Day 8: Venice

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February 29, 2008: Venice, Italy

Awake at eighty kilometers per hour as the train neared Florence. A pang of regret hit me, knowing that I wouldn't be able to see it on this trip. As the train moved in and out of stations along its route--Florence, Bologna, Ferrara, Padova--one aspect linked them all together, invoking the same thought: they sure did find the worst parts of town to build a train station in. All I could see of these places of such renowned beauty were the run-down housing projects, construction sites, and graffiti-lined walls lining the tracks. But Venice was going to be different, I kept telling myself. At least if it wasn't I knew there were no cars or bikes allowed on the island (a small consolation but I was trying to keep my hopes up).
We pulled into Venice's train station along a causeway over the swamp, everything awash in a fog. It gave an eerie feel as I couldn't see more than fifty feet in any direction, the line between water and sky blurred into one, creating a dream-like quality of haze and refracted light that bathed everything in a soft glow. As the train stopped all I could see was the station in front of me and a large concrete slab of a parking lot being constructed off to my right--the fog had hidden anything beyond that. My heart sank as I thought, "please don't tell me Venice is going to look and feel just like Sicily." I bought a slice of mushroom pizza for lunch (one quarter of a pie) and sat down at the station surrounded by my recently expanded collection of luggage. As anxious as I was to explore Venice, I sat there, eating, slightly apprehensive about it being a big disappointment since all I had seen so far was a parking garage and the train station. After lunch I made my way to the front door and readied myself to be let down. The door swung open, letting in a rush of cool air. I lifted my head to see the overcast splendor that greeted me. My mouth agape, my eyes wide, I said only one thing to myself, "Shit, I'm going to need more film."
The walk to my hostel was more adventurous than I had anticipated. The directions were vague, but simple. After an hour and-a-half of unexpected exploration, and practice in asking directions in Italian, I decided to take a seat on the cold marble steps of a small church. I let the fire in my shoulders subside and feasted on a handful of Sicilian Honey Nut Cheerios. A small, kindly-looking older Italian man decided to do the same as he carried his groceries. Panniers in hand, backpack firmly strapped to my torso, I approached him and asked if he knew where this address was. I'm not sure if his finger pointing behind me gave me a sense of relief, or embarrassment, since I had passed that building at least four times. But was this really the place? Everyone else pointed me in different directions anyway, so who could tell--Deja-vu sunk in as I remembered the driver I tried to give directions to in Acireale. No sign, I thought, as I crossed the bridge over to the back... front... side, well, the only door that I could see. I hit the buzzer and the door unlatched--whoops, this is someone's basement. Music came pouring down the stairs, someone was obviously home. I called up the steps to no answer. Confused, and not sure what a standard hostel looks like, I walked back to the old man and asked again if that was the address. He assured me it was so I decided to brave the stairs and see who was home. As it turns out he was right: this was the hostel, and what relief. Though the smell emanating from me surely made my next remark redundant, I told him that I spent seventeen hours on a train and needed a shower. Standing there under the shower head I began to wonder exactly how clean that water was. Well, I thought, Venetians bathe in this every day and they're still here. Besides, I don't much care at this point. As I emerged from the steam-filled bathroom I remembered that I was down to my last clean set of clothes, so my host pointed me in the direction of the nearest laundromat.
I met an eccentric man from Catania in the laundromat, easily in his sixties, with a hairdo that would make any mad scientist writhe with envy. He was telling me about his recent attempt at committing suicide. There are many ways to commit suicide... walking down a dark alley in a bad part of town--suicide; mouthing off to the large man in the corner who looks like a genetic experiment gone awry--suicide; accusing the mob of corruption, bringing a lawsuit against them, and carrying around a signed affidavit attesting to that fact--suicide. The last of these examples was the old man's--botched so far--attempt at suicide.
Wait, let's back up. I entered the laundromat, shoved my clothes in the washer, headed back to the toasty warm dryers to warm up, and waited impatiently for my clothes to finish, stepping outside briefly, in my t-shirt--my sweatshirt was in the washer--to snap a few pictures from time to time. As I sat looking up some words and phrases, my leg bouncing with anxious energy, a woman entered to wait for her clothes. She came in, her auburn hair tied back loosely, lively chestnut eyes accenting her tanned face, (which contrasted nicely with my Irish tan) jacket unzipped, she made her way to the other side of the small table where I was and flipped through her books, figuring out what she wanted to see while here. I found myself stealing glances of her and striking up conversation whenever I could. Her laugh was contagious, and her smile certainly brightened up what started out as an uncertain day. For whatever reason I noticed that I had much less trouble talking to people during this trip than I do when I'm at home--I never would have approached her had I seen her out at a bar somewhere. Maybe it's meeting people of a similar mindset, or the fact that we were both traveling solo and could use some company. Perhaps it's the fact that most people back home don't share the same interests that I do that leaves me feeling like a mute.
