““Be advised that the Venetians may not always take the time to express hospitality to the visitor.” This was the warning in every travel book I picked up- a diplomatic way of advising you that you will experience very little hospitality during your stay in Venice.
Day 1: Arrive at the Marco Polo Airport 11 p.m., only ten minutes before the final bus would run to the city of Venice. Perfect. Just enough time to purchase a ticket from the Information desk, where the clerk would do little more than glare at me, hand over a ticket, and turn her sign to read what I assume was Italian for “Closed” (That, or “Piss off, Tourist”). Step outside, in search of the Number 5 bus. Instead find the Number 5 Parking Lot—which is, as fate would have it, 5 of 5 and therefore furthest from the airport. Now retrace steps to the airport entrance, attempting panic-minimizing self-talk during the journey. Notice Number 5 bus has now arrived, clearly and conveniently parked directly in front of the Arrivals door. Am once again reminded of how much easier my life could sometimes be. Ask the cigarette-puffing driver if we are indeed going to the Piazzale Roma, where I need to be. He stares at me, eyes saying: “I would far rather suffocate you and leave you to the coyotes than have you ride on my bus.” I board the bus anyway and begin praying for divine direction.
12 a.m.: Arrive Piazzale Roma, and begin to walk with the intent of portraying confidence and assuredness. Soon realize have confidently walked in very much the wrong direction. Turn back; wonder how to portray- with confidence- that I had every intention of walking with suitcase in tow 2 blocks down the sidewalk, rotating 180 degrees, confidently walking back to my starting point, and committing the most shameful tourist crime: pulling out a large crumpled piece of paper to refresh my mind of directions. 30 minutes now until the hostel in possession of my credit card closes its doors for the night and I am left sleeping on cobblestone streets- thank my lucky stars there are plenty of bridges under which I could find shelter, if necessary.
Find Ponte dei Scalzi- the bridge falsely named within the broken English directions provided by Valentino at what I hope will be the hostel where I’ll lay my head tonight. Rename the bridge in my mind: Ponte dei Death, as it is really little more than 10 or 12 thousand steps up to the peak, and then back down again. Consider the possibility that Ponte dei Death may be a structural foreshadowing strategically located at the entrance to an unwelcoming city, as my suitcase clunks awkwardly down step after step behind me. 20 minutes until hostel doors close. Am walking now along the Grand Canal; more optimistic of travelers would, at this point, illustrate the magical ambiance of such a famous location. Certainly this is all true, in the daylight, if you know where you’re going and have no fear of abduction or sense of smell. I, on the other hand, wanted to curl into a ball on the street and cry in frustration, revealing that I am in no way the bold and confident lone wolf that I am hoping they’re seeing. Walk on. Canal disappears and street narrows, am surrounded now on both sides by tall brick buildings and sporadically placed mystic wrought iron street lamps. The dark night air is thick and heavy, and streets are full of large suspicious men who have blankets spread on the street, displaying knock-off Prada, Dolce & Gabbana, and Louis Vuitton. Tell myself these bags are genuine and stolen, because the fake leather and gold embellishments are somehow too depressing to acknowledge. (Either way, a few days later witness the men grabbing their displays and running when they notice police doing a routine wander through the streets in their direction.) Avoid eye contact, attempt to hold head higher and shoulders even more erect. Like a hotel hallway after too much to drink, the street seems to elongate as I walk. Finally step into a square, illuminated on my left by a large underwear store. Notice now the elusive Star of David, lights shining from above, and hear angels singing, as I remember Valentino’s directions: “located above undergarment shop”. Hallelujah!
Well, Hallelujah, except that buildings constructed hundreds of years ago rarely contain elevators. Lucky me— 3rd floor room. Clunk, clunk, clunk … now it is my suitcase begging to surrender with tears in a corner, or better yet, be thrown into the canal and risk instant disintegration caused by the unimaginable pollution that makes the canals smell the way they do and glow that eerie green color. Venice is so much more than the picturesque photographs portray.
