Kisses, Mischief and Venice
A glimpse into my upcoming work.
It’s about kisses
Up to my elbows in middle-age, I found romance waiting where I least expected to find it. The memory is sweet, and my knees still do that threatening, wobbly thing.
It’s about mischief
Some was homegrown, 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 Venice
Venice the incomparable, esteemed-for-centuries version, and Venice the backyard version — the city where people spin the web of their daily lives.
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, places where ordinary folk live out ordinary lives. And in neighbourhoods like Dorsoduro and San Polo, I found what I was after. Away from the tourist rush and crush, the contrived prettiness of Venezia turistico, there was another city.
The Venice of the Venetians. I found it.
In tucked-away corners of Venice, buildings gazed back at their reflections in water undisturbed by the splash of a tourist gondola. Restaurants in one-time brothels served Sarde en Saor to a local clientele. Children played at sunset and friends exchanged greetings as they walked their dogs.
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. And I learned about myself.
A time of wishes and reckoning.
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. A time of wishes and reckoning. 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 could write a book. The assertion arrives in conversations as if to seal the matter, a windblown leaf settling in an overgrown garden. I decided I'd write that book. It's about kisses. The memory is sweet, and my knees still do that threatening, wobbly thing. 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.
My Venice.
Then it's about Venice itself. Venice the incomparable, esteemed for centuries and visited by millions, the subject of countless books and films, the setting for operas and dramas, sometimes real, sometimes imagined. Or 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.
My Venice.
