Venezia, mi amore

You may know that I've been obsessed with Venice ever since I read "The Thief Lord" in the sixth grade. I still remember that book's blue-purple cover, with an image of a shadow flitting over a canal bridge at night. Ever since then, I've been reading books on Venice and plastering my dorm room with pictures of Venice and generally dreaming about going to Venice someday.

After so much anticipation, I secretly expected to be let down; there was no way the city could live up to my unreasonable and romantic expectations. But as we sped through the darkness on an early-morning train from Rome, I couldn't get the butterflies out of my stomach. The nervousness, the anticipation; it felt like I was anxiously waiting to go on a first date with a long-admired someone. I even dressed up for Venice. I wanted to impress her.

We arrived at the train station on a glorious, crisp, sunlit morning, and as soon as we emerged from the doors, we were met with a scene from a painting. In most of my travels, the journey from the station or airport to the city propper is a long and familiar one; no matter how beautiful the city, its outskirts are bland and dilapidated. Not so with Venice. Because it's a series of islands, there is no room for urban sprawl. You get what you see in the brochure. I walked off the train and directly onto an elegant bridge, traversing a glittering canal dotted with vaporetti (water taxis) and motorboats filled with fruits and vegetables. Our hostel was a short walk away, a dark red door nestled into the corner of a building on the Grand Canal. We checked in quickly and, walking outside once more, I was struck again (and again and again, over the next day and a half) with the beauty around me.

Everything glittered. The water, the gilded domes of the churches, the black lacqueured gondolas. The October sun made each color shine at its most vivid. After about 15 minutes of winding our way through quiet back alleys (which turned out to be my favorite activity, as there is always some new corner to explore), we had the vague intention of heading toward the Piazza San Marco, the tourist-filled center of the city. We had only made it a few yards, however, before a gondolier, decked out in traditional striped shirt and straw hat, offered us a gondola ride at a special price, because it was the first trip of the day, we were students, and we were girls (probably the main reason). I hesitated, as I'd read that gondolas were not worth the money, but luckily the other girls convinced me to take the opportunity. What a good idea to listen to them. It was still fairly early, not yet 11 in the morning, so the canals were empty of their midday crush of tourists. Adam, our gondolier ("the only Adam gondolier in all of Venice!") was a native, now a rare thing in the largely seasonal city, and gave us an insider's tour of the waterways. The buildings, it turns out, are build on pine logs stuck into the swampy lagoon soil, and because of some sort of chemistry magic, they last for centuries. This is how the architects, in the middle ages, defied all reason and perched what would become the most powerful naval force in the world on a muddy lowland.

So after a beautiful boat ride, an informational conversation, and a casual marriage proposal from Adam, we lost ourselves once more in the alleys, this time actually determined to find St. Mark's. Surprise, surprise, we got very turned around. Nothing is far in Venice, but the streets are so haphazard, have such long names, and are so prone to dead-ending on a canal, that it is quite easy to lose all sense of direction. After stumbling into a church with a display of old stringed instruments from Vivaldi's time (!), we delicately tread out way across a flooded Piazza toward the byzantine Basilica on the other side. These days, the whole square is submerged in a couple of inches of water at high tide, and the tuxedoed waiters at the extravagant cafes along the edges have to wear rain boots while they set the tables. It's a sight both charming and slightly melancholy, because the grandeur of the city is slowly succumbing to the realities of time and the elements. But never fear, I have faith the city will be there for a long time to come. That's the magic of it... timelessness, more than any place you've ever been.

Anyway. St. Mark's square was probably my least favorite part of the city; very crowded, a little dirty, and extremely gaudy, especially the gold-mosaic interior of the basilica. But that was what I expected. We explored the Doge's Palace (Doge [pronounced "dohdge"]  = Aristocrat, not dog, FYI), which was the seat of the Senate in the middle ages, one of the oldest Republic in the world. The coolest part was the secret tunnel that led to the prison. Yes, sometimes I might be an 8 year-old boy.

For dinner, we found a little non-English-speaking restaurant in Dorsudoro, my favorite part of town. It's across the Grand from St. Mark's, quiet and residential, filled with unassuming canals and beautiful bridges. This is where the Venetians actually live, and this is where I wish I lived. The meal was delicious and filled with seafood and homemade pasta. Why are Italians so good at food? EVERYTHING looks delicious. Mmmmm. By the time we finished, it was about 10:30, and we wanted to go back the the Piazza to see the famous dueling orchestras that play every night at the outdoor cafes. Venice at  night is transformed into something mysterious and heartbreakingly beautiful. I think I've used "beautiful" in every other sentence, but it still retains all of its meaning here. It's very quiet and the full moon reflects on the water and the empty, covered gondolas rock gently on the tide. The hint of melancholy at noon came back to grip me as I entered the nearly-empty square, the remnants of a few orchestras playing slow songs as the waiters cleaned up and the tide rose at their feet.

