The Floating City

The water-taxi rocks gently as we leave Marco Polo airport, cruising steadily through Veneto’s open waters. It’s the last leg of a long journey and it is by far the most comfortable. My back sinks into the cream leather seats with relief after a stressful six hours of security checks, turbulence and lack of leg room.  I never used to be a nervous flyer. I enjoy the thrill of taking off at high speed and the bump of landing on the runway. But after a hairy flight home over the French Alps last year, I am sensitive to the slightest turbulence. Chest goes tight; palms get hot; heart rate rises. Combine that with painful ear-popping due to pressure change and the whole experience is less than relaxing.   

As we glide through the water Venice comes into sight. Having never been to Venice before I quite unintentionally, but inevitably, arrived with a preconceived notion about what it might hold. My parents would tell me tales of fine dining, friendly Italians and beautiful architecture. My guidebook told me tales of over-priced shops, tourist traps and crumbling foundations. In reality, it is all of those things combined but as the taxi turns into the mouth of the Grand Canal any preconceptions dissolve from my mind. It is nothing like what I could have imagined. Giant buildings grow out of the water in a state of elegant decay. Faded murals painted onto the faces of ancient structures whisper of a rich history of decadence and luxury.  Gondolas slither past carrying excitable American tourists gasping and snapping cameras at the Ca’d’Oro Palazzo; a gothic palace with a once entirely gold exterior, that faded over the centuries to a dull cream. So grand are the buildings lining the canal, one would be forgiven for overlooking what lies behind. For in between the palazzos and beneath the façade of opulent gothic carvings, are an endless maze of alleyways and hidden gardens. We float underneath the Rialto bridge, lined with tourists taking pictures of friends with the canal as a backdrop. The bridge itself is scattered with graffiti but somehow it doesn’t deter from the grace of it. It simply seems to fit in with the shabby feel of the city. 

The water-taxi pulls into a floating bus stop and we heave our suitcases up the ramp onto dry land. My travel companion mutters something about blisters and sore shoulders as we gather our belongings and step onto the sidewalk. We begin plotting our way on the map to the apartment we’ve booked for the week, the narrow streets becoming much less simple to navigate with luggage and an endless flow of tourists ambling slowly in the afternoon sun. As we weave in and out of the sedate crowds, I begin to soak up the atmosphere of the city. Fried fish wafts under my nose as we pass restaurateurs setting out tables for dinner. Water-bus drivers shout Italian expletives at stray Gondoliers trying frantically to manoeuvre their tiny boats in the wake of the current.  Elegant waifs trot past with designer shopping bags and blacked-out sunglasses. A warble of Japanese girls rushes by loudly as they hurry to catch the next bus.   We turn off the main street and cross over a quiet bridge, the steps worn to a smooth, slippery sheen from hundreds of years of movement. After a couple of wrong turns we finally see the sign that tells us we have reached our road:

Fondamenta Soranzo della Fornace

The words flow off my tongue like melted butter. There’s something distinctly sophisticated about the Italian language. Of the few words I know, I find myself practising the pronunciation when I’m bored, or waiting in line, or both. We find apartment number 206, tucked tightly amongst a silent row of houses and a couple of tiny boutiques, and turn the key in the lock. As it clicks, I push against the brass knocker and the wooden door swings open to reveal our home for the next five days; a quiet two-bedroom sanctuary away from the bustle of the city, decked out with Ikea furniture and a fresh, open-plan living space. A far cry from the decaying exterior of chipped plaster and bubbled paint work.

The next morning we fill our stomachs with fresh scrambled eggs and crispy pancetta purchased from a nearby market. With the previous day’s travelling and half a bottle of Prosecco still hanging over our heads from the night before, I leave my companion and set off to explore the maze of canals.

I venture out into the morning air with ten euros in my pocket and a cheap digital camera bumping lightly against my thigh with every stride. Taking the water-bus from Accademia to San Marco, I have a bit of time to study the map. I make a mental list of all the places in Venice I want to visit over the next few days; the Doge’s Palace, St Mark’s Basilica, the Rialto Market, Burano Island. Tracing various routes on the paper with my finger I roughly work out the distance between each point of interest. After a while the motion of the waves under the boat allows me to drift off into my head as I watch the horizon move slowly past. There’s something very relaxing about the sea. The clean-cut salt air always clears through my thoughts better than anything else. I hadn’t imagined Venice to make me feel like this. I had heard horror stories of stinking canals and stale air. But they were wrong. I feel free here.

As the bus pulls up at San Marco it’s every man for himself. Suddenly the seemingly frail Italian women take no prisoners and sneak past, elbowing anyone in their way, pushing through the crowd with their shopping bags. It surprises me that no-one says thank you to the man working on the bus. Perhaps it’s the typical British politeness I’ve been conditioned into, or perhaps it is just the way I’ve been raised. Nonetheless, I thank him as he lets me off the boat.