Mentally pat myself on the back for money-saving decisions made from the comfort of home, as I sneak into the 6-bed dorm room with only a couple minutes until curfew. Notice that my bed is pushed awkwardly close to the next, a faceless stranger already cocooned inside. Have just flown for 11 hours, spent a day touring Amsterdam, experiencing extreme sleep deprivation, and am glowing slightly (because girls don’t sweat, they glow.) Regardless, a shower doesn’t seem to be in the cards tonight; instead I climb silently into bed to avoid further disturbance of new roommates. Compare, in my mind, the first impression of European hostelling (curfew, silence, cleanliness) to previous Australian experience (endless parties, unwelcomed overnight guests, filth, and the sort of drama that makes Dawson’s Creek appear mundane. Have since learned that the hostel we called home was later closed due to the underground drug dealing operation being run from the office. I assure you, there were no signs during our stay… other than one peaceful evening on the terrace disturbed by a wailing girl, running in an erratic zigzag pattern, flinging herself into the pool, only to be rescued by three equally raucous boys. There is no need to mention Simon, the hostel manager, who had the strangest case of incurable sniffles, jitters, and bloodshot eyes, which he blamed on bedbug spray. I believe him!)
Roommates tonight include the girls on an art tour from Norway, who go to bed very early. Also a scrawny Korean boy who’s spent over a year touring Europe, South America, and Asia. Wonder if he’s looking for a wife, (as he clearly has an exceptional travel fund,) until it becomes apparent that he has no qualms with displaying his tighty-whiteys, unconcerned with the company present. Remain single. Chat also with a very friendly Egyptian boy, until he offers assistance by advising that I should take advantage of the sheets and blankets crumpled at the end of my bed. He seems oblivious that our room’s temperature can really only be compared to the surface of the sun itself. Clearly he’s crazy. Roll over and find myself ridiculously aware that I am much, much too old for hostelling.
Day 2: Wake far earlier than I’d like. Another advantage of the chosen hostel: you make the most of your day, because you are asked to leave by 10 a.m., in order that the cleaners have no obstacles to work around. To clarify, in my vocabulary, “asked to leave” is synonymous with “shouted at in Italian by a flock of women with large hair and even larger voices, dressed ever-so-serenely in all white and red lipstick.” Can only imagine what my rapid-exit appearance must be like as I run out the door, wild-eyed, into the busiest square I’ve seen, barely recognizable as the ghost town/potential mugging site wandered through the night before. Am exhausted already, overwhelmed, and feeling quite lost. Walk directionless until I see a sign that says “Brek Café” … optimistically take this to mean breakfast. My assumptions are confirmed, and here the angels are really belting it out, as I take a sip of my first Cappuccino, content for the first time. And then an Americano. And a Latte. Suddenly my Starbucks expertise becomes valuable, given their highway robbery of Latin words, enabling Anglophones to feel exotic and sophisticated while ordering their coffees. It should be known that it really was necessary to order a multitude of coffees, because portion sizes are so ridiculously small in the rest of the world. Wonder to myself why obesity is at an all-time high in North America? Oh well… another cappuccino, per favore! Grazie!
After stalling to the point of ridiculous, re-enter the busy streets. Am soon approached by a middle-aged man, the sort to epitomize the term “greasy.” Rambles something to me in Italian; I presume he is asking something about taking my photo as he is also waving a camera in my face. Caffeine has not kicked in... I knew I should have injected it. To say I am dazed and overwhelmed would be an understatement. Before I know it, someone else is holding his camera, aimed at us, and I can feel his stubble he presses our faces into closer proximity than the strange Norwegian girl’s bed to mine last night. Can only imagine the less-than-modelesque expression that must have been inhabiting my face. The man insists on buying me a drink; respond ‘no, it isn’t even noon!’ and turn to make my escape; my legs move, but my face is stuck! Both his hands are suddenly holding my head, and he is dangerously close … lips are puckered … everything is slow motion now … I can see his pores! A quick head swivel is now my only option; wonder as he’s slobbering on my cheek if pouring salt on him would help to detach this particular breed of leach? Escape! Turn now to see two old men standing under a store awning, inhaling deeply on their cigars, laughing boisterously in my direction. One shouts at me: “You’re in Italy now, lady!” and resumes his puffing, suddenly disinterested. Place this experience in my Lessons Learned column, and walk on, feeling slightly violated and disappointed that this man has just proven the more negative stereotypes about Italian men.
