In Venice For a Day
We wake to a morning of monochrome grey, though the promise of a brighter afternoon hides behind clouds like a scolded c...
We wake to a morning of monochrome grey, though the promise of a brighter afternoon hides behind clouds like a scolded child. Water sloshes over pavements already stained with the rise and fall of an encroaching sea and my boots crunch over debris discarded by the tide. The air is thick with the call of gulls and they swoop and sweep for the goods offered by a nearby stand dealing with wares of the sea. One is lucky in his pursuit and snatches a cut of fish. He flies to the steeple of a nearby church, cry loud in his victory as grey scales quickly disappear into a greedy beak.
The
streets are winding, each marked with flecks of sun-bleached paint and the reflection
of canals wavering on crumbling brickwork. We cross bridges and pass shop
fronts crowded with detailed masks and colourful glass. Often, we walk paths no
wider than my outstretched arms. Here, in the alleyways of more residential
districts, the scent distinctive to the passage of water lingers. My fingers
catch maze-like walls that usher us to our eventual destination and they are
damp to touch. I look to see that the sky is a thin line in the distance.
After
many twists and turns, backtracks and dead ends leading to water, we eventually
find ourselves on the plain of Piazza San Marco. Groups of tourists are evident
by shouts in multiple languages, though they are greatly reduced compared to
the heaving masses seen throughout the summer months. In early spring, the
square is almost void of people. We enter St Mark's Basilica without a pause of
breath.
Whatever
light that enters the church is absorbed by mosaic tiles that shield the
ceiling like armour. There is a heavy silence to this place, one that I am
afraid to break. It’s a relief to fall under the open sky once again. Saltwater
blows across the open sea though we are somewhat sheltered by the walls of
Doge’s Palace. My sister and I enter the former seat of government, admiring
the colourful scenes of Venetian life that hang on richly decorated walls. We
never do discover who Doge was, though.
Diligently,
we pay our respects to the Bridge of Sighs, walking further beyond its crowded balustrade
towards the Arsenale di Venezia. Streets in this area are quieter and civilian
boats bob on rising waves. It's strange. I know that this island city will
eventually be lost to the sea, but it's still a shock to witness water rising
onto pavements that it should not reach.
We
turn inland, loosing ourselves to the floods until we find Liberia
Acqua Alta. It's a mess of literature in all languages; a chaos of
publications, prints and newspapers. A gondola, stuffed with books, rests precariously
on wooden floorboards, its lacquer marked with water stains. A draft enters
through an open window, stirring pages and my tangled hair. I exclaim at a
stairway constructed of books, then spot a reading room that has slowly become
reclaimed by the canal edge it exists on. The sun finally makes its way through
clouds and I watch dust motes dance in shards of light cast by the shadows of
window shutters.
I
notice details on our departure. The way canals
react to the motion of boats, the caress of dawn on the water. The sun is warm
on my upturned face, making it that much harder to abandon my time here to
memory. We leave Venice in a haze that awakens the city with a golden kiss and
reveals the crest of mountains on the distant horizon. Their snow-capped peaks
are a dusting of cream that captures the
colours of sunrise.
