to the loggia on the second floor. This was where I wanted to be, to stand there and gaze out on the Canal Grande. Glass covered the entrance from floor to ceiling and secluded the loggia from the rest of the piano nobili. When I closed the glass door behind me, everything became still. Like being in a bubble. The traffic on Canal Grande went on uninterrupted, but all the noises sounded muted and distant. This was an own world. The gothic pillars descended gracefully up into the sky and painted lacelike shadows on the loggia floor. Here too, the air felt refreshing and tangible somehow. A place to dwell in for awhile, to rest. There is definitely something between me and these kinds of places, the gothic influences as well as the roman. The beauty of the vaults, the delicately carved stone and the light these features enable and enhance, all this just make my heart beat faster, make my soul vibrate with pure joy and peace. Harmony. Man-made beauty, touched by hundreds of years, impregnated with the presence and voices of people long gone.

I stood there at the loggia a long time, looking out onto the Canal Grande, the traffic, the people, I imagined myself belonging there, a noble woman sitting there with some needlework. I felt the pride of that grand building surround me, vibrating through the worn marble. A pride that radiated from the lions attached to the balconies, as they continued to gaze out onto the Canal Grande. Rain and wind had softened their features but their bold spirits remained as strong as ever, guarding the finest of the Venetian palazzos. I paid the other loggia a visit as well and cast some glimpses upon the collection as I walked through the rooms. Nothing extraordinary special there, I have to admit, for me, it was the building itself that mattered. Downstairs I found another gem. The floor of the portego de mezzo was entirely covered by mosaics and together with the vaults of the ceiling, it made an absolutely enchanting space. A couple shared this large floor with me and we three silently looked around, moving in slow motion with looks of amazement plastered on our faces. Here too I sat for a while, on a stone bench, carefully examining the fine tiles underneath my feet. Palazzo Santa Sofia, a beautiful name for an extraordinary beautiful building. When I finally managed to drag myself away from all the architectural goodies I hopped on a vaporetto back towards San Marcuola, but jumped off for some reason that escapes me, at San Stae. There I stumbled upon Palazzo Mocenigo and remembered reading that this particular museum had some 18th century costumes on display. So of course I went inside. This was a fine palazzo, picturing the history of the Mocenigo family, with clothes, photos and art. Splendid furniture, amazing mirrors and costly gildings. Those 18th century nobles sure lead a nice life within these walls.

As I stepped outside I felt like cursing, the sun was gone and lonely raindrops flew into my face. That’s what you get when you spend the beautiful day inside museums. I started walking towards Piazzale Roma, feeling hungrier each step I took and finally found myself sitting at Ristorante Roma just on the other side of Ponte di Scalzi. Maybe not the best move, but I’m not famous for making good moves when it comes to food. I just go somewhere random, with some very random results. Never have I walked away hungry though, and that’s the point with eating, I guess. I ordered Venetian liver and waited, sitting next to red geraniums and listening to the flirting waiter. He was impossible, teasing me, giving me advise on what to do, where to go, asking me to join him for a drink later in the evening in Campo San Margherita, giving me details on when he would finish work etc. It wasn’t rude or intrusive, and I didn’t feel uncomfortable, it just made me laugh and shake me head. And no, not for a second did I even consider his offer. Why? Well, he was well beyond his forties and not even good-looking. Not that I would have taken the offer had these attributes been different…

I managed to escape with my dignity intact and made my way to the other must-stop for the day, Chiesa San Geremia e Lucia, only a few hundred metres away. Some short hundreds metres is absolutely enough to buy an ice-cream, and so I did, a marvellous nutella taste. I bought ice-cream almost once every hour (well, not quite, but often enough) my whole trip, because Italian ice-cream is a taste of heaven. All the different versions, tasting just like the name suggests. I think it’s based on water (?) and therefore it has a sorbet like consistence, making it light. At the moment the one thing I miss the most about Venice is the ice-cream… Here in Finland all the ice-cream is based on cream and it’s much harder and the aromas and tastes aren’t as clear as in the Italian version. Sadly. Fragola, mela verde, limone, nutella, stracciatella, mousse marengue… Oh heaven, just heaven… I had devoured my cone way before I stepped inside the chiesa.

