Venice - La Serenissima
The old guy in the corner is reading Le Monde with an attitude, while the cat waits patiently under my chair, hoping for one last lick of buttered toast.
From the windows of the rooftop breakfast room this morning, I see plastic pin-wheels spinning next to begonias in crockery pots on the balcony. Bedsheets flap lazily on the clothes line, while yellow paint is peeling and plaster flaking in a most aesthetic way across the narrow canal. A tiny brown bird perches on the ancient pipes that project from the red tiled roof.
Two guests come in for coffee, greeting all with a German-accented, “Buon giorno”. Three young Japanese women in Hello Kitty T-shirts are consulting their electronic Venice guides for the day’s adventures. They dunk bread in their milky coffee, check their phones every two minutes, brush flaky bread crumbs off of their chests. The crotchety old guy in the corner is reading Le Monde with an attitude, while the cat waits patiently under my chair hoping for one last lick of buttered toast.
Venice, “La Serenissima”, the most serene, it is called. There are no automobiles here, no buses, no scooters, no garbage trucks to offend the ears. Movement is by boat and cart and on foot. A lot of good-natured shouting and teasing occurs on the busy quays and in the markets. but in the less-traveled back streets, all is muted, fluid, winding, private.
Alone in these dim, quiet lanes and small sun-lit squares I hear only the laughter of children, the cooing of doves, the rattle of pans and crockery from second-story windows as families prepare their mid-day meals. I find myself walking softly so as not to disturb the peaceful rhythm of these private neighborhoods, and I wonder, momentarily, if I should be leaving a trail of bread crumbs in order to find my way back to the real world.
I have been lost today for about five hours. A wonderful kind of lost. I discover things I know I will never be able to find again – the Church of Santa Maria Formosa, the surly gray-stripe cat who owns the Campo S. Giacomo dall ’Orio, a small damp shop that sells antique toys, a dark, covered thoroughfare with a straight-forward sign advising passers-by: “DO NOT PISS HERE”. Actually it seems like a very convenient, unobtrusive place to piss, but being a guest, I refrain.
The sun is just now beginning to set behind S. Maria Della Salute on its island across from the Piazetta, and I am standing high above S. Mark’s Square on a balcony attached to the church’s facade. The square below, evidently, is not the serene part of Venice. Zillions ( yes, zillions ) of tourists are wandering about taking selfies, in a daze full of pigeons. They seem to be desperately trying to capture the sight, sound, feel, smell and taste of this singular city on their smart phones to take back to Iowa and Osaka. The pigeons abruptly take noisy flight, an explosion of feathers and beaks, circling and flapping in formation about two feet above the heads of the squealing crowd, just to remind us who is in charge here.
Wealthy folks are lounging about drinking astronomically priced cups of coffee at Caffe Florian and Quadri, and buying Murano glassware ( most likely made in China) in expensive boutiques. Young folks with huge backpacks are trading travel adventures with new acquaintances on the steps of the Correr Museum, like wounded soldiers sharing war stories. A family pushes past me, the dad saying, “I could go for one right now! A Big Mac, chocolate shake and fries.” On the road one day too long, I’d say.
Two violinists are playing the Tarantella, Return to Sorrento, Strangers in the Night, and other songs tourists identify with and all seems perfectly right to me. I feel like Kathryn Hepburn in that 1959 movie Summertime. You know the one I mean? A 40-ish school teacher on a long anticipated trip to Italy is looking for the romance of a lifetime, except that she feels too guilty when she finds it and runs away home. Guilt is not a word I myself can relate to, fortunately. Rossano Brazzi, I am here!
Oh, if only I could send you the smell of the cypress trees, the warmth of rough stone on the palm of my hand. I wish I could convey the flavor of the Veneto’s Baccalá Vicentina, and the exquisite colors of Bellini’s Madonna degli Alberetti. I wish I could write to you the sound of the waves lapping softly against the prow of a gondola as it slips into the Rio S. Polo in the moonlight.
Say it ain't so! The Murano glass a friend brought me back from there might have been made in China?! .... Beautiful piece, again, Sharron, describing all the sights and sounds of this intriguing city.
Took me right there, dintya. )) Is St.Mark's square still underwater? Nope, not going. Water in the "streets" is picturesque, but I've grown not-fond of it in Indiana. I'll just watch.