Venezia, 19 & 20 August

According to my Lonely Planet guide, "Little matches the beauty, and teeth-grinding frustration, of stunning Venice..." and there cannot be a more apt description.

The idea of Venice has tugged on my Wanderlust for a long time, astounding facts such as her network of 117 islands, some 150 canals and 400 bridges -- not to mention her complete lack of cars -- piquing my interest. Hemingway really did me in, though, with his descriptions of the city's breathtaking beauty, and romantic gondola rides, and the seductive flavor of ruby-red Valpolicella...

So, Venice. La Serenissima...



From the moment of arrival at Santa Lucia train station, she enchanted with her vividness and vitality. For some reason, I had been prepared for a city of cool, polished marble, but Venice is a kaleidoscope of earthy brick and soft pastel pinks, oranges and yellows, all offest by the curious chalkboardy blue-green of her canals. The hordes of tourists and the multitude of souvenir stands peddling innuendo-rich articles of clothing alongside culinary delights like squid-ink pasta and baubles of glittering Venetian glass only add to the bustling liveliness of the city.

While seeing Venice by boat seems the obvious choice, it turns out a gondola ride is ridiculously wallet-breaking, and the city is best discovered on foot. Follow her winding alleys and you will most certainly discover achingly beautiful nooks and crannies, hidden plazas, crumbling walls and statuary, ornate wrought-iron railings on canal bridges, and the inevitable dead-end.







Wandering our way to the famous Piazza San Marco, we stumbled upon a wedding party winding their way through the streets, the radiant bride and groom, hand-in-hand, surrounded by elegantly clad, laughing family and friends. As they passed, onlookers joined the contagious festivities, applauding and cheering the beaming new couple. At the tail-end of the party, an enthusiastic older middle-aged gentleman sang boisterously in a lovely Italian tenor, gesticulating broadly with his tuxedo-clad arms. His tune was occasionally joined by his fellows, and even other passers-by, and we could only assume he was the proud father of the bride, pouring out his joy at the occasion.

The narrow streets opened out to the extraordinary expanse of the Piazza San Marco, lined with long galleries of fantastic Venetian architecture and crowned with the San Marco Basilica. The most astonishing sight, however, was the fact that the piazza itself was covered not only by tourists, but by pigeons. To say there were millions of them would not be an exaggeration. It was pure Hitchcockian nightmare. Apparently one of the trademark activities at the piazza is to buy pigeon food for a euro a bag. People of all ages and walks of life were engaged in the activity, some appearing to be soulfully spiritual as they held out their arms for the greedy, disease-riddled vermin to perch upon.


The wedding party also made its way onto the piazza, and the newlyweds partook of the pigeon-feeding ritual, too. Perhaps it brings good luck? This idea did not make me any more inclined to invest my hard-earned money in increasing the pigeon population of Venice.


Two days flew by remarkably quickly, and we saturated ourselves with the city, the magnificent sights, the constant cacaphony of voices, chattering and singing, laughing, in a mixed whirl of languages. The tastes: the smoothness of Valpolicella, the cold, refreshing sweetness of Limoncello... and of course an obscene amount of delicious, creamy gelato. Two days was enough to feel the pulse of the city, to get an impression... and to leave before frustration reared its ugly head.