The doors were open and I carefully made my way deeper into the shadows of the church. It felt strange, knowing that I would soon lay my eyes upon the body of Santa Lucia, the woman who I have been celebrating since I was little. 13th of December is the day of Santa Lucia, the day when one girl is chosen to portray her in every kindergarten, school, town… She, who is the chosen one (usually one of the popular girls) is envied (I never got to be Lucia, always one of the maids…oh the bitterness). A number of girls then become maids, walking with Lucia where she goes. Lucia is clad in a white robe, as are all the maids, and she has green wreath with candles on her head and a red belt around her waist. The small children have electric lights and the older ones as well as the adults, real candles blazing on top of their heads. The scent of burning hair is familiar to almost everyone involved in the Lucia festive... The red belt symbolizes the blood Lucia shed in her martyrdom and the candles the light she brought to the people she met. The maids all have different kinds of wreaths on their heads and around their waists and they carry candles. Singing songs devoted to Santa Lucia they walk in cortege, the maids two and two behind Lucia. I grew up with the legend of Santa Lucia so for me it was truly a trembling experience to “meet” her, stand in front of her relics, see a piece of the real woman who continues to spread light in the darkest time of the year. She makes up a huge part of the path towards Christmas, during the time of Advent.

I found her glass coffin in one of the side altars, red chandeliers all around and a golden touch. I took the camera out; this was something I had to show people back home. The guardian of the church said something in Italian to me, and I understood that he told me that photographing was allowed, but not the use of flash. So I took one picture. Only afterwards, at home, when I looked at my pictures did I clearly see the sign that forbade photos. Oh how ashamed I felt… I take these bans seriously and never ever would I try to take a photo in a place that states that it isn’t allowed. Oh well, it happens to the best of us I assume. At least I bought some cards and other material there as well. There were several candles alight in front of the altar, more than in any other church I had visited on my trip. Slowly I moved forward, disbelievingly looking at the short human body clad in a red robe with golden embroideries. Could it really be her? She died 304 AD, almost 2000 years ago, could her body have survived through all this time? It felt remarkable, still does. You could only see her feet and one of her hands; the face was covered with a silver mask, making her look peaceful and dignified. The story of how her relics ended up in Venice is a long one, and something I looked up when I was back home. It was kept in Sicily for hundreds of years until an Italian duke stole them and brought them to Italy. From there on they made their way to Constantinople by means of a Byzantine emperor and finally, when Constantinople fell, to Venice in the 13th century.

You could step even closer to her, walk right behind the altar and press your nose to the glass. It felt a bit morbid, standing there just a few inches away, staring at a dead body. People had left pictures of loved ones and papers with prayers to the saint. Next to her altar was a little room where you could buy small catholic items, crosses etc, postcards and books about the saint. The guardian came along and started to explain to me about the paintings hanging in there. He did it in Italian but gestured so clearly and spoke so slowly, that I understood the main lines of what he was trying to tell me. They have a Tintoretto in that small space, hanging on the wall anonymously. I would have liked to tell the guardian, an old man, about the Lucia-tradition in Scandinavia, but we sadly didn’t have a mutual language. He felt very sincere about his mission, was he maybe volunteering or…? I don’t know, but he clearly wasn’t taking this as a job, but as something personal. He seemed literally to be a guardian of the church.

The weather had gotten chilly when I got back outside, I needed a bathroom and my feet were sore. These all combined made a very good excuse to get back to the hotel and freshen up, so I decided to take a vaporetto to San Zaccharia. Eventually I found a bathroom at the railway station and therefore stole some extra time. Didn’t do anything particular, strolled for some time and then I took the vaporetto home.