Huh, I thought, my leg stopped.
She and the old man talked in Italian, me trying to glean what was actually being said, her translating for me periodically (she is from Argentina, but spoke Italian better than I did). He showed us his affidavit, newspaper clippings, and told us that he would be in Venice for the time being (I wonder why?).
"Nazarena," she said, when I asked her name, "you can call me Nacha." We continued to talk--she spoke English very well--as our clothes spun and tumbled, the old man periodically broke in to tell us more of his adventure. After a while I asked how long she'd been in Venice.
"It's my first day," she said, "I can't check into my hostel yet, so I have to go store my bag at the station."
"I have to head up that way too if you'd like some company."
She agreed and we made our way to run our errands, after being detained at the door of the laundromat by the old man who asked if we wanted to sign his petition. My brain stood still, like a deer caught in a headlight, wondering if he actually asked me that. Thankfully, my legs vetoed my brain's curiosity and moved on their own.
Surprisingly, we were only in the station for fifteen minutes before we headed back outside. She noticed the tripod strapped to my pack and asked if I was a photographer. "No," I said, "but I like photography." "I don't. Do you want to take pictures here and send them to me?" I agreed and we exchanged information.
Hours went by as we walked through this wholly unique city. An impossible network of streets, alleyways, bridges, piazzas, dead-ends, and canals were our playground. The only site on the agenda that day was Saint Mark's Square. After looking at the map and noticing how much it resembled tangled spaghetti, we decided not to even bother trying to navigate and just headed off in the general direction we knew we wanted to go. Faded yellow signs marked the way to nearby places of interest, but we decided to take a more scenic route--mainly because we kept losing the signs. There is no better way to see Venice than to get lost. Every turn offered another breathtaking view: The sense of compression felt in alleyways barely wide enough for two people that leave only a strip of sky visible overhead--alleyways that open into spanning piazzas and release that compression into a feeling of enormity and wonderment; the buildings that rise from the water like cliffs of brick, wood, and stone, each one a contemptuous, beautiful contrast to the ugliness of the swamp it was built on; the winding grand canal, covered in mist, dotted with gondolas and ferries; the hundreds of bridges, each one unique, yet each one belonging there as perfectly as if it had risen from the ground; the immense and ornate cathedrals, side by side with humble cafes and restaurants. Venice is a place of contrast, of wonder, of beauty, and of romance... it did not disappoint.
Saint Mark's Square at last. It's surprising how an area so open and so filled with monumental buildings, testament to their creator's ego, can sneak up on you. At the western end of the square sits the Correr Museum--a civic museum that houses documents, artwork, and other exhibits pertaining to the history of Venice--flanked on either side by a three-story building, all of which are rooted to the black stone and weathered marble of the square by an arched, covered walkway, open to the square and lined with shops and restaurants. Opposite is Saint Mark's Basilica, a stunning display of Byzantine architecture, adorned with numerous domes, spires, statues, frescoes, pillars, recessed alcoves, an overload of aesthetic beauty, and all before setting foot inside the door. Keeping watch over the sea and the basilica is the red-bricked bell tower, Campanile, an imposing figure that dominates the sky at over three-hundred feet high. By dumb luck we happened to make it there close to the hour and the bells began to ring. No melody, just a simple, clean ringing of the bells that can be heard from every corner of the city. The bells stopped and an organ began to play. A classical Italian piece? A score to accompany the feeling of grandeur and significance I had? No... "Ob-la-di Ob-la-da". Granted, a good song, but hardly one I expected to hear coming from a church organ in a place like Venice. The southern end of the square is open to the water, lined with docked gondolas, and offering a view of the islands San Giorgio Maggiore and La Guidecca.This view was more short-lived since when I rounded the corner of the square to the open southern face, one thought filled my mind: "holy crap it's cold and windy." As I stopped to take a picture, I lost Nacha as she strolled around the square. Oh well, I thought, maybe she just wanted some company as she walked here. So I made my way to the dock to soak in my surroundings and play a solitary game called let's see how red my nose can get.