Piazza San Marco

St Mark’s Square cannot be properly captured in any form other than reality. Photos, paintings, essays will never fully do it justice. Because it’s not just about the architecture of the Basilica with its ornate gilt carvings and detailed murals, or the herringbone pattern on the tiling in the square, or the height of the clock tower rising high enough to see a panoramic view of the city. It’s about the atmosphere; something which can only truly be experienced by standing right in the centre of it all. It has a vivid history that should be smelt and heard and tasted.

As I turn the corner into the square a large crowd of students begin to assemble for photographs with the Basilica in the background. They are each wearing long black gowns with laurel wreaths hanging loosely around their necks, grinning widely and hugging each other animatedly. A graduation.  I weave through the hoards of students and tourists queuing for the clock tower, aiming for the opposite corner of the square. I pass markets stalls selling tacky souvenirs; t-shirts emblazoned with the words ‘I Love Venice’ and hundreds of plastic masks in vulgar colours begging to be bought by the next naïve day-tourist. As I stroll through the centre of the piazza, the sound of a piano catches my attention. On the far left, an entire classical band is set up under a bright red awning, surrounded by stylish chairs and tables. A waiter in a sharp white suit and a bow tie loiters next to the band for a second, then walks behind them and disappears into a café. I follow him past the band and into the arcade which runs along the north side of the square. Above the door of the café is a sign I recognise:

Florian

Reputedly Lord Byron’s favourite haunt, Café Florian is renowned for its extravagantly priced afternoon tea and lavish interior. Remembering that I’m only carrying ten euros, I bypass the opportunity to treat myself to an over-priced coffee, but make a mental note to visit again before the week is out.

I decide to move away from the crowds and leave the piazza, following my nose for a while. I had been told by a friend that in order to “appreciate” Venice one must simply “get lost in Venice”. So, in a bid to lose myself amongst the alleyways, I fold away my map and allow my legs to carry me wherever they please.

I follow the maze for a while, passing art shops with simplistic window displays and jewellery shops selling Murano glass treasures. Eventually, navigating myself away from the tourists, I somehow stumble into a secluded square. A fountain trickles gently in the centre and a solitary pigeon pecks at the floor where someone carelessly dropped the remains of their lunch. A little pizzeria sits pride of place on the far side, wafting appetizing scents of tomato and cheese into the afternoon air. I glance at my watch and realise I’ve been wandering aimlessly for a couple of hours. My stomach grumbles with hunger. At the counter I ask for the biggest slice of Margherita pizza my stomach can manage and the chef starts to whistle merrily as he hands me a slice oozing with mozzarella. The grease sticks to the thin paper napkin he placed it in. I pass him a two euro coin and settle down on a seat outside overlooking the square, flinging my coat onto the arm of the seat. Within a matter of minutes I have demolished the pizza slice, brushing the crumbs from my lap onto the floor.

I sit for a moment and gaze at the buildings opposite. Tall white walls sink into the canal, adorned with what I guess to be fourteenth or fifteenth century Arabic style windows. Movement behind one of the windows catches my attention as a young woman leans out to push the shutters open, fixing them on each side with a metal hook. A clothes line is strung securely from one window to another on the opposite side of the canal, carrying three or four pillow cases and a large bright pink t-shirt. I feel my feet starting to get restless again. The pigeon waddles over and starts to peck at the crumbs I disposed of onto the floor. Clearly its first lunch wasn’t satisfying enough. Grabbing my coat from the chair I walk through the square and out the other end, back into the maze.

A black and white cat sits in the door of a small shop, tucked away from the main street. It stands as I approach and almost immediately starts trotting back and forth with its tail upright, purring and meowing as if to beckon me for attention. It settles for a moment beside a sign that reads:

Libreria Acqua Alta

“Welcome to the Most Beautiful Bookshop in the World”

I follow the cat inside, ducking my head to avoid the low wooden beam above the door. The musty aroma of old books and stale tobacco hits the back of my throat as I explore deeper into the room. In that moment I decide I have never witnessed anything quite so strange, yet oddly magical before. Filling the entirety of the cramped space available are thousands of books, magazines, comics, posters and cards lining the chalk walls, from the tiled floor to the low ceilings. In the centre a vast gondola takes pride of place, stretching from the entrance to the far end of the shop, piled up to the brim with books written in Italian, French, English and Spanish. As I attempt to manoeuvre through the library without knocking over the towering stacks of books on each side, the cat follows, gazing intently at me with an amused look on its face. I leaf through the volumes of works on architecture, art, language, film, music and poetry settling my sight on a small plastic bookshelf in one corner. Perched on the shelves are a handful of ancient hardbacks dating back to the nineteen twenties. Each one is a little battered with loose pages and damp stained edges. As I brush my fingers over their blotchy green spines, the cat slides its way over a mountain of magazines towards me and jumps onto the floor, disappearing a little way over to the left. I turn to follow, making sure not to misplace any of the precariously balanced books with my bag, and notice another doorway leading into an even smaller room.  It’s challenging, dangerous even, to move between the rows of children’s books propped neatly against each other, flowing down from the shelves into various containers and tumbling into what looks suspiciously like a rusting bath tub. A scuffling sound startles me and I turn quickly enough to see a haggard man with a short grey-speckled beard disappear back through the doorway and into the main shop.