When I had padded my heels and put on something a bit warmer I headed out again. No sleeping this time, amazing. I walked without a goal, to the right, to the left, up and down, through and across. Looking, watching, listening and smelling everything Venice had on display. Eventually I, again, sometime after dark, found myself twirling the streets and alleys between San Marco and Rialto. There was hardly any wind this evening, my hems where left undisturbed and I could concentrate on my surroundings better than I had during the day. Again I was amazed at how different the city felt in the evening, it took another shape, another atmosphere, it was like entering another dimension, another Venice. I feel really sorry for all the day-trippers, how much they miss, how much they fail to see and experience. Although I was happy that most of the people do go away, it is one of the reasons the city becomes so magical during the dark hours.

I crossed Piazza San Marco just like I did every evening, listening to the music for a while, enjoying the peace and quiet. After eating caprese and two large pieces of cake (not by my own choice!) at a restaurant, I slowly rolled my bloated body back to the hotel and called it a night.

Venezia- day two

Monday 20.4
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.

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.

duvflocken

Jag bor granne med en duvflock. De tycker om att sitta på telefonlinjerna och kuttra mjukt och stilla. Plötsligt kan de lyfta som en man och flyga bort, vingarnas ljud är öronbedövande för några sekunder. Jag ser dem alltid när jag kommer hem, när jag far någonstans, och på något sätt är de en lugnande syn. Dessa skogsduvor. En varm, vindstilla tidig morgon känns deras småmys som ett varmt täcke omkring en.
Ljudet av deras vingar påminner mig om Paris och Venedig, kuttrandet för mig till Glasgow och Europas parker. En fläkt av Europa, precis här i Virkby. Det är mysigt. Jag har spenderat några tidiga morgon med att fotografera, tagit mitt pick och pack och åkt ut till sjön, till ett sädesfält, tittat hur vattendroppar glimmar av den uppstigande solens strålar, sett hur dimman sakta släpper, drar sig undan. Det är en fantastiskt känsla, att vara uppe klockan fyra, nästan ensam i universum, och bara betrakta allting runtomkring. Det är sällsamt. Nej, jag har inte stigit upp klockan fyra, jag har avslutat arbetet då och varit färdigt vaken. Något bra med skiftesarbete, en liten bra sak.

filmer

Jag har igen tittat på några filmer under ett par kvällar. Det känns så skönt att försjunka sig in i en annan värld, kanske få gråta lite, skratta lite, tråna lite. Första kvällen: Benjamin Button.

Benjamin Button var en vacker film, fin att titta på, and oh, Brad Pitt med bar överkropp och låga jeans... mmm... Yeah, liked that sight. Annars var filmen kall på något sätt, jag blev inte involverad, det var som att se händelser radas upp efter varandra, likgiltigt och listaktigt. Brad Pitt är, enligt mig, en lousy skådespelare, det har jag alltid tyckt. Han förmedlar ingenting, han är monoton och bara, där. Kanske en annan skådespelare hade kunnat trolla fram mera lager. Maybe. Nominerad till en Oscar för Best Actor? Det var det absolut dummaste, Pitten hade några få repliker och kom egentligen inte med någonting äkta. Sean Penn var en värdig vinnare, Milk är förresten en bra film också, och Penns prestation, lovely. Men Cate Blanchett, hon är the woman, kan aldrig göra något fel, en underbar skådespelerska. Så äkta på något sätt, hängiven, med fötterna på jorden.
Det som var fint i BB var special effekterna. Att få både Brad Pitt och Cate Blanchett att se ut som 20 är fantastiskt! En visuell fest är filmen, men inte så mycket mer. Tyvärr.

Vad blev det den andra kvällen då? Jo, Twilight... Hade aldrig tänkt se den filmen, men såg den i misstag i hyllan och blev nyfiken, why not, ville se what all the fuss is about. Denna nya Titanic. Robert Pattinson och Kristen Stewart etc. Rob som världens sexigaste et al. Vad var det för nåt? Hade jag aldrig förstått. Men nu, ja nu förstår jag... Oh yeah. Hans karaktär i filmen, ja du, den inre faran, den blicken, nonchalansen, oh ja, works for me. Har nu kollat upp några intervjuer med honom på YouTube och är impressed, en charmant engelsman som verkar, än så länge, vara väldigt jordnära och humoristisk angående sin succé. Jag kan absolut förstå att tonårsflickorna dreglar efter honom, skriker och ropar, gråter och vill gifta sig med honom. Jag förstår precis. Jag gör inte det själv, men jag ser the set up, ser vad det är som de ser i deras tonåringsdrömmar.

