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Lucky? Sharon wanted to do European cities. We had a big argument on how best to do that. I wanted to leave it for another trip. She thought we should just do them whenever we got close to one-leave our bikes somewhere and travel in by train for a few days. We caught a bus into Venice. I lit a candle in the church: for new understanding."It is better to light one candle than to curse the darkness." I hoped Sharon and I could come to some compromise on cities. Venice was magical. We walked and walked. We loved it all, even when we got lost in its labyrinth of bridges, canals and narrow streets. I hadn't had high expectations for Venice. I had seen a documentary on Venice's state of decay and ruin. The program painted a grim picture of Venice. It was true-Venice was decaying and falling into the canals, but it was still beautiful and intriguing at the same time. Venice was intoxicating, exciting, romantic, aging, beautiful and ugly. The first thing we saw after arriving was the hubbub of activity and traffic on the canals. Everything entered and left Venice by boat. Even the dead. We spotted a hearse boat, complete with coffin and wreaths, cruising amongst the other canal craft. We walked from the terminal to San Marco square, poking in and out of merchant's shops and sampling their wares of pizza, licorice, and gelatti as we progressed. Churches occupied every square we entered, so we received a generous portion of church architecture and art. The narrow streets were jammed with people and interesting shops holding Venetian glass, carnival masks, Italian leather, and lace work. It took us the whole morning to reach Piazza San Marco. San Marco square was awesome. I realized why it had been referred to as the largest drawing room in the world. Saint Mark's Cathedral was the focal point of the square with its frescoed arches and four bronze horses galloping toward the square's center. Venice was full of life. The Rialto buzzed all day. We could have sat for hours just watching the gondola workers ply their trade. But the rest of Venice awaited us. The Doge's Palace and its symmetry set against a cloudless cobalt sky; the Accademia; the Bridge of Sighs. It was fun just to people watch. Japanese were buying everything expensive in sight; Italian women dressed to the nines; gondola paddlers in costume trying to solicit business ("Gondola ride. Special price for you. Very cheap."); a man in a heavy jacket and fur hat resembling a displaced Russian. Over four hundred bridges link Venice's one hundred islands. Canals, canals everywhere, and not a drop to drink. The Grand Canal-in all its majesty-was the life blood of the city; small narrow canals, barely wide enough for a gondola to slip through; laundry flapping, buildings crumbling, flowers spilling from windows. Everywhere we looked there was something different to behold. As I looked down a canal a pigeon on the lamp post above me crapped on my shirt. If that was considered lucky, how come I didn't feel so lucky? Moments later, walking under a balcony an old woman shook out a rug full of bread crumbs on my head. I wondered if that was considered a sign of luck in Venice? We consulted Sherry's Lonely Planet guidebook for an eating establishment and followed the map towards it. In an almost deserted square we came upon a fruit seller. Sharon was starving from all the walking and wanted to get an apple. I gave her a 10000 lira note (the only bill I had left after paying for the morning's bus tickets). We discovered not all the merchants in Venice were pleasant. The two British girls ahead of us had just bought fruit and were looking at their change while conversing with the fruit seller. The fruit seller kept saying they had the right change and counted it out to them again. I should have suspected something was up. The girls went off, shaking their heads. Sharon bought two apples and two bananas. It came to 2600 lira. The guy said, "For you, a special deal," and gave Sharon 2500 lira back. Sharon looked at her change and told him it was a 10000 lira note. "No," he told her, "it was a 5000." The fruit seller was making more money scamming tourists on wrong change than he was selling fruit. I rashly told him it was a ten. He opened his cash drawer and showed me two 5000 lira notes in it. "This is what you gave me," he said, holding up one of the notes. "No. That is what you owe me," I said to the shyster. He swore and threw the bill down on top of the fruit. I picked it up and turned to leave. He rushed around the table and started spitting on me (more luck no doubt), bumping his scrawny chest against mine. I was about to see if he liked knuckle sandwiches when Sharon encouraged me to walk away. All went well until we got to the corner of the square and headed down an alley. Alleys were not good things to walk down after one has had an altercation. But in Venice, unless one wanted to stay in a square all day, one had little choice. I should have at least picked an alley with more people. The runty stall keeper bolted around the corner with two of his friends in hot pursuit. Running up to me he swiped at my head. With a clatter, my glasses skittered across the cobbles. Sharon jumped between us arms outstretched, holding us back from one another. I would have smacked him, but he had disappeared. After a few moments of yelling and swearing, he walked away still shouting obscenities and blowing his nose at me. That was a lot of entertainment for five bucks! We entered a pizza shop. A man who had been at an outdoor restaurant in the square came and apologized. "That guy is crazy," he said. Come to think of it his eyes did have that psychotic look. I was feeling very lucky indeed. Sharon still loved Venice! Even our stroll past the prison was interesting. Of course, she had no idea how we ended up next to the prison. Sharon's normally impeccable map reading skills had a temporary lapse. I made a brief complaint, but quickly retracted it when she offered to let me navigate through Venice's confusing maze of streets. At least I knew where she would be spending her time if I dared to criticize her navigation skills again. The ride into Venice had gone well, but the return trip was not quite as smooth. We caught the wrong bus and ended up on the milk run. It took us over an hour longer to get back. The bus we caught didn't even take us all the way and we had to wait ten minutes for a transfer in some tiny suburb. As a result of our detour the bike shop had closed before we made it back. Sharon would have to pick up her bike on Monday. We hoped everything would be ready! At supper, I told Felice about the merchant from Venice. "Did you set his fruit stand on fire?" he jokingly asked. "Call the cops next time," he seriously advised. |
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