After what feels like hours of trawling through the bookshop I pick up a handsome, weathered collection of Byron’s poetry and carry it to the front desk. The old man is standing behind it, stroking a brown tabby cat with adoration in his eyes. I smile at him as I hand him the book to pay.  Grey wrinkles line his tough, worn skin. His eyes lock onto mine for a few seconds, longer than is comfortable and I stare back, wondering what stories hide behind his strong gaze. He breaks into a wide grin and asks me in a thick Italian accent what I think of the shop. I tell him it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. This seems to please him greatly and I hand him a five euro note, watching the cat groom itself as I wait for my change.

Strolling back out of the bookshop into fresh air and daylight, I decide to turn to the right, over a bridge, and find myself next to a huge building with thick white pillars. The façade is smothered in floral carvings, dripping and flowing like icing on a wedding cake. Tucked into the wall is a shrine with a figure of the Virgin Mary, about a foot tall, encased behind glass. She stands on a white plinth surrounded by dried flowers and a string of ruby red rosary beads. I feel her eyes on me as I keep walking over a wooden boardwalk until I reach a lane with a restaurant on one side and a Venetian mask studio on the other. Reminding myself to peruse the menu of the restaurant for prospective dinner plans later, I turn my feet towards the mask shop and enter.

The Studio

She sits at a large wooden craft table. Soft classical music bounces off the low ceiling, allowing her mind to drift off as she works. She frowns slightly with concentration. Cropped black hair is tucked neatly behind her ears revealing two gold studs on her left lobe. Her fingers are perfectly manicured with bright red nail lacquer but the years of training and moulding with Papier-mâché betray her youthful choice of colour. The skin is rough. They are the hands of a mask maker. Gradually, she sinks into the routine of following the curves of her scissors, turning the sheet of paper with her left hand as she cuts with her right. She becomes oblivious to the customers wandering in and out of the studio. I walk through the tiny space she inhabits during the day. All four walls are lined with intricately decorated Venetian masks, hanging from floor to ceiling. Soft feathers, crystals, gold embellishments, dark satin ribbons, delicate floral patterns; each mask hand-crafted and cared for by one pair of worn hands. She barely seems to notice my movements as I stare longingly at each price tag, resigned to the fact that I cannot afford a single piece of her work. A small, square garden joins the main studio with a work shop out the back, visible through a glass window. A cage with a single canary bird hangs from a rafter and large terracotta plant pots litter the tiled floor.

I leave the studio, regretting the decision not to have left the apartment with more cash on me that morning, and walk over the road to the restaurant. I skim the menu for a couple of minutes. It’s not long before I’ve chosen my evening meal; Antipasto platter with a selection of dried meats and olives to start, Local crab and spinach tortellini in a lemon oil dressing for the main dish and a large glass of Limoncello to finish. And more than likely the raspberry panna cotta if I decide I can stretch my stomach, and my purse strings. I go inside to book a table. Just as I leave I notice the lady from the mask shop closing the door to the studio and turning the key in the lock. She flings a large crimson cashmere scarf around her neck. It falls past her waist and brings life to an otherwise uninspiring charcoal canvas. I follow as she turns a corner at the end of the alleyway and crosses over a bridge into a quiet street. Just ahead is ‘Il Caffè Verde’. She enters.

“Un espresso per favore”

The waiter places a small cup of steaming black liquid on the bar. She lifts the cup to her lips and takes a long, slow sip, leaving a mottled red lipstick stain on the rim. My father always says that a good espresso is like a drug. It should be sweet, strong and black; stiff enough to cause the hairs on your neck to prickle with shock. I motion to the bar man and order the same, placing three coins on the counter. As it slides down my neck it hits me with a rich, bitter warmth, kicking the cloud of sleep from my head like a shot of adrenalin. I watch as the mask lady props herself against the bar to roll a cigarette. Carefully painted fingernails tuck the tobacco tightly into a thin paper tube and a swift lick of the paper sticks the creation together neatly. I watch as she gathers her bag, flings the red scarf around her neck and disappears out of the café.

The light begins to fade as the sun sets over the streets and I pull out my map to navigate my way back to the apartment. Winding back through the maze of alleyways, I aim my direction towards the Grand Canal. The tide grows stronger in the wind. A row of gondolas tied to poles groan in their sleep as the water slaps against them. Young intoxicated honeymooners stumble out of a bar across the street, their stomachs full, delirious from the mix of Aperol Spritz cocktails and rich food. It starts to drizzle as I turn into Accademia and cross over the main bridge. Two men carrying armfuls of umbrellas call out to tourists sheltering from the rain in a bid to sell their wares for a few euros. I see the sign for our street and walk down the pathway to door number 206. Turning the key, I press my hand against the brass knocker and open the door into the apartment. I kick my shoes off onto the tiles and let the hard, cold floor calm my aching feet as I stagger over to the sofa. My back sinks into the padded maroon cushions with relief. It feels like home; our sanctuary away from the bustle of the city.