Previously failed to notice in the travel guides that another claim to fame for Venice is its being the most expensive city in the world. Fantastic. At least they are consistent in their thwarting of tourist life. As a result, am forced to drop extremely expensive bread crumbs in my wake as I walk, creating a trail to guide me back to my hostel. Walk for two days, smitten with the style and fashion, the history, the architecture, the arts, culture that is unavoidable even when tainted by tourist shops overflowing with Morano glass and Venetian masks. In this constant state of awe, am initially able to ignore the intense heat, with frequent breaks to sit and watch, take in my surroundings… and the odd cheap beer. Can eat only in the places where food is on display, as the Pointing Method has proven my only success. By Day 3, can literally no longer stand. My feet are red, swollen fatter than a pregnant WalMart checkout clerk’s, throbbing and shooting hot pains up my shins. As soon as the Crazy Italian Hostel Janitors are done for the day, am back in my room to eat a KitKat, soak feet in cold water, elevate, & down anti-inflammatories before my nap. Not only am I too old for hostelling, but with my raised feet, am possibly too old for walking as well. Drift off with a smile on my face, images of wheelchairs dancing in my head…
Spend the evening sitting on a cement step leading down to the Grand Canal, silently observing. Would be fair to say that at any given time, there could always be counted at least five people in the vicinity eating gelato. Pretend not to notice the glaring locals, puffing cigarettes and blatantly willing us intruders to leave their unique oasis. [In an attempt to keep the bitterness even, I format a silent speech to the Venetians about how Tourism is their ONLY industry and they should really learn to appreciate us.] The air smells of fishy saltwater, cigarette smoke, and beer. I watch as a unique pair passes- a large woman in tight leopard print, with frizzy red hair, a lipstick-stained cigarette dangling from her mouth, carrying a bag with an overflowing and aggressively spinning whirligig hanging out. With her is a short man, even rounder than her, towing behind him a huge pink suitcase. As the boat they’ve boarded pulls in front of a water taxi, it is assailed with a wave and teeters dangerously, causing her to bury her hands in her crimson mop in panic. Glance around to see if anyone else has witnessed this comedy; wonder briefly why no one besides me yelps and jumps as the pigeons swoop dangerously close. They seem to be staging an overthrow, and everyone but me is oblivious.
Day 4: 1 becomes 2! Off to the airport to meet Heini and face this city in tandem. This time, on Bus Number 5, I have my IPod in, feet up, am relaxed and comfortable. Amazing how a place can become familiar in such a short time. I know where I’m going. Take that, Italy! Airport Cappuccino. Guide Heini not with faux bravado this time, but actual conviction, to Bus Number 5. Bus Number 5 is my favorite. Laugh as she tows her suitcase up and then down again Ponte dei Death, content with the fact that mine is resting peaceably on Floor number 3 at Alloggi Gerotto Calderan, the hostel I have learned to find even without the aid of a crumb trail. We pay, unpack, I soak my feet, she showers, and we venture out in search of real proper Italian PIZZA! A restaurant materializes with English on their menus, immediately making it an obvious choice. In hindsight, this too must have been divine direction, since the English-speaking menu may have prevented the accidental consumption of Horsemeat Pizza. Will never know for sure. I somehow manage to eat an entire pizza to myself, and will forever consider this a fabulous accomplishment. Am practically a Ninja Turtle; at the very least know I’m a shoo-in if April ever kicks the bucket. Sample local wine as well, and enjoy every sip. This country is famous for nothing else, if not my two favorite drink genres!