Venice goes to bed early. The residents go to their homes across the canal, the day tourists leave in exodus, the backpackers, lacking the clubs of bigger cities, retire to their rooms on the outskirts of town. The alleys (calle) and the canals finally get some time to reflect on their day. I wonder if they are content with the way things are now. Centuries ago, they transported powerful merchants and politicians, they witnessed the horrors of the Plague and the revelry of Carnivale and saw the likes of Casa Nova and Canaletto and Vivaldi. Now, it's mainly sightseers who pass over them, snapping photos and buying masks and eating gelatto. There's nothing wrong with this; I am a sightseer, I did all the cliche guidebook activities and loved them, but I have to wonder what the city thinks, if it feels like it has compromised its identity. To me, its essence was powerful as ever, but it was strongest when I was simply wandering, marveling, and dreaming.

Obviously, we got lost on the way home (there is only one complete foot route through Venice, and it is marked by a fairly useless series of yellow arrows that never point the right direction). After brushing off some ubiquitous European men who invited us to a non-existent discotheque, we stumbled through the now completely deserted (but very safe) alleys and collapsed into our beds at half past one. It was one of those nights I wished I didn't have to sleep, I was so full with the world and its surprises, but my body had other ideas and I was unconscious in minutes.

The next morning, we did some shopping at the Rialto market under another perfectly clear sky. I was a little devastated at the thought of leaving until the other girls suggested I take a train a few hours later and meet them in Cinque Terre, the final leg of our trip. (You probably know one of the consequences of this decision. Que sera sera. More on that later.) Obviously I jumped at the opportunity and spent the afternoon exploring La Fenice, the opera house, where I stumbled upon a rehearsal complete with singers and full orchestra. Fascinating, especially listening to the conductor shout out instructions to the musicians in Italian. I gave myself plenty of time to get to the train station, knowing that the winding paths coupled with my abysmal sense of direction were a recipe for destruction, but also wanting to wander aimlessly one last time. And wander I did. What delighted my repeatedly were the staircases to nowhere. Sometimes, you come to the end of an alley only to find a stone archway and a set of stairs descending into the murky water of the canal. In the old days, the idea was that a gondola would pick you up and you would descend the stairs into the boat in your Carnevale mask and full skirts and ride on to the palazzo where the ball was to be held. Knowing Italians, though, I don't think the stairs were ever really meant to be functional, but more to add to the city's mystery and eccentricity. Whatever their purpose, they were wonderful; they invited me to walk down into the water and go for a swim. I didn't. But I wanted to.

I made it to the train just in time and spend the next couple of hours in a happy, Venice-infused daze. I am so grateful that I was able to see what I did; I felt satisfied, but in the way that I would after eating a generously sized brownie: I wanted more. But, like brownies, too much Venice at once is probably unhealthy. Better to save it for another time, to prolong the magic and share it with others. I had just enough to savour, just enough to make me determined to return someday.

And I know I will return someday. Maybe even with you. Let me know if you're in the neighborhood and we can walk over the bridges of Dorsudoro together and gaze down at the turquoise water.

Autumnal

Today was one of those incredible fall days that makes you happy to be alive. This is my very favorite kind of day. Let me describe it to you.

The clouds are huge, dark, and ominous, but never depressing because the golden sunlight, not yet watered down to its winter thinness, shines gloriously between them. Only in the autumn does the sun light the clouds from underneath, gilding them with an almost surreal pink-orange outline that contrasts beautifully with their dark blue interiors.

The leaves on the ground are big enough to cover your face; they remind me of leaves that dinosaurs probably ate. Smoothed into piles in the gutter, they make the most satisfying rustling and crunching noises as you sweep through them (the urge to disturb the landscaper's neat work is irresistible). Their cool dampness smells wonderfully like the earth and reminds you of all those crisp days you spent in your backyard after elementary school.

The air is cold, but not biting. It invigorates you, and it makes you want to run. Which I did. But I had to stop when I got to Parliament, because the image of the ornate Houses topped with cloud palaces and illuminated by a subtle pink-gold glow was stunning. The Thames was an opaque and choppy gray, and passerby donned thick scarves and warm pea coats, with red paper poppy flowers tucked into many buttonholes in honor of Remembrance Day on November 11.

You get to wear your thickest socks and a warm sweater and be deliciously cozy inside while you look out at the splendor that is autumn. And even though it's too early to be listening to Christmas music, you don't mind when your roommates play it on Pandora because it adds to the feeling of absolute, cozy comfort.

In short, you are in love with the world. Because it's not just beautiful to look at, it's beautiful to touch and run through and breathe in. Fall comes every year, and every year you are newly delighted with it, and you remember vividly all the falls that have come before it. The memories that hide in the brain's shadowy basement during the hot summer and freezing winter, cautiously emerging again for those few days when the world is perfect.

I live for days like this.


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It has been brought to my attention that in my last post, when I used the world "devalue" I actually meant the opposite, as devaluing money would actually make things more expensive. To this I say: I am in the College of Arts and Letters and I do not study real things. That's not entirely true. But it kind of is.

I respectfully submit the following.

Dear London,

You are marvelous.

But.

Please fix your plumbing system, devalue your money, keep your grocery stores open later, pay the Tube workers, and, for the love of God, stop trying to make me eat sausage.

Love,

Me.