Venice, Italy

I sat in San Marco Piazza sipping a beer and puffing on an Italian hand rolled cigar. Across from me Josh re-lit his cigar. Istrian stone monoliths and statues towered above us as tourists rushed about, snapping selfies and indulging in gelato and Italian pastries. News had just reached us of yet another attack, in Monaco this time, one in a string of terrorist lead or inspired transgressions against Europe’s ‘soft targets.’ It was easy to forget the turmoil facing the world while watching children chase bubbles and old men sip on wine. The underlying danger was still evident. Assault rifle toting Italian soldiers in berets took up posts around the piazza. Behind me came a loud bangthat made us all jump. A gunshot perhaps? Turning around I saw that it was nothing more than a child who had pop his balloon animal. We laughed uneasily.

Upon our arrival in Venice we took a tram to the railway to leave our luggage while we explored the city. The train station was chaotic, filled with hijab wearing mothers ushering their children through crowded terminals, old men, unmoving, lazily smoking cigarettes, and a variety of peddlers pushing garbage merchandise like selfie sticks and poorly made umbrellas.
The luggage stowed for later retrieval, we made our way out onto the streets of Venice. The sky was overcast, spitting droplets intermittently. A large bridge spanned the canal in front of us, gondolas and water taxis slipped by. More peddlers selling more garbage. To get to San Marco Piazza, the heart of Venice, we vouched for the river taxi over the slower water bus. Stepping aboard the boat rocked beneath us. The driver backed the boat away from the dock and we began to putter along down the Grand Canal. Smaller canals branched off, like water filled alleyways, each one beckoning for me to explore, to see what’s around the next bend or over the next bridge. Rounding the Grand Canal’s bend the Cheisa Della Salute came into view. An old Roman Catholic domed church built in 1681, the steps filled with tourists and peddlers. As we passed the Salute the Grand Canal widened into the Canale Di San Marco, the Isola di San Giorgio Maggiore floated in the distance to the right, the tower obscured slightly by a light haze. We stayed along the left shore as we approached the San Marco Piazza docks.

San Marco Piazza was filled with more tourists and more peddlers and more families wrangling their children through the crowded square. Restaurants spilled their patios out onto the cobblestone. The men drank wine or beer while the women sipped on limoncello shots and snacked on pastries. No longer content with simply viewing Venice I weaved through the throngs towards an alley. I wanted to get lost in this city.

As we made our way into the narrow valley’s of Venice we saw shop after shop selling Marona made glass jewelry, Venetian masks, croissants and wine, cloths, rugs, and anything that sold enough to keep a store open. One particular alley was lined with restaurants. To my untrained eye they appeared all the same, small rooms filled with tables selling wine, bruschetta, pizza, and gelato. Each restaurant had a host at the front door beckoning and passerby in, gesturing graciously for them to come sit. We were hungry so we picked one at random. We shared a glass of wine while eating bruschetta laden with black olives, artichokes, tomatoes, mushrooms and cheese and prosciutto paninis. The food eaten and the wine drunk we continued down the maze of streets, over several bridges, each with a gondolier insisting that we have the cliche ride through the canals. We continued to get lost.

The tourists thinned as we wandered, taking a left or a right turn at random, choosing the alleys that looked empty, like secrets passages, forgotten alleys with laundry hanging from windows. We followed the canals that had no gondolas, only covered fishing boats and odd doorways that opened directly into the canal. We came across a piazza hidden from the tourist center of San Marco that was readying a festival, from the appearance a festival meant only for the locals. I wished we could have been present for the festival in full force.

The part of Venice we now found ourselves in was quiet. It felt hidden, although undoubtedly there had been thousands of tourists just like us who had wandered off the standard thoroughfare and found themselves in these streets. We took a wrong turn down an alley with the width of a hallway. It dead ended in a little square the size of a living room with four sets of steps leading up to four different apartment buildings, laundry hanging out windows and old shutters with chipped green paint. We realized our error and turned to leave but the small alley that led here was now taken up by an old man, perhaps seventy or eighty years old, making his way slowly towards us with the aid of a cane. He had a bag of groceries in the other hand. We waited for him to enter the square before trying to pass him and as we did he whispered out a light “bon giorno.” My imagination ran and I could see this man living in Venice for years, watching countless tourists roam his streets, taking selfies and photographs, wandering the ancient piazzas and hopping aboard gondola’s for their hour long journey into a romantic past. This man had watched his city be taken over by brutish American’s looking for pizza, quick stepping German’s trying to fit in a tour of every cathedral or landmark. Foodies and travel writers, Couples in love, recently singled people out to find love. He’d seen every kind of person with every reason to come and see his city. I wanted to ask him what he thought of those people. If it was a love hate relationship, knowing that his city did not have the means for much more than a tourist destination.

Navigating our way back to San Marco Piazzas we quickened our pace as spits of rain dotted the streets. Feet sore and mouths parched we arrived and found a table at a restaurant, the sky apparently decided to hold on to the rain for the time being, long enough for us to enjoy a beer and cigar. Cigar smoked and beer drunk we negotiated with a canal taxi for the return trip to the train station. We boarded the train and road out of the city of canals. None of us knowing if we’d ever return.
​
The part of Venice we now found ourselves in was quiet. It felt hidden, although undoubtedly there had been thousands of tourists just like us who had wandered off the standard thoroughfare and found themselves in these streets. We took a wrong turn down an alley with the width of a hallway. It dead ended in a little square the size of a living room with four sets of steps leading up to four different apartment buildings, laundry hanging out windows and old shutters with chipped green paint. We realized our error and turned to leave but the small alley that led here was now taken up by an old man, perhaps seventy or eighty years old, making his way slowly towards us with the aid of a cane. He had a bag of groceries in the other hand. We waited for him to enter the square before trying to pass him and as we did he whispered out a light “bon giorno.” My imagination ran and I could see this man living in Venice for years, watching countless tourists roam his streets, taking selfies and photographs, wandering the ancient piazzas and hopping aboard gondola’s for their hour long journey into a romantic past. This man had watched his city be taken over by brutish American’s looking for pizza, quick stepping German’s trying to fit in a tour of every cathedral or landmark. Foodies and travel writers, Couples in love, recently singled people out to find love. He’d seen every kind of person with every reason to come and see his city. I wanted to ask him what he thought of those people. If it was a love hate relationship, knowing that his city did not have the means for much more than a tourist destination.
​
Navigating our way back to San Marco Piazzas we quickened our pace as spits of rain dotted the streets. Feet sore and mouths parched we arrived and found a table at a restaurant, the sky apparently decided to hold on to the rain for the time being, long enough for us to enjoy a beer and cigar. Cigar smoked and beer drunk we negotiated with a canal taxi for the return trip to the train station. We boarded the train and road out of the city of canals. None of us knowing if we’d ever return.