Day 5: Piazza San Marco is immediately tainted in my mind as I have no option but to pay €1.50 to use a toilet. Am filled with remorse that I didn’t bring a full 2 liter water bottle to drink inside. If I’m going to pay, should at least make it worthwhile … 1 Point-Venice, 0-Michelle. Would like to take this opportunity to rename Piazza San Marco: Piazza Touristic Hell. Granted, there are sights to be seen here that throngs circle the globe to experience; certainly not devaluing the breathtaking art and architecture.
Day is begun with, aside from the obvious caffeinated treat, a vaparetto ride. (A vaparetto, for all intents and purposes, is a floating bus, full to bursting with abrasive people, hot & smelly, with standing room only. Should good grace find you a seat, beware that a fat old woman will soon notice you, and proceed to shout at you in Italian while simultaneously using her cane to point to the sticker on the seat back depicting a happily seated geezer.) I survive only by admiring the Gondoliers we share the water with, simultaneously pitying them for being objectified as a Venetian landmark and daily subjected to the most ignorant and lazy of tourists. Quickly realize I am contradicting myself, as I am both objectifying and resenting the objectification. Feel confused. Exit the vaparetto 3 days later, [or so it seems,] confident that whatever is on the other side will surely resemble Utopia to make this ride worthwhile. Au contraire! Piazza San Marco has the most concentrated tourist population fathomable. The Bridge of Sighs is surrounded on three sides by a dishonoring advertisement for a chain department store, which seems heart-wrenching somehow. Rather than photograph Basilica di San Marco, my mission quickly becomes to capture a photo of the most idiotic-looking tourist possible. I confess my interests are slightly twisted in comparison to most travelers.
Attempting to escape the crowds, we wander through narrow back streets instead, anxious to see what goes on behind the scenes. Soon learned how futile the effort of re-stowing the camera in my bag between photographs, as no sight can be ignored. Occasionally, vociferous soulful singing would echo through the canals, to eventually be followed by the appearance of the gondola from which the singing is coming. An infatuation develops for streets so narrow I am able to reach and touch the buildings on both sides, even with what I consider a very average wingspan. After a few hours of this, a museum filled with 1st Century orchestra instruments quickly loses my already limited attention, which is instantly reclaimed by my feet. Briefly consider lying down on the museum floor, but the fear instilled by hostile Italians aids in the maintenance of my vertical status.
After a nap, catch an evening vaparetto, intent on taking full advantage of our 24-hour tickets and hoping that Venice actually loses money on us. Having learned the Italian way, eventually wrangle our way to the front of the boat and acquire- gasp! - chairs! Is a highlight moment for me, not only because I’m sitting, but because it is such a warm evening with a refreshing breeze. We are intentionally going Nowhere, one of my favorite destinations, because only then is everything you see beyond expectations. Would ride from one end of the Grand Canal to the other, and back again, doing nothing but enjoying the scenery. In the dark, the water-front buildings surrounding us suddenly seem less abandoned than they do during the day. It’s as though, in daylight, you are viewing a vacant mask … but at night life reveals itself from behind the mask. Lights now illuminate modern metropolitan apartments high above us, decorated inside with phenomenal artwork and sparkling, outrageous chandeliers the size of my condo. My mind reels with images of the people who must live in these places, what their stories, how they live their lives. Suddenly realize that with their 60,000 residents and 200,000 tourists a year, the beauty of Venice may actually exist nowhere else but in its hostility towards visitors. No concerted effort is put forth to cater to vacationers- signs display no English, there are no public bathrooms, no Information sites, no one willing to help, never an Italian smile seen. Maybe they’re aware that they’re living in one of the world’s gems, and therefore the travelers will come, whether welcomed or not. In no way are Venetians acting out a skit for tourists, but instead are living out their culture stubbornly and shamelessly, refusing defeat. Despite being outnumbered 3 to 1, these resilient people withstand all influence and remain undeniably and beautifully Venetian.