Och faktiskt, Pattinson... hans ögon är fascinerande, och att se honom spela piano, på riktigt och höra honom sjunga på soundtracket, hela paketet. Oh yeah. I kinda like that guy. Ja, tonårshäxan rises again, in me.

Filmen annars då? Njäeh. Jag har alltid tyckt om vampyr-teman (Buffy etc.), så detta var nog sevärt, men äh, lite för mycket teini-purkka-hömppäpömppää. Allt var så enkelt, straight-forward liksom, i det stora hela inget djup, även om både Pattinson och Stewart gjorde ett fint arbete och kunde trollbinda en i vissa ögonblick. Nej, som film var Twilight nog ganska ruttet, men som ett exemplar på vampyrtema, lite teenage-love och ett fint potrayal av en tortured soul av Pattinson, helt ok. Men jag kan absolut förstå att tjejer är galna i denna film, i skådespelarna, i böckerna, ja i hela fenomenet. Minns själv alltför väl min Titanic mania 1997.... Jag som tapetserade mitt rums väggar med bilder på Leonardo diCaprio, fantiserade och drömde. Jag var helt klart fanatisk, allt som hade med Leo och Titanic att göra, ja det hade jag, det visste jag. Oh that teenage-heart of mine, :).

Apropo, såg Revolutionary Road ett tag sedan, med Leo och Kate, och blev besviken. Inget att komma ihåg, fin filmning, men that's it.

Det är så många filmer jag vill se just nu, Slumdog är fortfarande på de oseddas lista, Frost/Nixon likaså, liksom the Visitor med Richard Jenkins, The Reader (som inte ännu finns på dvd), Doubt, The Wrestler (som kommer snart)... och säkert flera andra som jag inte kommer på just nu.

Synecdoche, New York; den vill jag absolut se på nytt. Såg den på bio i New York förra hösten, men var så trött och filmen är så mångbottnad att jag helt enkelt inte klarade av att följa med i handlingen, som verkligen blir absurd och ordentligt omtvinnad. Vill se den igen i lugn och ro och fascineras av Charlie Kaufmanns genidrag och skådespeleri á la Philip Seamour Hoffmann och Samantha Morton.

Sådant.

lär mig min läxa

Idag fick jag en värre duh-upplevelse. En snilleblixt, som jag var så nöjd över, tills det liksom lyste upp i huvudet en gång till. Definitivt alltför länge sedan jag satt på en matte-timme i skolan.

Jag köpte ärter och jordgubbar vid Ikea och skulle betala 9,50€. Jag tänkte vara snäll och betala 20,50€, för att få en jämnare summa tillbaka. "Då ska du ha 11€ tillbaka", säger försäljerskan. Jag svarade med att gräva fram en euro till ur plånboken, för att göra det ännu lättare för henne, och få tillbaka 10€, tänkte jag. Hon var med på noterna och jag var nöjd över att ha gett henne lite bytespengar och fått en jämn summa tillbaka.

Jag hann inte gå många meter innan jag fattade... Jag betalade 21,50€. Jag borde ha fått tillbaka 12€... Istället betalade jag 2€ extra. Jag ville banka mig i huvudet med något hårt och istället för att vända om och erkänna min otroliga dumhet så gick jag vidare till bilen. Slickade mina sår och svor över mitt dumma huvud.

Virrhjärna.

Just var det en ask med röda jordgubbar och Muodin huipulle (njuuuter av den serien), men vad nu då? Imorgon morn till arbetet kl 7, stiga upp kl 5:30, men vill inte sova ännu. Känns som om jag vore mitt i dan, mitt i allting. Do not want to sleep.


PING.

ett paket på posten

Fick ett härligt paket häromdagen. Det gjorde mig så glad så. Fint inpackat i silkespapper och med en liten överraskning som grädde på moset. Fabulous.


