Venice

“Venice never quite seems real, but rather an ornate film set suspended on the water.”

-Frida Giannini

Often, the first perception people grasp of this city is that its cliché.

It’s too predictable to visit here or its so tourist-y that there won’t be much left that’s original. So they, ironically, decide to visit places such as Florence or Rome instead.

Mistake, numero uno.

My experience of Venice is one of colour, wonder, incredible people and tastes unlike anywhere else. It is one of awe and incredulity at the beautiful back passageways bordering the canal edges, doorways jutting out into caramel coloured waters where all manner of boats are moored to disnitegrating wooden stakes just waiting to carry their passengers to their everyday errands.

Although, the image you may now have conjured probably includes the likes of the Grand Canal, sleek black Gondolas shining in the summer sun and the nearby splash and chatter of the fountains in the squares you pass by.

This isn’t too far from the truth, except I was blessed with the chance to witness Venice in a thunderstorm. A true, black-skied, rain-soaked, lighting streaked, thunderstorm.

And I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

On arrival in one of the high speed ferries that made it’s way into the mouth of the Grand Canal from Croatia, the sky let out a tremendous clap of thunder as if signalling our arrival to the world. Once on the gangway, you could begin to notice the stillness of the water as the wind was sucked away and replaced with the beginning of a torrential downpour that left me soaking in minutes, all the way through my clothes.

Now I’m not a huge fan of storms or strong weather events, but this was exciting. The initial nervousness about walking around while lightning flashed uncomfortably close was soon washed away as I stood in the pouring rain taking in the sight before me.

The charcoal grey sky above contrasted so greatly with the brightly sandy white and red buildings bordering the edges of the Grand Canal along with the spikes of church spires, which were distantly available to the keen eye, that it became almost comparable to a vivid watercolour painting rather than the violent uproar the sky threw out every few minutes.

On beginning the walk around the city (this still being the height of August) I realised that the only long-sleeved clothing I had brought with me was my hoodie which soon weighed me down and did nothing to quell the downpour or un-dampen my hair. Soon after, I gave up the notion that I was going to stay dry and just stood under one of the many crisp, red, awnings sheltering local cafe-goers, who seemed completely unphased by the weather as evidenced by their expressionless content while they sipped on espressos. The image itself was so lovely that, in the thin hope that the weather would brighten, we sat ourselves into said cafe inside by the open window and ordered hot Venetian Ciocolatta which resembles a hot chocolate but rather than having a milky quality, more closely resembles a small cup of pure melted chocolate.

There are few things better on earth than one of these.

Later it was on to the Piazza San Marco, but this was easier said than done. It is easy enough to see the huge domed towers of the Basilica di San Marco in all their beautiful, pale glory, especially when the sky above helps this to conjure some monchromatic old photo of the domes towering high into a black sky. You’d almost begin to wonder if they’d accidentally get struck by the lightning that still, seamlessly, split the sky in two.

While using a partially soaking, yet brightly coloured, tourist map I set off through many winding roads passing all manner of people. Tourists with brightly coloured hats and mournful voices complaining of the weather; couples queuing outside Gelato stands that were piled high with flavoures from Straciatella to Bubblegum; older locals with tanned, leathery skin using newspapers to shield themselved from the downpour; local shop owners standing underneath awnings that covered the smaller streets from above at odd angles, so as to lure a false sense of safety until a splash or stream of water falling off the end of a brightly coloured pole would land down your neck.

It was such a busy atmosphere, yet the rain numbed the effect of it on the people passing me by. At this point I was thoroughly soaked through and decided it was in my best interests to not catch a cold.

The smaller, winding side streets which were overshadowed by three-to-four storey housing blocks of dusty red and sandy yellow soon opened into a variety of small squares where you might glimpse the odd leafy tree or marble-clad fountain spurting up clear water. In a square such as this I stopped. Fully just stopped to admire the small iron-railing terraces that jutted out into the larger open space, see the colours of clothes left to dry on balconies now thoroughly soaked through and the flashes of lightning glinting off the cobbles. In this square I purchased a cheap umbrella from a tourist stand that sold t-shirts with the slogan ‘I heart Venice’ plastered over them in block letters and sighed at finally having relief from the torrent.

At last we arrived on the Piazza San Marco to witness the crowds dispersing, leaving the square somewhat empty in contrast to the crowds it would have drawn on a sunny day. It was truly breathtaking finally seeing the complex, frontal facade of the Basilica di San Marco in all it’s gold leafed and yellow frescoed glory. From the smaller to the larger marbel columns that caught the suddenly emerging sunlight, it practically shone as I stared upwards towards the top of the adjoining belltower (the Campanile) remembering seeing it once I’d first got off the boat, towering high into the dark grey sky. The tendrils and spikes curling high into the sky below the domed heads of the Basilica were so intricate that if you tried, they’d surely snap off with one poke, while the four rearing horses, decorating the top balcony, looked as though they could leap off at a moments notice.

What was even better though was that I was stood, staring at the entire square around me while under an umbrella (which now that I think back was quite dangerous considering the lightning) and I could see that the flooded floor of the vast square created a mirrored effect as though there was two Basilica‘s, only one was upside down. The tourists, like me, stood agape at the scene before us, while the locals stopped briefly before going about their business. This wasn’t a scene many took for granted, no matter how many times a day you saw it.

Many side streets and small, stepped marble and stone bridges later, we reached the infamous Rialto Bridge with its pale stone arch and paler green arched covering. The view of the bustling Gondolas with royal blue covers along with the odd sleek uncovered one leaving the cluster to collect umbrella-clad customers from the opposite bank, gave a sense that this was where the everyday took place. This was a place that was meant to be busy. A place that flowed with activity as much as the water flowed though the bridges archways to all other side canals and underwater systems.

Then, just along from this we encountered a steady stream of tourist shops, jewellers with glistening items lining the windows and bookshops.

Upon entering one such bookshop I realised it was also a place that sold notebooks, pens and paper, all of which were made in Venice. The shop was the kind with low ceilings and paper everywhere with pens piled into neat pots all of which sported brightly coloured covers in all patterns. I ended up leaving with a beautifully bound notebook and an ornate blue and white pen that gave it’s colour from the paper, the main body of the pen, was wrapped in. I still treasure this pen, many years later.

Venice is a place of art, of beauty in the everyday wanderings of the city and in the people that live and work there. There is also something unique that you can only find when walking the cobbles streets and bridge-ended corners where a lone saxophonist plays jazz. Something transformative that feels as though you’ve crossed over into another world entirely.

A world that, while being beautiful, artsy and interesting is also a world that balances on a cliff’s edge – or more fittingly, a wooden beam structure that will be completely be underwater someday.

So before it’s too late.

Attraversare.

– cross over.