Day 1: Arrive at the Marco Polo Airport 11 p.m., only ten minutes before the final bus would run to the city of Venice. Perfect. Just enough time to purchase a ticket from the Information desk, where the clerk would do little more than glare at me, hand over a ticket, and turn her sign to read what I assume was Italian for “Closed” (That, or “Piss off, Tourist”). Step outside, in search of the Number 5 bus. Instead find the Number 5 Parking Lot—which is, as fate would have it, 5 of 5 and therefore furthest from the airport. Now retrace steps to the airport entrance, attempting panic-minimizing self-talk during the journey. Notice Number 5 bus has now arrived, clearly and conveniently parked directly in front of the Arrivals door. Am once again reminded of how much easier my life could sometimes be. Ask the cigarette-puffing driver if we are indeed going to the Piazzale Roma, where I need to be. He stares at me, eyes saying: “I would far rather suffocate you and leave you to the coyotes than have you ride on my bus.” I board the bus anyway and begin praying for divine direction.
12 a.m.: Arrive Piazzale Roma, and begin to walk with the intent of portraying confidence and assuredness. Soon realize have confidently walked in very much the wrong direction. Turn back; wonder how to portray- with confidence- that I had every intention of walking with suitcase in tow 2 blocks down the sidewalk, rotating 180 degrees, confidently walking back to my starting point, and committing the most shameful tourist crime: pulling out a large crumpled piece of paper to refresh my mind of directions. 30 minutes now until the hostel in possession of my credit card closes its doors for the night and I am left sleeping on cobblestone streets- thank my lucky stars there are plenty of bridges under which I could find shelter, if necessary.
Find Ponte dei Scalzi- the bridge falsely named within the broken English directions provided by Valentino at what I hope will be the hostel where I’ll lay my head tonight. Rename the bridge in my mind: Ponte dei Death, as it is really little more than 10 or 12 thousand steps up to the peak, and then back down again. Consider the possibility that Ponte dei Death may be a structural foreshadowing strategically located at the entrance to an unwelcoming city, as my suitcase clunks awkwardly down step after step behind me. 20 minutes until hostel doors close. Am walking now along the Grand Canal; more optimistic of travelers would, at this point, illustrate the magical ambiance of such a famous location. Certainly this is all true, in the daylight, if you know where you’re going and have no fear of abduction or sense of smell. I, on the other hand, wanted to curl into a ball on the street and cry in frustration, revealing that I am in no way the bold and confident lone wolf that I am hoping they’re seeing. Walk on. Canal disappears and street narrows, am surrounded now on both sides by tall brick buildings and sporadically placed mystic wrought iron street lamps. The dark night air is thick and heavy, and streets are full of large suspicious men who have blankets spread on the street, displaying knock-off Prada, Dolce & Gabbana, and Louis Vuitton. Tell myself these bags are genuine and stolen, because the fake leather and gold embellishments are somehow too depressing to acknowledge. (Either way, a few days later witness the men grabbing their displays and running when they notice police doing a routine wander through the streets in their direction.) Avoid eye contact, attempt to hold head higher and shoulders even more erect. Like a hotel hallway after too much to drink, the street seems to elongate as I walk. Finally step into a square, illuminated on my left by a large underwear store. Notice now the elusive Star of David, lights shining from above, and hear angels singing, as I remember Valentino’s directions: “located above undergarment shop”. Hallelujah!
Well, Hallelujah, except that buildings constructed hundreds of years ago rarely contain elevators. Lucky me— 3rd floor room. Clunk, clunk, clunk … now it is my suitcase begging to surrender with tears in a corner, or better yet, be thrown into the canal and risk instant disintegration caused by the unimaginable pollution that makes the canals smell the way they do and glow that eerie green color. Venice is so much more than the picturesque photographs portray.