En fantastisk 50-tals klänning, oanvänd, med Sears-lappen kvar. Kan något göra en flicka gladare? Nääe.


Och så ett litet paket bland alla tygvecken, en ask med en underbart skir sjal och en gullig brosch. En fyrklöver att sätta fast på min cardigan. Perfekt.

Klänningen kom från http://www.vintagefashion.dk/. En farlig butik, mycket farlig. Ifall priserna skulle vara alls något lägre, skulle jag säkert tömma sidan på dess innehåll. Nästan i varje fall. Det är något så extra med vintage, varje köp är ett fynd i sig, varje klänning, kjol, blus, bälte, väska, är en raritet och unik. Det har en historia, ett förflutet. Det är inte massproducerat. Min vintage-aha-upplevelse kom ifjol, i Stockholm. I en butik som heter Beyond Retro upplevde jag en sådan shopping-high att det var nära att jag svimmade. Som ett jehu sprang jag ut och in i provrummen, svettades som en gris och kunde knappt se eller tala sammanhängande. Sedan dess är jag frälst. Fullständigt frälst.

Det är bara synd att det knappt finns några trevliga vintage-butiker i Finland, det är bara kirpputori på kirpputori, där det största fyndet ofta kan karaktäriseras med ylletröja á la 80-tal... Mindre trevligt. Kanske man själv borde ta itu med saken, grunda ett företag, en butik... Härligt skulle det definitivt vara.

Paris, oh Paris... fantastiska vintage-butiker, där jag och Annina löpte amock. Dessutom till en viss del billigt. De fynden måste jag ju också visa er nån dag.
Nu är min räddning internet, och också mitt fall förmodar jag... Det finns otroliga vintage-sidor varifrån man kan beställa den ena underbara klänningen efter den andra. I USA finns det mesta, där har många finheter klarat sig, helt enkelt pga större kvantiteter.

Det är härligt att på sätt och vis ha hittat sin stil, för det har jag gjort under de två senaste åren. Klänningar, böljande kjolar, färger, det är jag. Jag har knappt använt några byxor på länge, länge. I höst kommer min garderob att städas, uppdateras, gås igenom och jag hoppas att det som jag ratar kan bli ett fynd för någon annan.

Några stunder av vila

Villa är för mig det allra heligaste. En plats av vila och fullständig avslappning. Att helt kunna kasta civilisationens mantel av sig och fröjda sig i den avlagda kjolen, den hemska randiga blusen och låta ansiktet och håret leva sitt eget fria liv, ja det är livet. Det är berusande underbart. Vägen in till stan är inte lång i kilometer mätt, men mentalt är det en svindlande, slingrande serpentin-stig som du helst inte beträder... Man hinner med mycket på två dagar, två dagar av sleep deprivation efter nattskiftet. Man hinner umgås med kära släkten, med alla kusinerna, m

ed mostrarna, med moffa. Man hinner skratta högt och vara irriterad, fnissa och diskutera finnskogarna och förhållandena i Nya Sverige på 1600-talet. Man hinner läsa Tieteen kuvalehti och National Geographic och tillsammans betrakta kartor och gamla gränslinjer.

Man hinner hoppa på strandstenarna i solnedgången, känna själen vila där vid havets svall. Man hinner rena sitt inre, låta doften av havet spola runt.

Man hinner baka sommarpepparkakor med kaninformar och tycka att de smakar godare än på julen.

Man hinner baka bostonkaka med dubbelsats bulladeg. Och såklart börja bakandet klockan halv tio på kvällen, när inspirationen är som intensivast.

Man hinner åka på utflykt med put-put-båten och sjunga "stor våg-liten våg". Man hinner gräla. Man hinner kramas och njuta av beröring och av att höra ihop.

Man hinner diska ute i det fria och njuta av den första varma dagen, när skuggan inte känns kall.
Man hinner lyssna på fåglarna och leva mitt i naturen, slippa vara fången mellan fyra väggar.

Man hinner blåsa såpbubblor och se vinden föra dem med sig och hunden Blondie försöka fånga dem.

