Welcome to Venice

The scent of fresh brine wafts in through the window, a seabird’s cry carried upon its back. I crack an eyelid and see a patch of pre-dawn sky, curiously watching me back. Fragments of human conversation drift up from street level through the cool humid air. The words are too quiet for me to even pick out the language, but I let them coax me out of bed anyways. Curious how I’m only a morning person when I’m on vacation. Bare feet hit cold tile, and I’m wide awake. My morning ablutions begin to trip over themselves in their hurry to finish, and I try to pack my daybag with one hand while brushing my teeth with the other. There is no time to waste. Venice is much too old to wait for me. 

The sun won’t break the rooftops for an hour or more, so I am left to my own devices in a maze of dark urban canyons. I fall into step behind a few locals, easily identified by their sure-footed steps. I wander east through courtyards inhabited only by pigeons, past silent shopkeepers pouring soap and elbow grease onto their windows. I take a series of bridges, bobbing and weaving through Dr. Seuss-ian alleyways that have never even tried to be parallel. It’s humid and warm even in late October, and within minutes I dearly wish I’d packed a pair of shorts.

Light finally glimmers through an unremarkable arch in the wall, and I obey its summons. Without fanfare I step into one of Europe’s most famous piazzas. Only a handful of visitors meander across the square at this hour, their voices dulled to a reverent hush. The space calls to mind an open-aired cathedral, the brushstrokes of a Michelangelo echoed in the silver-lined clouds overhead.

Finally I leave San Marco square behind and dogleg towards the lagoon; I am always pulled so strongly towards the sea. I round the corner and literally come to an abrupt halt. Golden light pours into that courtyard, its hue caught and amplified in the thick fog rolling off the water. A warmth, more mental than physical, creeps deep into my chest and makes a fleeting home there. For a moment I can barely move or breathe for fear of shaking it free.

A miniature forest of tripods blankets the waterfront, each tended by a delighted photographer taking long-exposure pictures of the bobbing gondolas. Gondoliers row with their peculiar one-oared style back and forth along the quay, warming and stretching their muscles. I shadow their movements on the shore. I play leapfrog with visitors from Thailand and France, and we keep trying to speak to each other even though it’s clear that none of us could find the right words even if we could speak the same language.

Finally I conclude that at least part of my daze is due to a lack of caffeine, and I duck into a corner cafe. The compact space behind the counter is nearly completely filled by a single portly Italian man. With movements so practiced they almost seem lazy, he churns out a mean espresso and slings it onto the counter. On my right elbow I am flanked by a pair of local policemen, chatting with the bartender while downing their own espressos. On the other stands a freshly married couple in gleaming gown and suit, taking a latte break in the middle of a professional photoshoot. 

And all of that was just the first hour of the first morning of my solo weekend in Venice.

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