Vivo la vita in Venice

May 19, 2010

“I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; / A palace and a prison on each hand.”  Lord Byron

From the moment we stepped out of the train station, the children were transformed into silent spectators.  There are few places that can transfix three young children into stunned silence, but Venice is magical... like stepping into a dream that inexplicably fuses past with present (and includes lots and lots of other people).  Their silence didn’t last long, as excitement and enthusiasm for our new surroundings ultimately trumped the awe, but I enjoyed every moment watching their faces as they soaked up the scene. 

We purchased one-way tickets to Piazza San Marco (St. Mark’s Square) on the ferry  (all legs in advance agreement that they would walk back to the train station).   Once on board, we headed straight through the windowed seating area to the open-air stern, where the seats were already full but the view was great and there were no cloudy windows between our camera lenses and the Grand Canal sights.  As our 45-minute cruise along the canal was underway, everything seemed amazing and picture-worthy:  stately and opulent canal-front palaces, sleek black gondolas, ancient light fixtures, narrow canals sliding between the buildings, ornate churches, arched marble bridges…the elegant decay.   And throughout the trip, three excited voices were telling me to “look at that, Mom!” and pointing in three different directions. 

After a flurry of photos, I was giving my camera a deliberate time-out so that I could take a moment to focus on the Venetian experience instead of just the viewfinder.  A seat was vacated as we arrived at a ferry stop, and an already-seated Italian woman shifted into it so that her seat became free.  She got my attention and gestured for me to sit.  As I sat down, we exchanged greetings and I discovered that her English was deliberate, but good.   She pointed out some of the canal’s landmarks, including the inverted V-shaped Rialto Bridge and marketplace, the Peggy Guggenheim museum, and a couple of 5-star hotels.  I discovered that she was from Rome, but was in town for an art exhibition.  She was an older woman, with white-gray hair and glasses.  An artist.  Modern art.  Someone important enough in the art world to have experienced one of those 5-star hotels firsthand, at someone else’s expense.    

I enjoyed our brief visit.  She was kind to the children, and gave us helpful suggestions on how to best spend our short daytrip hours.  When she arrived at her destination and disembarked, she stopped and turned to wave goodbye to us.  I didn’t see her, as I had reengaged my camera and was too busy taking pictures.  But the children did.  As the ferry continued on, I saw that she was still waving vigorously, standing in front of the Basilica di Santa Maria della Salute.  I was touched that she was making such an effort to say goodbye.  The kids and I waved back until the boat altered its course and she disappeared from sight. 

As we disembarked at our stop, Cade was immediately drawn to the masks, convinced he wanted to buy the first one that caught his eye and fancy.  It was at the very first stand we passed after leaving the ferry, and I told him to wait and give himself some time.  The city is full of shops and masks.

As we entered St. Marks Square, we saw a flurry of pigeons landing on the ground to eat the feed a photographer had spread to capture a photo of a couple with the pigeons.  The birds were on the woman’s arm and shoulder, and one was eating from her hand.  My girls were fascinated by the spectacle, and in spite of my motherly “we don’t know where those pigeons have been” misgivings, all three children ripped pieces from a leftover croissant they retrieved from my backpack and set out to lure the fearless pigeons to their hands.  Cade and Reyna were the first to have success; Regan was nervous and jumped away, dropping her crumbs  and squealing with fright whenever a pigeon got too close.  Eventually, I told her it was “now or never” and that we needed to move on.  She took a deep breath, crouched down and tried again.  A moment later, she too was triumphant, saying “it just felt like a rubber peck!”  I praised and commended the bird-baiting bravery all-around… then got out my anti-bird-flu gel and gave them each a hefty squirt.   