Man hinner sova trångt i bastukammaren och njuta av kaoset. Man hinner dricka olika slags té ur olika sorters muggar. Man hinner gräla vem som ska ha vilken mugg.

Man hinner bada bastu tre gånger och njuta något ofantligt av att torka sig torr ute i friska luften på terrassen. Man hinner tvätta sina händer i en balja medan man tittar ut mot havet och Trullögrund. Man hinner bli biten av bromsar och annat otyg, men inte bry sig.

Man hinner sköta om blommorna och bara sitta och titta på dem.

Man hinner bre jordgubbskvarg på läpparna och tycka att det är det somrigaste som finns.

Man hinner låta kjolen flyga fritt, se de vita benen exponeras och skratta högt. Man hinner hitta kläder som man inte sett på flera år.

Man hinner bara vara.

Man hinner leva, obehindrat, fritt. I mitt elemente. Vid havet. Med släkten.

På villa.

spring awakening, on many levels

Idag är det 97 år sedan Titanic sjönk. Funderade på att dagen till ära se på den legendariska filmen med samma namn, men nu är det för sent. Jag har inte sett mästerverket på åratal, köpte den just på dvd. Har köpt tiotals med filmer de senaste månaderna... Försjunkit i fantasiernas värld, dragits med i intriger, romantik och musik. Gråtit och skrattat. Tyckt om, inte tyckt om. Jag har egentligen åsidosatt den riktiga världen under denna första del av året, kapat av nästan all kontakt med yttervärlden, begravt mig i min lägenhet. Grävt ner mig själv.

Tills jag förstod hur lågt jag kommit, hur jag nästan fick panikattacker av att telefonen ringde och jag inte klarade av att svara. Inte ens åt mamma. Då vaknade jag upp, började gråta på riktigt, såg mig själv och min situation, steg ut ur drömmarnas värld, där allt är fint, där allt är annorlunda, där allt är allt annat än mitt liv.

Men jag vaknade upp, sparkade upp mig mot ytan. Började andas igen. Började lösa upp knutar. Sakta men säkert.

Våren är en svår tid för mig, det har jag fått lära mig, jag glider sakta in i en flegmatisk dvala, så sakta, att jag inte märker det, innan det är för sent. Samma sak hände ifjol. Jag glider in i en depression.

Men, livet ler allt mer, vardagens nattsvarta mörker har förbytts i de vanliga grå nyanserna med ett inslag av färg ibland. Back to normal.

Jag har en oförmåga att se det fina i mitt eget liv, jämför mig själv med andra, ser allt det jag inte har, det jag skulle vilja ha. Istället för att se på styrkan i mina egna andetag, mina egna möjligheter. Jag har aldrig sällskapat, aldrig upplevt en ömsesidig kärlek, so what. Jag har ett knappt socialt liv här i Lojo, so what. Jag har inga rutiner, so what. Jag slösar bort alla mina pengar, so what.

Problem? Jo. Drömmar? Jo, men jag kommer ingen vart genom att fokusera på allt det som jag inte har. Tvärtom. Jag njuter av att läsa, av att fotografera, av att lyssna på musik, av naturen. Det är det jag skall koncentrera mig på. Försöka duger. Fast jag kan inte låta bli att längta efter nån att hålla om, nån att hålla kär. Nån som håller om mig. Men både mummu och pappa har sagt att jag troligtvis förblir vanhapiika, och det är fullt möjligt... Kan jag nån dag få känna mig älskad...

-------------------------------

Våren är definitivt här, snön försvann fullständigt nångång i början av förra veckan, blåsipporna blommar och lärkan sjunger. Vägarna är sopade och det doftar mull. Det känns underbart, jag önskar att våren kunde stanna för evigt, inte rinna ut i sommarn, försvinna i det överdådiga gröna, se det fräscha försvinna. Att se världen i förändring, det är det som är fantastiskt.

Tiden går så fort nuförtiden, jag hänger inte alls med, och det oroar mig emellanåt. Att tiden rinner iväg. Att jag kunde ha utnyttjat min tid så mycket bättre. I ett större perspektiv: jag slösar bort mitt liv.

