Day 29 - Venice

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Day 29
Tuesday July 30, 1997

Right now I am sitting in Venetian Trattoria Restaurante. Somewhere in Venice. The place is packed. I am putting the pen to paper and looking for an escape. I must escape from this dastardly place. To be clear, I don’t really want to escape from Venice because I dislike it. Venice is not a hole. Rather, the city is wonderful, quite scenic. No, I just hate the fact that it is reaming with billions of bloody tourists. I hate tourists. All of them? Yes, and especially those swarms of vermin tourists that clog up the comparatively cramped city of Venice. They ignite this bitter hated that hibernates deep inside me. Irritating. Aggravating….utterly maddening. And the pests are everywhere. Everywhere. It is like I am caught in a plague. Some may say that I am wacked because despite my statement I am actually a tourist. Ummm…No. I am not a tourist. I am a wanderer. Let’s get that one straight. However, here is my beef. I came here to explore Europe. To wander aimlessly, to experience and to gain experience. Yet, the only thing that is holding me back are the tourists.

Take today as a prime example of the source of my innate fury towards this sightseeing pestilence. My day started sitting on my pack, on the dusty ground behind an endless line of gratingly cheery backpackers. (tourists) We were all waiting to enter Ostello Venezia, the local youth hostel. The line slowly snaked its’ way through the adjoining courtyard. With each baby step dust was kicked up, only to be immediately coagulated in filthy clumps clinging to sweat that was streaming down my back in the stifling morning heat. With each dusty step, I become more and more pissed off. To boot, I was going on a couple hours of sleep and was still pissed up from the previous evening’s festivities. Finally I entered the hostel and got myself a cot. Then the bastards chucked my filthy body back out into the streets. Check in was not for another 8 hours. 8 more hours to fester. Great.

Within moments on being tossed into the streets, I was inundated with the vermin. Every direction I turned there were crowds. On every street corner, every laneway or every corridor I was overwhelmed by the horde of beasts. To pass, I had to squeeze myself through the crammed narrow passageways. At every turn there were more of them. More. More. Even when I checked out the attractions I was held back. I inched my way up some bell tower, 250-odd steps and then had to queue behind a glut of bespectacled babbling Asians. Finally I got a chance to look out upon the city below. What a disaster. Not the city. It was quite picturesque from 10 stories up. However, looking down I saw an endless sea of people. Every street was packed with tourists. Every storefront was blocked by crowds. Every artery stemming to and from the Piazza San Marco was at a virtual standstill. Descending the stone staircase, I rejoined the masses. Oh the pain. It was one hundred degrees in the shade and I was stuck in the midst of the multitude, irritated, wanting, yearning, needing to scream out the words….”Get out of my fucking way! You don’t need another picture of you, your disappointment and the fricking pigeons! Get out of my way. Ahhhhhhhh.”

There are millions of Yanks. Swarms of Chinese. Everywhere Italians. Where did this place get so many Italians? It felt like St Clair in Toronto during a first round win against Canada in the World Cup. Waddling families set upon old Europe en mass. The aged using up their children’s inheritances. The Asian fever using up all the film. And to twist the knife of misery into my back one more turn, Venice closed its’ churches on Mondays. My only respite from the ‘rest’ was closed and it was hot. Damn hot. Africa hot, hotter than the sun get. Hot damn, damn hot, Venetian muggy, sweats like a fat chick wearing pink spandex while chasing a spicy burrito on a treadmill hot! It was one of those days that your nether regions start to breed new life forms from all the heat and moisture down there. No a pretty sight, nor smell. Someone told me it was only 26 degrees. Yes, 26 degrees in the shade but 126 in my pants. And, there I ended my afternoon in the Venetian Trattoria hungry and hot. I was pissed off. Irritated. Waiting for the vacant waitress, ploddingly slow, to finally bring my food to my table. Maybe she was held up after tripping over my panting tongue. Whatever. I just thought….get my something to eat so I can get the f out of there.

Now to some of the highlights to my glorious day in Venice…what have I done, seen, missed, ignored, who have I met? etc, etc, etc?? Simply put, my day was miserable. Consider my plight. Just hours ago, I re-enacted a scene in an old Humphrey Bogart movie whereby I kissed the girl, made her cry, said goodbye, turned and gave one last look, then with a jump and click of the heels strolled off to board my waiting bus. Then, once aboard, I again looked back to my teary-eyed damsel, her image slowly vanishing as we pulled further and further away. The problem was it took sooooo long for her to disappear. Way too long. My driver drove the bus at walking speed. Crap. My departure time was 10:15. I wasn’t going to make it. Remember the trains in Amsterdam? When the bus pulled into the terminal at 10:13, I knew that I only had 2 minutes. At most. You can imagine the scene. Bounding over a sleeping vagabond, a leaner, whiter and less murderous OJ sprinted across the train station’s grand room. Like the Juice, I ran across the platform and tried to hurdle everything in my way. Meanwhile, in a slow-motion reverse rhythmic wobble, my non-cooperative backpack desperately tried to release itself from my body with each pace forward. Dashing up to the platform, I pulled myself into the last door in the last car and climbed aboard as the train began to move. I made it.