Mentally pat myself on the back for money-saving decisions made from the comfort of home, as I sneak into the 6-bed dorm room with only a couple minutes until curfew. Notice that my bed is pushed awkwardly close to the next, a faceless stranger already cocooned inside. Have just flown for 11 hours, spent a day touring Amsterdam, experiencing extreme sleep deprivation, and am glowing slightly (because girls don’t sweat, they glow.) Regardless, a shower doesn’t seem to be in the cards tonight; instead I climb silently into bed to avoid further disturbance of new roommates. Compare, in my mind, the first impression of European hostelling (curfew, silence, cleanliness) to previous Australian experience (endless parties, unwelcomed overnight guests, filth, and the sort of drama that makes Dawson’s Creek appear mundane. Have since learned that the hostel we called home was later closed due to the underground drug dealing operation being run from the office. I assure you, there were no signs during our stay… other than one peaceful evening on the terrace disturbed by a wailing girl, running in an erratic zigzag pattern, flinging herself into the pool, only to be rescued by three equally raucous boys. There is no need to mention Simon, the hostel manager, who had the strangest case of incurable sniffles, jitters, and bloodshot eyes, which he blamed on bedbug spray. I believe him!)
Roommates tonight include the girls on an art tour from Norway, who go to bed very early. Also a scrawny Korean boy who’s spent over a year touring Europe, South America, and Asia. Wonder if he’s looking for a wife, (as he clearly has an exceptional travel fund,) until it becomes apparent that he has no qualms with displaying his tighty-whiteys, unconcerned with the company present. Remain single. Chat also with a very friendly Egyptian boy, until he offers assistance by advising that I should take advantage of the sheets and blankets crumpled at the end of my bed. He seems oblivious that our room’s temperature can really only be compared to the surface of the sun itself. Clearly he’s crazy. Roll over and find myself ridiculously aware that I am much, much too old for hostelling.
Day 2: Wake far earlier than I’d like. Another advantage of the chosen hostel: you make the most of your day, because you are asked to leave by 10 a.m., in order that the cleaners have no obstacles to work around. To clarify, in my vocabulary, “asked to leave” is synonymous with “shouted at in Italian by a flock of women with large hair and even larger voices, dressed ever-so-serenely in all white and red lipstick.” Can only imagine what my rapid-exit appearance must be like as I run out the door, wild-eyed, into the busiest square I’ve seen, barely recognizable as the ghost town/potential mugging site wandered through the night before. Am exhausted already, overwhelmed, and feeling quite lost. Walk directionless until I see a sign that says “Brek Café” … optimistically take this to mean breakfast. My assumptions are confirmed, and here the angels are really belting it out, as I take a sip of my first Cappuccino, content for the first time. And then an Americano. And a Latte. Suddenly my Starbucks expertise becomes valuable, given their highway robbery of Latin words, enabling Anglophones to feel exotic and sophisticated while ordering their coffees. It should be known that it really was necessary to order a multitude of coffees, because portion sizes are so ridiculously small in the rest of the world. Wonder to myself why obesity is at an all-time high in North America? Oh well… another cappuccino, per favore! Grazie!
After stalling to the point of ridiculous, re-enter the busy streets. Am soon approached by a middle-aged man, the sort to epitomize the term “greasy.” Rambles something to me in Italian; I presume he is asking something about taking my photo as he is also waving a camera in my face. Caffeine has not kicked in... I knew I should have injected it. To say I am dazed and overwhelmed would be an understatement. Before I know it, someone else is holding his camera, aimed at us, and I can feel his stubble he presses our faces into closer proximity than the strange Norwegian girl’s bed to mine last night. Can only imagine the less-than-modelesque expression that must have been inhabiting my face. The man insists on buying me a drink; respond ‘no, it isn’t even noon!’ and turn to make my escape; my legs move, but my face is stuck! Both his hands are suddenly holding my head, and he is dangerously close … lips are puckered … everything is slow motion now … I can see his pores! A quick head swivel is now my only option; wonder as he’s slobbering on my cheek if pouring salt on him would help to detach this particular breed of leach? Escape! Turn now to see two old men standing under a store awning, inhaling deeply on their cigars, laughing boisterously in my direction. One shouts at me: “You’re in Italy now, lady!” and resumes his puffing, suddenly disinterested. Place this experience in my Lessons Learned column, and walk on, feeling slightly violated and disappointed that this man has just proven the more negative stereotypes about Italian men.