De sista veckorna har varit mycket händelserika, ja, mer händelserika än hela mitt liv de senaste två åren. Roligt, hektiskt, människor, skratt. Härligt. Jag har rumlat med arbetskamrater på seminarium, dansat hela natten lång, vaknat upp med sjuka höfter och lår. Jag har träffat vänner jag inte sett på flera år, tagit upp trådarna precis som om det inte fanns någon tid emellan, sett världens sämsta film på bio (Confessions of a shopaholic), gått på snöfyllda, knäpptysta gator mitt i natten, festat tillsammans med lammkött, fått kyssa någon för första gången på fyra år, kännt det där lilla suget i magen, väntat på att telefonen skall pipa, förstått att den inte kommer att göra det. Jag har gråtit av saknad efter pappa, suttit och stirrat på krokusar, skrattat på arbetet så att min mage krampat. Städat för första gången sedan mitten på december. Ätit sushi på restaurang, sett det tillagas, till efterrätt citrus creme brûle och glass med smak av grönt te. Ett grönt fat klätt med hemmagjord sirap och en intensivt röd jorgubb. Gått på Helsingfors gator och än en gång konstaterat att jag inte känner vår huvudstad ett dugg. Att jag behöver ta ut kameran på Hesas gator i vår, fånga det sköna som finns överallt. Stått utanför en r-kioski med mina kusiner och blivit tilltalad av en äldre man: "harvoin näkee noin tyylikkäitä västäräkkejä." Skratt. Känt en otrolig sorg när mamma och moffa körde iväg efter att ha tillbringat några minuter hos mig.

Känt mig mer levande än jag gjort på flera, flera månader.

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Visste ni förresten att låten som avslutade sista avsnittet av Sex and the City egentligen är en gospelsång som handlar om Guds kärlek? Inte jag heller, innan jag laddade ner den. Ganska ironiskt egentligen, och opassande, men ack vad den passar musikaliskt, sanoista viis!

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You got the love by Candi Staton (New Voyager Mix)

Sometimes I feel like

Throwing my hands up in the air

I know I can count on you

Sometimes I feel like saying

Lord I just don't care

But you've got the love I need

To see me through.

-

Sometimes it seems that

The going is just too rough

And things go wrong

No matter what I do

Now and then I feel

That life is just too much

But you've got the love

I need to see me through.

-

When food is gone

You are my daily meal

When friends are gone I know

My saviour's love is real

Your love is real.

-

Every once in a while

I say Lord I can't go on

Every once in a while

I get to feeling blue

Every once in a while

it seems like I am all alone

But you got the love

I need to see me through.

-

Occasionally

my thoughts are brave and friends are few

Occasionally

I cry out Lord what must I do

Occasionally

I call up Master make me new.

-

You've got the love

I need to see me through

Sometimes I feel like

Throwing my hands up in the air

I know I can count on you

Sometimes I feel like saying

Lord I just don't care

But you've got the love I need

To see me through

Disney

Plötsligt kom den. Som en blixt från en klar himmel. Minnet av Disney, om filmerna, sångerna, musiken, berättelserna. Såg på YouTube olika clips från Lejonkungen, Skönheten och Odjuret, och kände rysningar inför skönheten, inför storheten. Hur fantastiska är inte filmerna som gjordes under den s.k. Disney-renässansen... (den började med Ariel och slutade med Tarzan). Animation skall vara 2-D, jag tycker inte alls om den nuvarande 3-D-stilen, för all del, WALL-e och vissa andra är ok i sin genre, men de kan int mäta sig med de mustiga tonerna och djupet i de klassiska Disney-filmerna. De handritade. I och med 3-D så försvann så många dimensioner, även om de egentligen, visuellt, blev fler. Men en viss mysticism, en trolskhet, var borta. Likaså fattas de stora storyn, de fina helheterna, där man också får gråta en skvätt (Musafas död anyone...), nuförtiden ska allt vara piss och bajs-humor. Allvar behövs också, en ond del. I de nya filmerna är det så polerat, glättigt och grällt, minns ni de första scenerna med Odjuret, hur mörkt och skrämmande det var? Scar i Lejonkungen (mörkret kring hans håla med hyenorna), för att inte tala om drottningen i Snövit! Det ska vara gott och ont, det får skrämma, inte led jag av det som barn inte.

