A Day in Venice
A five-minute get-away
… because sometimes we just need to get away for a few minutes.
Under an open spigot at the public well in the Campo Santa Maria Formosa, fat grey pigeons are wading around in the puddles, pecking, cooing, wetting their heads. One pigeon flops over onto her side directly under the flowing water and lifts her wing straight up, as if in her own private shower. She now rolls over and lifts the other wing. The sheer ecstasy of the cold bath seems to have washed away all natural fear. She is not concerned with the people, the dogs or the cats roaming about the square; she thinks only of her joy. How I envy her total abandon.
It’s April, it’s Venice, and it’s not surprising that I am sitting at a small round table under a ubiquitous green awning sipping yet another pale, cool wine from the Veneto. I surreptitiously kick off my old walking shoes and watch the Venetian matinee go by for an hour or so.
A man in front of the church is selling every brightly colored plastic thing imaginable: red and blue pinwheels, yellow mini-ferris wheels, green and orange airplanes, little dolls with purple hair, striped yo-yos, green and blue plastic cups. He offers lengths of hair ribbons, scarves featuring the façade of the Basilica of St. Mark, straw hats with gondolier ribbons hanging down the back. Postcards and pencils and ash trays in kaleidoscope colors. These items attract children like fish to worms, yet, ironically, he shouts at them as they approach, “Non toccare! Non toccare niente!” Don’t you touch anything! But hey! Where’s the fun in that?
A very tall lovely young woman walks by on the arm of a rather short older man. For her afternoon walking tour of Venice, she has mindlessly chosen gold lamé shoes, pointed-toed, backless, with high stiletto heels. Watching her try to negotiate the cobblestones makes my feet hurt.
I notice that the middle-aged women tourists who parade by are doing their best to be cultural icons by wear their national uniforms. Northern Italian women are in very expensive tailored blazers of conservative cream tones, silk blouses, narrow short linen skirts, pale stockings, and exquisitely crafted shoes. Everything tasteful, low key and elegant. Well, they are in the city, after all.
The 40-something British and German women wear flower printed gathered skirts, short-sleeved, no-iron cotton blouses, wide-strap orthopedic oxfords or chunky sandals, no stockings, maybe a thin cotton sweater tied casually across their shoulders.
Older American women, God help us, are always easy to spot in oversized athletic shoes, usually brand new, with bright orange stripes down the sides. The travel uniform is mostly made up of neon-colored athletic clothing, loose pants with knit tee-shirts - clothing that the rest of the world associates with going to the gym. Or we wear flip-flops, inappropriate, baggy knee-length shorts and bright fluorescent rip-stop nylon wind-breakers – even in the center of Milan or Rome. Americans are quietly ridiculed by the Italians for dressing like children, for talking too loud in public, laughing too often, and being shockingly overweight. I know, I know — stereotypes. But stereotypes have some basis in truth, do they not? Non c'è rimedio…
I had passed the entire morning wandering through the Gallerie all’ Accademia for the fourth day in a row, down miles of corridors, losing track of the day and the time. How can one not get lost when surrounded by such beauty, such history? Through every doorway, delights await, both immense and tiny.
Giovani Bellini gives us an ethereal “Madonna and Child”. Floating a few inches above their heads are eleven angels – pink angels, yellow angels , purple, green and blue angels. What was that all about? What led that 15th century painter to choose such an unexpected palette for the heavenly host, I wonder.
Vittore Carpaccio presents a very large, grand scene called “The Ambassadors Returning to the English Court”, a formal grouping of snooty-looking men -- princes, politicos, potentates. Who knows who all these important men were? However, down in the right hand corner of this painting, sitting alone on the steps, we find a small brown monkey wearing a tiny red and white suit and hat. Why is he there? What does he symbolize? Or was the artist just having a bit of fun mocking the pomposity in the hall?
I found a very touching painting by Marco Basaiti , “The Body of Christ with Two Angels”, a deceptively simple work, about four feet wide and only one foot high, a long, narrow horizontal work, coffin-like. We see nothing more than the body of a very young Jesus laid out on a stone floor. A cherub sits at his head lightly patting his long hair. The other cherub is gently holding one of Jesus’ toes. I don’t know why I was so moved by this, but it got to me and I had to root around in my bag for a hankie.
There was a huge painting by Veronese, nearly covering an entire wall. It is a rather irreverent version of The Last Supper. When he finished this large, impressive work, I am told, the Church was horrified. There were dogs at the table in this painting. A cat. A parrot. There were dwarves, and ... and ... Turks! It would not do for the Last Supper; his Patrons wouldn’t hear of it. Rather than repaint the picture to suit those who were paying him, Veronese simply changed the name of the painting to “The Feast in the House of Levi”.
No matter how many guides of Venice you read, you should know that this tiny city cannot be fully described in words or pictures. Venice is a multi-sensory banquet. Venice is La Stravaganza of Antonio Vivaldi. It is thirty-three times adagio, andante and allegro. I can’t help thinking as I tip-toe through the quiet passages of this ancient labyrinth of stone and brick, that if I were to live on a backstreet in Venice for a time I, too, might be inspired to write a symphony.
How I wish I'd had more time to spend in Italy. Venice was beautiful. Would have loved to explore the canals. I remember a cafe at the Piazza San Marco. Perfect for people watching. Thanks, Sharron!
You are right about American tourists. They believe they are invisible and can do and say whatever they wish. When groups were divided by nationality, I made sure to be in another. Seated in theater in front of a pair of US men, I had to turn around and tell them sternly to "behave". They were surprised to be discovered, but did indeed settle down. Yes I have left Indiana. Not likely to again ))