Unknowingly, I wore a smile most everywhere I went out of sheer wonderment for what engulfed me. It was only when Nacha found me again that I realized I didn't have to smile to welcome her back, I already was. As we meandered through the streets, our conversation flowed like the waters all around us--though less dirty. There was never an awkward moment of idle chit-chat, never a nervous pause, but a mutual enjoyment for each others company. Laughter filled our conversations, our cheeks sore and abdominals tight from constant use. It was then we both noticed that the tightness in our stomachs was probably from hunger. Traveling down these stone walkways, smelling the olive oil, thyme, garlic, and basil drifting down the block from innumerable pizzerias and restaurants, bombarded with signs for gelato and sandwich shops, one can't help but feel hungry. Lunch was nothing special, just a quick slice at a bare-bones pizza place called L'Angolo Della Pizza. Despite the fact that this was the best pizza I ever had, it seemed to be just another run-of-the-mill pizza place on the island. Refueled and raring to go, we ventured out once again, determined to explore every nook of Venice, no matter how obscure, by not having a clue where we were going. The conversation continued, as lively as ever, which made getting lost all the easier since both of us were more engrossed in talking to each other than in watching the signs.
Night began its slow descent on the city. It was time to head back to the train station to retrieve Nacha's bag. Tired of the crowds, we decided to follow a different route back--the road less traveled, as it were. It turned out, this was a road much less traveled. Once off the main roads, Venice became a haunting, deserted place. No tourists, few shops, not much of anything except the faint glow of lights through the fog, and buildings rising in sheer walls on either side of us, like walking through a canyon, not even granting the courtesy of that narrow strip of sky overhead. Anywhere else, a walk like this would have had me more than a bit on edge. For some reason I felt perfectly safe and calm walking down these poorly lit back alleys. We made it to the station without incident, retrieved her bag, and began to walk to her hostel, which was apparently just down the street from me. As we stood outside my hostel she said she would most likely be in Venice for one more day (as was I) and would like to get together tomorrow to see an art gallery and walk around some more. That was just fine by me, so we exchanged numbers and parted with a kiss on the cheek.
Back at the hostel I walked up the stairs to be greeted by the same aromas filling the streets: our host was preparing dinner for everyone. After a full day of walking I was ready for a good dinner. Free breakfast and free dinner meant that everyone was around the table at least twice a day to talk and get to know each other, which is what I was hoping to find throughout this trip, and which was, unfortunately, lacking at the campground in Sicily. Dinner was simple but very filling, accompanied by friendly, outgoing people, sharing a common bond in our wanderlust and exploration. We talked for a good hour after dinner, I can't remember about what, but the topics were as varied as each individual at the table. It was nice being the only American in the hostel that night, although there were a few Canadians, and that's close enough.
Everyone settled in for a quiet evening, drinking wine and discussing our once and future travels, our homelands, and culture. The mellow tone of conversation was fittingly enhanced by the dimmed lights, the quiet glow of a computer screen, silhouetting its user. All was peaceful and serene after the full day of walking everyone had--until around midnight. Then the Irish showed up.
The cries of joy bounced off the stone walls of the basement and made their way up the stairs to where everyone was relaxing. Muffled voices became louder and more clear as we hear them plod up the steps and burst through the door, panting from their four hour search to find the hostel (thank god I wasn't the only one). The two Irishmen were boisterous, brash, jocular, and overwhelmingly friendly--I liked them from the start. I noticed, as they entered, one was brandishing a weapon of extreme destruction: one able to render the burliest of men to a weeping baby; a weapon of contradiction that is used not on enemies, but on friends; an amber-hued bully that can bring the sanest man to prance around naked singing folk songs; the bane of my existence since I came to be of legal drinking age--whiskey.
"All ya fookers are gonna do a shot wit us," the one I came to call Fitzy intoned as he placed the bottle on the table.
Oh god no, I thought, I know they won't take 'no' for an answer. Lamely trying to refuse, I ended up, after only a few seconds of convincing, with a double-shot of whiskey in my hand. It went down surprisingly smooth for an alcohol I can't stand. As I had turned from placing the cup down, another was thrust in my face (If only you could say no to an Irishman when it comes to drinking). Thankfully, that's where it stopped as the two of them, deciding that a few more drinks were a well earned treat after successfully navigating the labyrinth that is Venice, passed the bottle back and forth. After a half hour of sitting around with the rest of us they decided to hit a club. My liver cried with joy and began to dance a jig--whiskey brings out the Irish in everyone.
Once everything calmed down we switched back to wine and learned a new card game from the Swedes. As I understand it, it's usually a drinking game, but after the whiskey, we all decided to play for fun. Exhausted after a full day, I lumbered to my bed and fell fast asleep (or passed out, whichever).

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