Och musiken då... Alan Menken som en av mästarna (gjorde Den lilla sjöjungfrun, Skönheten och Odjuret, Aladdin, Pocahontas, Notre Dame...). 1990-talets hits. Powerballaderna. In i själen... När har en Disney-låt senast väckt uppmärksamhet, klivit charters...? Jag vet inte...

Visste ni förresten att Beauty and the Beast faktiskt var Oscars-nominerad som Best Picture 1991? Som den ende animerade film hittills. Och att The Lion King fortfarande är den mest sedda och mest pengaindragande? Och vem är överraskad. Inte jag åtminstone. (Shockad är jag däremot över att det faktiskt är 18 år sedan B&B utkom...)

Nu har jag Disney på hjärnan och vill se dessa pärlor igen efter en paus på flera, flera år. Ja, det är säkert tio år sedan jag senast sett en enda av dem. Men. Jag visste inte att det inte går att få tag på DVD-versioner utav de flesta.... Disney releasar DVD-Blue-ray osv-versioner av sina filmer i ca sju års cyklar, och enbart i limited edition, vilket betyder, att en film som utkom ifjol, som du kanske inte hann köpa innan den var slutsåld, utkommer nästa gång tidigast om sju år! Nå, Lejonkungen har utkommit en gång på DVD, 2003 eller 2004 och man kan få punga ut med nästan 100€ om man vill köpa en begagnad, så åtrådda är de. Samma med Skönheten och Odjuret, som nu har fått ett nytt release-datum > oktober 2010, på engelska... Lejonkungen finns det ingen info om, så det blir att vänta ett antal år ännu. Ifjol kom Törnrosa och den ska man tydligen skynda sig att köpa ifall man vill ha den, annars får man vänta i ovan nämnda minst 7 år. Pinocchio kom precis just denna månad.

Det är ju så att man tvingas börja samla på sig alla filmer fort om man ska ha nåt att visa sina möjliga framtida barn!

Jag svamlar en smula, kl är 4 och jag ska om en timme iväg till arbetet, har alltså inte sovit alls och kommer inte att göra det. Sitter här på nätet och nostalgiserar över Disney, över låtar, över musik. Och hittade något häftigt.... Det är nämligen så att Disney har premiär för sin första handritade animation på ca 10 år, i slutet på detta år! Kan ni tro det! Den heter The Princess and the Frog och utspelar sig i 1920-talets New Orleans. Här är några bilder:

Det ser fantastiskt ut, verkligen! Back to the good old days. Det är ju så att Disney sparkade alla sin 2-D-animatörer för ett antal år sedan, och de som blev kvar omskolades till datatekniken. Nu har Disney fått samlat ihop ett antal av de gamla mästarna, och tack och lov för det. Det finns fler bilder och t.o.m. en teaser på nätet angående denna nya film, och nu hoppas jag bara att storyn också är bra, animationens klass är redan säkrad i.o.m. dessa bilder och namnen på animatörerna. Premiären i USA runt julen, hoppas att det blir en finsk sådan inte långt efter, jag kommer åtminstone att vara i biosalongen.

Kolla in linkarna nedan and feel those chills and those memories.....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2IVmAcWI6so The Lion King-trailer
( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vX07j9SDFcc Circle of Life )

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LctAfx5Qyuw Beauty and the Beast-trailer
( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5yJnvv_R2rk Tale as old as time )


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o0j7EactM9s Official TEASER for The Princess and the Frog!!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lZGtH_0oLCk lite mer bilder och looks för den som är intresserad, det ser verkligen ut att bli en hejdundrande comeback för Disney, :).



And while I'm at it:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_CnL5UJgsrM Aladdin
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HXvABFfXwU0 The Little Mermaid
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=unTSCkrS9FE The Hunchback of Notre Dame
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4FaQdU8eKuM Pocahontas