Previously failed to notice in the travel guides that another claim to fame for Venice is its being the most expensive city in the world. Fantastic. At least they are consistent in their thwarting of tourist life. As a result, am forced to drop extremely expensive bread crumbs in my wake as I walk, creating a trail to guide me back to my hostel. Walk for two days, smitten with the style and fashion, the history, the architecture, the arts, culture that is unavoidable even when tainted by tourist shops overflowing with Morano glass and Venetian masks. In this constant state of awe, am initially able to ignore the intense heat, with frequent breaks to sit and watch, take in my surroundings… and the odd cheap beer. Can eat only in the places where food is on display, as the Pointing Method has proven my only success. By Day 3, can literally no longer stand. My feet are red, swollen fatter than a pregnant WalMart checkout clerk’s, throbbing and shooting hot pains up my shins. As soon as the Crazy Italian Hostel Janitors are done for the day, am back in my room to eat a KitKat, soak feet in cold water, elevate, & down anti-inflammatories before my nap. Not only am I too old for hostelling, but with my raised feet, am possibly too old for walking as well. Drift off with a smile on my face, images of wheelchairs dancing in my head…
Spend the evening sitting on a cement step leading down to the Grand Canal, silently observing. Would be fair to say that at any given time, there could always be counted at least five people in the vicinity eating gelato. Pretend not to notice the glaring locals, puffing cigarettes and blatantly willing us intruders to leave their unique oasis. [In an attempt to keep the bitterness even, I format a silent speech to the Venetians about how Tourism is their ONLY industry and they should really learn to appreciate us.] The air smells of fishy saltwater, cigarette smoke, and beer. I watch as a unique pair passes- a large woman in tight leopard print, with frizzy red hair, a lipstick-stained cigarette dangling from her mouth, carrying a bag with an overflowing and aggressively spinning whirligig hanging out. With her is a short man, even rounder than her, towing behind him a huge pink suitcase. As the boat they’ve boarded pulls in front of a water taxi, it is assailed with a wave and teeters dangerously, causing her to bury her hands in her crimson mop in panic. Glance around to see if anyone else has witnessed this comedy; wonder briefly why no one besides me yelps and jumps as the pigeons swoop dangerously close. They seem to be staging an overthrow, and everyone but me is oblivious.
Day 4: 1 becomes 2! Off to the airport to meet Heini and face this city in tandem. This time, on Bus Number 5, I have my IPod in, feet up, am relaxed and comfortable. Amazing how a place can become familiar in such a short time. I know where I’m going. Take that, Italy! Airport Cappuccino. Guide Heini not with faux bravado this time, but actual conviction, to Bus Number 5. Bus Number 5 is my favorite. Laugh as she tows her suitcase up and then down again Ponte dei Death, content with the fact that mine is resting peaceably on Floor number 3 at Alloggi Gerotto Calderan, the hostel I have learned to find even without the aid of a crumb trail. We pay, unpack, I soak my feet, she showers, and we venture out in search of real proper Italian PIZZA! A restaurant materializes with English on their menus, immediately making it an obvious choice. In hindsight, this too must have been divine direction, since the English-speaking menu may have prevented the accidental consumption of Horsemeat Pizza. Will never know for sure. I somehow manage to eat an entire pizza to myself, and will forever consider this a fabulous accomplishment. Am practically a Ninja Turtle; at the very least know I’m a shoo-in if April ever kicks the bucket. Sample local wine as well, and enjoy every sip. This country is famous for nothing else, if not my two favorite drink genres!
