Venice
Under A Venice Moon
A glimpse into my upcoming book.
It’s about Venice
The incomparable city of myth and mystery, and the private, hidden Venice - the place where citizens spin the web of their daily lives.
It’s about mischief
Homegrown mischief, because sixteen hundred years of history provides a storybook of rich pickings. And imported mischief, because Venice has always attracted a rich blend of eccentrics.
It's about kisses
Romance waited where I least expected to find it - the kind of romance that suggests plans may need to be altered and bags packed.
The story of the story
Been there, done that.
Most people go to Venice to have a scout around and take in the famous sights, then relax by a canal and watch the bubbles rise in their prosecco. Or they hop in a gondola and head off along the Grand Canal, sweating it out with a thousand other tourists doing the same thing. Consign it all to a few quick selfies, and job done. Venice: been there, done that.
We all know Venice, of course.
The Basilica di San Marco, the Palazzo Ducale and the cliffs of palaces lining the Grand Canal are images recognised the world over. The sight of gondolas sliding through placid water, the sound of bells ringing through the mist or in the sunshine, these speak of nowhere else on earth. All wonderful, but...
I wanted something different.
Not the grand sights, not the gondola ride and not the selfies. Instead, I wanted Venice's back streets and quiet canals, where buildings gaze back at their reflections in water undisturbed by the splash of tourist gondolas. I wanted the private, hidden city.
The Venice of the Venetians. I found it.
Away from the rush and crush of Venezia turistico, in neighbourhoods like San Polo and Dorsoduro, ordinary people live out their day-to-day lives. Restaurants in one-time brothels serve Sarde en Saor to a local clientele. Friends exchange greetings and chat over chicceti
, taking time out from sunset dog-walking.
I found more besides.
Unexpected friendships blossomed as freely as the moss on canal water-gates. A young French couple — strangers adrift on my doorstep — shared my apartment and the first days of my holiday. As it started, so it continued. A talkative Australian dished up lessons on Venetian history with a side serve of life counselling: anything can happen if you let it. A man I met at the bus stop — what are the odds? — became a good mate.
My appreciation grew.
At opposite ends of Venice, two kindly shopkeepers increased my appreciation of their city. From courtesans to cruise ships, from flooding to financial mischief, they added to my store of knowledge, of understanding. I learned about their Venice.
A time of wishes and reckoning.
And I learned about myself. Up to my elbows in middle-age, I found romance waiting where I least expected to find it. The kind of romance that suggests plans may need to be altered and bags packed. I learned the strength of culture and the bonds of home, the charm of the new balanced against the safety of the known.
A not-so-new thought.
"I've seen it all," a friend told me. "I could write a book." The assertion arrived like a wind-blown leaf in an overgrown conversational garden.
I decided to write that book. It's about mischief.
Some was home grown, because fifteen hundred years of history provides a storybook of rich pickings. Some was imported, because Venice
has always attracted a rich blend of eccentrics. It's about kisses.
The days were happy and the promise was enticing. Now the memory is sweet.
My Venice.
It's about Venice itself.
Venice the magical, floating city, the subject of countless books and films, the setting for operas and dramas - some real, others imagined. The city known by millions. And Venice the backyard version, minus the glitz and glam, the sausage-sizzle alternative, the city where people spin the web of their daily lives. No pretence. No Prada posh. The city I love.
My Venice.
maracam48@gmail.com