The City of Water
Ah, Venice... city of esteem, of privilege... of people. When trotting about the sinking city, I found myself lost in a whole new form of mob psychology - being a tourist. I looked down, only to be welcomed with the sore sight of my £3 white skirt from Sainsbury's, accompanied with the fading red of a button-down blouse. The rucksack and sock/sandal combination didn't help, either. Shop keepers seemed to be able to smell us from several miles away, and a remote area which we appeared to be privy to was soon consumed by local men and women, trying to keep their heads above water. Metaphorically, for now.
"Sprechen Sie Deutsch?"
"¿Hablas español?"
"Parlez-vous français?"
Far from being awed by their various wares, I was more excited to see how many tongues each one of them could fit in their mouth. Until, finally,
"Do you speak English?"
My curiosity got the better of me. Much to the delight of this particular woman, I turned with a smile. My mother and I were soon being ushered into her store, which seemed to be shelter from the blazing sun. Soulless faces glared down at us from all over, each one a host to whimsical colours and design. Of course I was looking for a mask, though I had a particular one in mind - The Thief Lord, being my favourite book as a child, had inspired me to visit Venice in the first place, and I wanted to commemorate this with a black Zanni mask. The eccentric woman who had swept us into her cubby hole flitted about the wares, and was soon yelling into the back room. A man larger than the door frame was soon greeting us each with a hearty hug. From the state of his clothes, I assumed he was the man who made the masks. I described what I was looking for, and their smiles warbled slightly. Masks were offered to me like food for a deity, but none of them were the one I was hunting for. After approximately half an hour in that store alone, the heat began to get the better of me, and we had to slink away as discreetly as possible. Upon leaving the alcove of this family-run business, I couldn't help but feel a sense of disappointment about not having yet found the mask I was so desperate to uncover.
Being British, the intense heat of Italy was something I had not been fully prepared for. The Factor 50 suncream and Audrey Hepburn-style hat wasn't enough to prevent me from almost fainting at each turn, so I had to fill my rather ghastly backpack with bottles of water. Thankfully, that is the one thing Venice is not short of - water. Sitting in an arch-way, I took off my socks and sandals (please forgive my blister-prone feet), and dunked my toes in the canal. I almost heard them hissing from the sudden temperature change, and lent back on my elbows in relief. Whilst my mother went off to find us our favourite delicacy - Lemon ice cream - I pondered the geography of it all. Venice has a population of over 60,000 people, but the amount of tourists per annum must surpass this by far. And most of us hadn't even made an attempt to fit in with the local culture, instead opting for the novelty cameras and garish hats. The thing which disappoints me the most, however, is that the people here are already becoming ignorant of the fascinating and unique history surrounding Venice, instead using their plane tickets to gain access into the rather exclusive 'money club'. This all comes with a price, as the golden city is going the same way as Atlantis - down. Boffins seem to think it's drowning by 4mm each year, though that is a matter of strong debate. During my rather morbid musings, a gondola slowly glided along the water in front of me. A group of Asian students were happily clicking away on their Nikons, but stopped abruptly as they realised I was ruining the scenic bridge to my right. Folding my legs and straightening my back, I sat like a lady. And promptly waved to the crowd. One blessed boy tentatively waved back, but his apparent girlfriend shot me a look bitter enough to sour milk, and forced his hand back down to the boat. I was still laughing at this when my mother returned with the ice creams, which was when my day really started to improve. The ice cream there is unlike any I've had before or since. The flavours are sharp and tangy in just the right way, and you are never left with an aftertaste of chemicals. Even the density is unique - nothing like the stodgy stuff you get back home, it was so light you can almost imagine what air tastes like... Providing air has mass amounts of sugar added to it. Every time I had one of these ice creams, I was so busy savouring the flavour and trying to commit it to memory, I didn't realise just how quickly it was gone. Feeling as if I had lost something important, I dusted my hands free from the crumbs as we decided where to go next.
As our hotel wasn't directly in the city, the staff gave us a lift each day to the train station, and from there we would catch the air-conditioned train into the centre. The carriages themselves were a freezing 20 degrees Celsius, which was a welcome break to the blistering heat outside. On our last day, we had asked the driver how much she thought a ride on a gondola would be. She cheerily replied that, with some haggling, we could get a round-trip for about €1000. This drew an involuntary gasp from me, and I could almost see the sweat dripping from my mothers palms. There was an immediate mutual agreement that the water taxis were enough excitement for one week, and the gondolas were probably prone to sinking, anyway. It was on that last day, though, that I finally appreciated the true beauty of my surroundings. The steps descending from the train station led to a wide pavement, with geometric patterns using varying shades of cream and white. Shortly after this was the green water, framed by a classic bridge on the left and a slightly more modern glass one on the right. The sun was glinting off the water in such an enchanting way that I stopped. I took a lung-full of the air. We had left our luggage in a shop near the station, so we were free to wonder around. Remembering my aunts advice, I followed someone who looked most like a local. We were soon trapped by high walls and low-hanging flower baskets, the only light coming from the mysterious shops on either side of the street. The owners here didn't seem preoccupied with us, they were just respectfully standing outside of their respective doors. After three ice creams (the new way we measured time) we found a mask shop. My efforts to find the mask of my dreams was still fruitless, and it destined to remain that way. This shop, however, offered a white mask with gold details and sheet music. For some reason, this seemed to summarise my holiday there, so this is the mask I took home. Five ice creams later and it was time to leave, so we collected our suitcases and boarded the bus back to the airport. For me, this was a good time to reflect. Was this my dream holiday? Definitely not. It did, however, offer an experience I am unlikely to forget for as long as I have a functioning memory. Not just for the romantics, Venice is a place which has a rich history and culture, which they are trying their best to drag into the modern era. I would definitely recommend this holiday to anyone - providing they have sharp enough elbows.
[Word Count - 1,344]
Style Model: 'A Walk on the Wild Side' by Wayne Johnson
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