Day 5: Piazza San Marco is immediately tainted in my mind as I have no option but to pay €1.50 to use a toilet. Am filled with remorse that I didn’t bring a full 2 liter water bottle to drink inside. If I’m going to pay, should at least make it worthwhile … 1 Point-Venice, 0-Michelle. Would like to take this opportunity to rename Piazza San Marco: Piazza Touristic Hell. Granted, there are sights to be seen here that throngs circle the globe to experience; certainly not devaluing the breathtaking art and architecture.
Day is begun with, aside from the obvious caffeinated treat, a vaparetto ride. (A vaparetto, for all intents and purposes, is a floating bus, full to bursting with abrasive people, hot & smelly, with standing room only. Should good grace find you a seat, beware that a fat old woman will soon notice you, and proceed to shout at you in Italian while simultaneously using her cane to point to the sticker on the seat back depicting a happily seated geezer.) I survive only by admiring the Gondoliers we share the water with, simultaneously pitying them for being objectified as a Venetian landmark and daily subjected to the most ignorant and lazy of tourists. Quickly realize I am contradicting myself, as I am both objectifying and resenting the objectification. Feel confused. Exit the vaparetto 3 days later, [or so it seems,] confident that whatever is on the other side will surely resemble Utopia to make this ride worthwhile. Au contraire! Piazza San Marco has the most concentrated tourist population fathomable. The Bridge of Sighs is surrounded on three sides by a dishonoring advertisement for a chain department store, which seems heart-wrenching somehow. Rather than photograph Basilica di San Marco, my mission quickly becomes to capture a photo of the most idiotic-looking tourist possible. I confess my interests are slightly twisted in comparison to most travelers.
Attempting to escape the crowds, we wander through narrow back streets instead, anxious to see what goes on behind the scenes. Soon learned how futile the effort of re-stowing the camera in my bag between photographs, as no sight can be ignored. Occasionally, vociferous soulful singing would echo through the canals, to eventually be followed by the appearance of the gondola from which the singing is coming. An infatuation develops for streets so narrow I am able to reach and touch the buildings on both sides, even with what I consider a very average wingspan. After a few hours of this, a museum filled with 1st Century orchestra instruments quickly loses my already limited attention, which is instantly reclaimed by my feet. Briefly consider lying down on the museum floor, but the fear instilled by hostile Italians aids in the maintenance of my vertical status.
After a nap, catch an evening vaparetto, intent on taking full advantage of our 24-hour tickets and hoping that Venice actually loses money on us. Having learned the Italian way, eventually wrangle our way to the front of the boat and acquire- gasp! - chairs! Is a highlight moment for me, not only because I’m sitting, but because it is such a warm evening with a refreshing breeze. We are intentionally going Nowhere, one of my favorite destinations, because only then is everything you see beyond expectations. Would ride from one end of the Grand Canal to the other, and back again, doing nothing but enjoying the scenery. In the dark, the water-front buildings surrounding us suddenly seem less abandoned than they do during the day. It’s as though, in daylight, you are viewing a vacant mask … but at night life reveals itself from behind the mask. Lights now illuminate modern metropolitan apartments high above us, decorated inside with phenomenal artwork and sparkling, outrageous chandeliers the size of my condo. My mind reels with images of the people who must live in these places, what their stories, how they live their lives. Suddenly realize that with their 60,000 residents and 200,000 tourists a year, the beauty of Venice may actually exist nowhere else but in its hostility towards visitors. No concerted effort is put forth to cater to vacationers- signs display no English, there are no public bathrooms, no Information sites, no one willing to help, never an Italian smile seen. Maybe they’re aware that they’re living in one of the world’s gems, and therefore the travelers will come, whether welcomed or not. In no way are Venetians acting out a skit for tourists, but instead are living out their culture stubbornly and shamelessly, refusing defeat. Despite being outnumbered 3 to 1, these resilient people withstand all influence and remain undeniably and beautifully Venetian.
