Part One of my tourist musings on Venice addressed its creation story: the refugees building the lagoon, then constructing their legends about St. Mark and his winged lion. Story upon story upon story.
Venice rose in wealth, trading, fighting, and conquering, both infidels and allies. The Crusades increased their wealth, until they mounted a Crusade of their own that turned into atrocity. They covered their deeds with art, religion, and parties, even as the money dried up and their status as a maritime power was eclipsed. Once the facade peeled, they invested in attracting visitors to view their beautiful, decaying things. Even that has now become part of the problem.
Santa Maria della Salute in Venice, beautiful among the clouds. All photos by kajmeister unless otherwise indicated.
My bags are unpacked, laundry put away, and the trip is over. Yet there’s one more story I should write, about the last place we visited, Venice. We experienced so much in five days there that it has filled two posts, mostly because Venetian history is convoluted. Those who took up residence ricocheted from one kerfuffle to another, like the tides pinging the sides of the Adriatic. They invented themselves, so the question is, what are we to make of their invention?
The Most Serene, Queen of the Adriatic, the Floating City, The Dominante, the City of Bridges, of Masks, of Canals… Venice has had as many names as there are perhaps islands. It is most serene and tranquil, in the way that a swan is tranquil and graceful above the water while its feet flail madly below.
Venice’s most famous poet, Veronica Franco, was a courtesan; another famous writer, Giacomo Casanova, a rake. Famous traveling son Marco Polo was an exaggerator who did not even write his own story–his travels were written by a romance writer while they both languished in jail. I’ve written of Veronica, of Marco, and even of Venice before, but on the second visit, I noticed more than just the “beautiful decay” that I mentioned before. The masks that are one of its key symbols are revealing of its history. Venice is even masked unto itself, profiting from its self-invention.
Shop window masks are a running theme.
But what else could a city be, built by those on the run, who threw trees and dirt in the water to build their fantasies on? Who grew rich transporting thieves? Who invented a patron saint, with a symbol to hawk to the tourists? Who looked both east and west, and, in battling both, lost its own identity? Who, even now, welcomes the visitors that it shuns? Same as it ever was. The most beautiful, the most serene, the most crowded, the most mysterious.
Oh Venice! Venice! when thy marble walls
Are level with the waters, there shall be
A cry of nations o’er thy sunken halls,
A loud lament along the sweeping sea!
If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee,
What should thy sons do?–anything but weep
And yet they only murmur in their sleep.
—Ode to Venice, Lord Byron
It’s easy to be in awe of Venice; it’s harder to like it.
I am not referring either to Venice, California, in the state where I live, or Venice, Florida where my dad used to live and where I spent the summer of ’78 driving up and down the Tamiami Trail. I’m talking about THE Venice, which is the first stop on our three week sojourn around the Mediterranean. The first thing you observe is the sound of water lapping, nonstop, against the docks, the sound of engines revving up and cutting down as the barges and taxis slip around through the canals. History sings as you ride the boats between the Palazzo Thises and the Ca d’Thats, but, even in sunlight, the buildings which shine in the distance seem faded and dingy close up.
St. Mark’s Square, Venice, photo by kajmeister
Beautiful Decay
One well-traveled friend warned me that she found Venice dirty and odorous, like New Orleans without signs in English. Another said she loved to walk around and just “gawk.” For me, the city inspired thoughts of both. Arriving to the train station via water taxi, the food seems airport-priced, the toilets require coins, and people are jammed into the few available seats and benches. (Don’t sit on the bridges!) Lines for the vaporetto (water bus) tickets are long, signs are confusing, and photo stops at the Rialto bridge and elsewhere are wall-to-wall shoulders and strollers. A vaporetto ride down the Grand Canal listening to a pre-downloaded Rick Steves’ tour seemed like a great “get acclimated” idea, except that the popular #1 line was also crammed full of bodies–where do these tourists all come from? Same place as myself, I suppose.