By depositing my backpack in a complimentary checking room, we got to skip the long line waiting to enter the St. Mark’s Basilica, which is the cathedral on the piazza that adjoins the Doge’s Palace.  I was thrilled – no heavy backpack and no waiting in line.  All for free.  This was one of the best deals of the trip!   We only spent half an hour wandering through the Basilica.  It was absolutely beautiful and deserving of more time, but we had been inside a lot of churches and cathedrals on our travels and the children no longer had the patience to linger over every detail.  Even those that date back to the 12^th century!  Still, they were duly impressed and awestruck by the intricate patterning on the tessellated marble floors, the veined marble-slabbed walls and pillars, and most particularly the stunning gilded ceiling mosaics that earned the cathedral its “church of gold” nickname.  

 

As we exited the Basilica, Cade was ready to get on with the mask shopping at a store across from the backpack checkroom.  “What’s your hurry?” I asked.  We had 30 more complimentary backpack-free minutes, and I meant to use them all.   We took more pictures in the square, of the bell tower, the exterior of the Basilica, of the Doge’s Palace, some gorgeous free-standing carved columns that my guidebook suggests are from 5^th or 6^th century Syria, the winged lion on the clock tower, and anything else that particularly caught our eye… and then I reluctantly returned to retrieve my backpack burden and we went off in search of the “perfect mask(s).” 

Oh how I wish we'd had room in luggage for the cape and hat...

Have I mentioned Reyna's obsession with CATS?

Regan liked trying all the fancy ones..but settled for a simple white one.

It was a perfect not-too-hot sunny day, and as we gradually wandered back through the city in the general direction of the train station, we window-shopped, jewelry-shopped, shoe-shopped and mask-shopped.  We bought fruit from a gorgeous outdoor produce market, and pizza slices and gelato to eat on-the-go as we strolled through streets, alongside canals, and over bridges a-plenty (although scarcely a fraction of the city’s 400+).   Cade was particularly smitten by the city’s charm, and announced that he thought Venice might be where he brings his wife for their honeymoon someday.  I was somewhat taken aback by the fact that my 10-year-old was already working on his honeymoon itinerary, but then found myself smiling at the prospect.   I hope he will make it back someday.   Before the city sinks into the ocean.  I’ll even spring for the romantic gondola ride.

 

Cade finally found the perfect bridge on which to "lock our love" (his sweet, sentimental idea to leave a part of us behind in Venice) ... and attached a tiny sacrificial suitcase lock (marked with names and date in Sharpie) to a much larger lock (hope that couple doesn't mind) and ceremoniously threw the key in the water.  The day was rapidly turning into evening and we reluctantly picked up our pace to get back in time to catch our train.  

As we approached the train station, a display of watercolors caught our attention.   Two attractive 30-something Italian men were selling them.  We were not in a hurry, so we took a moment:  I’d been collecting watercolor paintings from many of the places on our trip and we didn’t yet have one from Venice.  The man said that he and his father were the artists of the collection, and I happily took his word for it and asked if I could take a photo.  All of us liked different watercolor scenes, but we finally settled on one that was small, simple and pure Venice, showing a narrow canal, bridge, gondola and gondolier.  

We walked the last steps to the station, and I paused.  I told the kids that we still had twenty minutes before the departure of our 6 p.m. train, and I wasn’t ready to board it yet.  It was hard to leave Venice.  It is a place that beckons one to stay and suspend the dream.  It sounds strange to try to put the feeling into words, but somehow it felt like with our departure, we would leave the color, the magic, and vibrancy of the day behind.  And I had an odd moment where I was sure that when I looked back at all my photos, I would find that the gorgeousness of the city and all the captured images had been filtered into tones of sepia.

We took a last lingering look back at the Grand Canal.  I saw the ferry starting off with its new load of passengers, and it reminded me of the start of our Venetian adventure and our artist friend from Rome.  I wondered where she was at the moment:  in an art gallery, or in her hotel room… or most likely wandering through the art exhibition she came for, I guessed.  I silently said goodbye to her and the city and the magic, and we walked up the station steps and caught our train back to Florence.