Wow. Am I a frickin moron or what? Why did I run? Hotel Yolanda would certainly be much more accommodating than where I ended up sleeping on in the train. I told you I was a slow learner. I think I have been so focused on being ‘frugal and free’ that I left out other f word. Regardless, I was on board, had accommodations for the evening and would wake up in one of the most storied and historic cities, Venice Italy.

As I walked from car to car to car, I quickly realized the last person to board an overbooked train does not sit…he stands. The place is jammed full to the rafters. No seats…anywhere. For some reason, these folks actually got to the station prior to departure and were able to secure seating for themselves. Unimaginable. A fellow latecomer, Mike from California, was the second last person to board the train. Together we embarked on a quest to find a place to sit. No luck…no luck…no luck….then…Bingo! We poked our heads into one of the cars and discovered empty couchettes. Ahhhh….couchettes. They are like finding the holy grail of seats when travelling on an overnight train. My gung-ho Yank friend and I settled down for a nice evening of frank discussions of politics, history and which bimbo in his collection of hard-core pornography had the best bongos. Then, minutes later it turned out that my ‘Bingo’ was a bit premature. An old horse of a woman stuck her head in the car and brayed that she had already booked that car for herself and her ponderous mother. No room for us that barn. Great. Our quest began once again. No luck…no luck…no luck. By the fifth consecutive car our grim faces revealed the fruitlessness of our mission. Occasionally we found open seats but the slugs occupying them were too rude to remove their feet or bags from the seats and offer two desperate, dejected drifters a place to rest their weary bodies.

So what would a typical person do if they fell into a similar circumstance? I know. They would go to the bar car, purchase a glut of Austrian beer, camp out in the middle of an aisle and get shit-faced while openly reading pornography. Better still, if any of the ignorant seat-dwellers needed to use the washroom we made them say the magic words before we let them pass. Those poor travellers had to climb over two piss-tanks passed out in the middle of an aisle. Fabulous! I wish my mom could have seen her ideal perfect son in all his glory. Eventually someone tapped Mike on the shoulder and advised that a couple of seats just opened up. We slept away the remainder of the journey on a couchette in class, comfort and surrounded by lots of good porn.

Once the sun broke over the horizon, I stared out the window and watched the train make its’ way towards Venice. The land was flat. Rather nondescript. Bland. We travelled over a man-made causeway that brought us onto the island chain commonly known as Venice. It was about nine in the morning. To follow where I left off, I left you at the stage where I entered the hostel and was immediately told to piss off for another 8 hours. That left me stranded and stinky in the middle of one of Europe’s most storied and important medieval cities. Before checking out the city, the churches and the attractions, I began my day by purchasing a new t-shirt. It was the least I could do to ensure I did not ruin the day for others visiting Venice. The shirt that I had been wearing revealed salt stains in a variety of patterns and places. Some thought that I was just wearing tied-dye, but unfortunately they were mistaken. The first shop I entered was a Nike Outlet store. I decided to overlook those paper-thin “My Brother went to Venice and all he got me was this lousy t-shirt” t-shirts being sold in the souvenir stands and bought myself some quality threads. Amazingly, as I held up the new garment in their change room, my former article instantly disintegrated on my body and fell into a steaming in a heap on the floor. Great, now my new, fresh duds were soaking up the residue salt and sweat and I returned to the streets of Venice a new man.

Why Venice? What is so important about this city that caused me to leave the wanting embrace of a young Spanish vixen to…. (sorry. I am such an idiot.) Let me start again…Why Venice? From my time spent at university earning my degree(s) in history I learned that Venice played a key role in Roman history, in the history of the Crusades and in the economic development of the west. It was a port city, a centre of commerce and culture. Even Nappy set his eyes on the Italian prize while he waltzed around Europe at the turn of the 19th century. From this cursory knowledge of the city, I assumed that I would come to Venice and find a treasure trove of historical sights and attractions. There was also the off chance that I could find myself a young local Venetian (probably named Maria (pre-moustache)) and take her for a romantic ride on a gondola. (you know what they say about making love in a canoe….)

En route to Venice I read that the city was actually an archipelago of 118 islands. They are joined together by a vast array of bridges and canals. As noted, the main form of transportation for tourists is the gondola. The locals use motor boats. Motors tend to be less work than sticks and oars. Interestingly, Venice has no cars. The islands are fairly small and everyone walks or boats from island to island. I should have read about this before I decided to forgo changing my jeans into something less subtropical. I will introduce you to some of the key attractions in the next few paragraphs.

