Venice - La Serenissima
The cat waits patiently under my chair, hoping for one last lick of buttered toast. In the corner, a old man with an attitude is reading Le Monde. A four-minute day out
A story from the travel archive of January 2023 — A four-minute walk in Venice for those who have traveled there — or those who hope to some day.
From the windows of the rooftop breakfast room this morning, I see plastic pin-wheels spinning in crockery begonia pots on the balcony. Across the narrow canal, bed sheets flap lazy on the clothes line, yellow plaster is peeling and flaking in the most aesthetic way. A tiny brown bird perches on the ancient pipes that project from the roof tiles.
Two guests come in for coffee, greeting us all — “Buon giorno”, with a German accent. Three young Japanese women in Hello Kitty T-shirts are consulting their electronic guidebooks for the day’s adventures. They dunk bread in their milky coffee, check their phones every two seconds, brush flaky bread crumbs off of their chests. A 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”, it is called, the most serene. 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.
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 pots 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 was lost today for about five hours — a wonderful kind of lost. I discovered things I know I will never be able to find again – the Church of Santa Maria Formosa, the surly gray-stripe cat who thinks he owns the Campo S.Giacomo, 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 seemed like a very convenient, unobtrusive place to piss, but I am a guest in Venice, and on my best behavior.
The sun is just now beginning to set behind S. Maria Della Salute church on its island across from St Mark’s square, and I am standing high above 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 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 ( much of it made in China) in small corner shops. 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.” He’s been 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 ancient 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, here I am!
Ah, 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 codfish stew with chick peas, and the exquisite colors of Bellini’s Madonna of the Trees. 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.
Good job describing Venice, Sharron. I savored the taste of foods that filled the square, but as I remember, roasted chestnuts and what I think was yogurt was my standard fare. : )
Beautiful descriptive writing Sharron. - Jim