Akin to the standard itinerary in all other cities, I like to start with the churches. They tend to either be free or voluntary in payment. They are always the oldest structures in the city and are usually comprised of the most historic and ornate architecture and art for the region. I also learned that it was important to keep God’s children warm in the winter and cool in the summer. God needed to have his AC. And since this has been a very hot summer, the Big Guy and I become much closer on this trip. Seeking out those famous gothic churches I read about, I tore out the maps of Venice from my bible and marched up and down its' many streets, alleyways and canals. The first of 15 cathedrals found was the Church of San Salvadore. San Salvadore was situated on a quiet street a few blocks away from the tourist sites. I found it while desperately trying to evade the evil hoard. I meekly approached the towering doors. They made me feel as insignificant as the architects originally expected them to affect the populace. Reaching out, I looked forward to a quiet contemplative stroll through the big mans' place. I tugged and then tugged some more. It was locked. God was not home. Right in my time of need, he decided to do errands and left me wanting on his doorstep. Approaching some of the other 15 churches, I learned that most Venetian churches are only open for a few hours each day and mostly closed on Mondays. So what the hell was I going to do now? I was forsaken. My solace rejected, I was returned to the burning hot Hell of Venice in the summer.

When one meets such levels of misery and disappointment they often seek solace by doing something they most enjoy. I can best correlate this logic by mimicking what big, fat, lazy bastards do when they feel depressed. They compensate their inner feelings of unworthiness and realisation that their existence is truly worthless by eating food. They eat and eat and eat until their pudgy cheeks ooze cream from Boston Cream donuts, jelly from jelly donuts and that tasty, tasty filling of Ding Dong Debbie Snack cakes. Thus, I hunted down a nice dining establishment for lunch. My lunch; a healthy bowl of spaghettini pomodoro, a slice of freshly baked bread complemented with the most stunningly perfect glass of wine. What a fabulous culinary concoction! Although I am raving about this extraordinary luncheon, most Italians wouldn’t have the same opinion of my midday delight. Rather, they would probably measure my meal with the same irreverence we show to bowls of Kraft Dinner. With a wonderful lunch in me, it began to feel like my day was starting to turn around.

I should have turned around and soothed my depression with more noodles and wine. Instead I rejoined the masses and was thrust back to the multitude. The rest of my afternoon was wasted by wandering around aimlessly. I watched bobbing boats in the canals, took my time to frame some few nice shots of old bridges and sat at the edge of the sea coast and dangled my feet over the side. I even braved the tourist zone, poked my head into a few nick-nack emporiums and looked for a prospective souvenir. I decided to pick up a hand pained porcelain mask for my sis. One souvenir down…the rest get postcards.

One particular highlight of my afternoon’s roam was a visit to an air conditioned building. Now an air-conditioned building is not usually an attraction at all, unless of course, it is about 40 degrees outside. Actually, I wouldn't care if I visited the Venetian Museum of Needlepoint. The simple fact was it was 15 degrees colder inside than outside made it a perfect attraction. It was the Palazzo Ducale or The Doges Palace. This is where the Doge, or the Mayor of Venice lived. The Doge and his pals were the richest of the rich. They were the top merchants, tradesman and financiers of the day. Boy has the city gone downhill from that glorious age. Unfortunately, modern Venetians merchants merely hawk Coke bottles melted into contorted shapes with the name 'Venice' stamped on the face or have their kids finger paint Chinese-made mass-produced clay masks. (sorry sis) Unless you are in the business of hawking crappy wears or selling pigeon food it looks like there is no real industry in Venice at all.

Compared to the other buildings in central Venice, the Doges Palace was in a class by itself. Sophistication. Elegance. Opulence. These Doges must have been loaded with gondolas brimming with lire. The lavish surroundings they inhabited would have been the modern equivalent of the Rockefellers or the Gates. Marble arches built atop marble arches line the length of the facade facing the Mediterranean. On the street side, a series of carved marble columns and ultra ornate cornice mouldings accentuated the riches of the Doges. I would have spent more time examining the artisan’s handiwork but it was just too bloody hot outside. The inside of my jeans felt like I was oven roasting nuts simmering in a putrid pants sauce. Seeking anywhere to cool down my torched trousers, I aimed for the Doges dungeon. As part of the Doges Palace, they kept a truly harsh prison to keep their local neredowells. A canal separated the city of Venice from a prison collocated at the palace. Any convict sentenced to time would need to traverse the Bridge of Sighs before entering. This was the last they would see of freedom before spending the rest of their lives in the pit of despair. It was definitely not the Canadian country-club style of incarceration. Each cell sported two inch tick bars and had a 1.5 foot stone wall separating them from the outside.

After a long day roaming the city aimlessly, watching the minute hand on my watch slowly spin in the heat I was finally permitted entry to the hostel. Yes….I know you are going to ask. The dirt and scum that cascaded from my body in the shower virtually clogged the drain. It was heaven. The hostel wasn’t that bid. I was roomed with a pair of mute Chinese dudes. (I think they were mute. Never smiled, just walked around while staring at the ground.) After dinner, I spent my evening relaxing in the courtyard and listening to some young hens gossiping nearby. It was cheery backpacker chick gossip. I quite enjoyed the high-pitched sound of irrelevance and excited nothingness. It was soothing. Following that wonderful and peaceful bout of eavesdropping I decided to make it an early evening. Nighty night.

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