Monday, November 13, 2006

A Better Kind of Waterworld

Location: Venice, Italy
Arteries: Cheese-laden

There is an interesting feeling that one gets when traveling by train across Italy. This has been one of the great (if not the great) nest eggs of world culture for the last 2000 years or so, and it is palpable to even the most casual passerby. One watches the rocky hills and azure waters streaming by with a feeling of growing self-confidence, that it is just a matter of time until this is once again the seat of wealth and power throughout the civilized world. The feeling is somewhat lessened by a conspicuous absence of an unshaven Russell Crowe, but hey, you can't have everything.

November 10

I rise and breakfast with Orsola, filling my veins once again with fermented curd of at least three varieties, much to the horror of my labor-swamped ventricles. A long shower later, Orsola graciously escorts me to the train station and offers me a fond farewell as I hope a train to Venice. The journey is short and uneventful, but my first glimpse of the Adriatic in its full, sparkling glory is a damn fine one.

The hostel where I am staying is in Mestre, the mainland suburb of Venice. The town is quite ideally located, being a scant 10 minutes by train into the city yet without the Blackbeard-esque price gouging associated with the island. There are a number of problems that present themselves right off the bat, however. First, the "hostel" is total crap. In reality, it is a hotel that wants the best of both worlds. It advertises as a hostel to rake in the cheap backpacker crowd, but then constructs itself as a hotel to avoid having to provide any of the usual comforts of a hostel, such as a backpackers' kitchen or any semblence of human contact. All in all the place is a ripoff and quite unpleasant to stay at.

Second, I don't know how people in Mestre eat. Over the course of my three-day stay here, I wander all over the town, augmented by nightly runs of several miles that allow me to cover most of the ground in the city, and yet I am unable to locate a single market. Not one, save for the snickeringly sterotypical Asian corner markets that provide noodles and onions - everything a growing kung fu master needs - to the enormous local Chinese population. All of the restaurants are hideously expensive and virtually never open for, despite the continued observance of their treasured siesta time, Italian stores keep hours roughly determined by when the proprietor is able to cease sucking off the local Mafia boss in time to get to jaunt to the front of the building, which as near as I can tell amounts to about 15 minutes a day. Such things present immediate problems, and I, being without my trusty companion Dr. Watson, have difficulty overcoming them.

Shrugging off such mortal difficulties, I hop a train for the city in hopes of doing a bit of wandering before bed. The train ride is, as noted, quite short, and after a scenic sunset ride across the bay, I arrive at Venice - Santa Lucia train station. Now, the view upon stepping out into the station and into the city is quite as expected, the Grand Canal looming in front of you, across which is visible Bitchin' Church Dome #131. The sunset over the canal is quite mysterious and beautiful, much like the rest of the city. With no particular place to go, and knowing full well the tendency for tourists to get lost in Venice, I set off to explore what I can. I get all the way around to the south side of the island, beyond Piazza San Marco, and am walking along the bay when, through some benevolent intuitive leap, I realize that my return ticket back to Mestre is not in my pocket. A thorough search of myself reveals that yes, somehow my ticket has been lost.

I should explain something here. The last train to the mainland leaves at just before midnight, and I have plenty of time to get back to it. However, the ticket office itself closes at 9:00 PM, meaning that if I do not make it back to the station to purchase a ticket at that time, it seems I will be stranded on Venice without any place to sleep. This is unacceptable. I am now put in the interesting position of having to haul ass from one end of Venice to the other in order to make it back to the station in time (being without cell phone and watch, I have no real idea what time it is, only that time is short). Remember the underwater bomb-diffusing stage in the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles game? I am now living it's tragic race.

To fully understand my difficulties, you must understand that Venice is not constructed in a sensible manner, as many other cities have been. Indeed, it appears to have not been built by humans at all, but by some deranged rabbit/army ant crossbreed. Over hundreds of years, these exoskeleton-toting rodents have built upon the stones of Venice a warren of alleys and tiny, winding walkways that would thwart even the most determined of the Viet Cong. The warnings about how everyone inevitably gets lost in Venice are quite accurate. Finding one's way is quite impossible, except for the barest notion of the sun rises in the east. It would be entirely appropriate if, as one entered the city, a spandex-clad David Bowie greeted one with an enthusiastic lecture on Dance Magic. The city as a whole could be taken as proof positive that there are no Italian ninjas, for if such might warriors did exist, truly the place would have been reduced to a completely uninhabited battle-ground as sword-bearing assassins clad in tank tops and red-and-white-checkered veils fought like demons over the vast farmland of dark, spooky alleyways, which are truly their most valued currency. I mean to suggest that the city is confusing to navigate in.

As such, my exeunt from the city quickly degenerated into a powerwalking flight for survival. Despite my best efforts I was forced to backtrack sometimes for hundreds of meters as the pavement beneath my feet dropped suddenly into the sloshing blackness of a canal. I have never been so happy to see a bridge heaped with tourist traps in my life as I was in the form of the Rialto and Scaltzi bridges that bore me, skipping, to my iron carriage (note: only figurative skipping occured). I bought my ticket and sat happily down to ride home.

At the hostel that night I met and talked with two lovely ladies, an American and a Columbian, both of whom were quite neat. After a couple hours of enriching conversation, I showered and was off to bed, quite content and excited to see the city the next day.

November 11

One cannot help, upon wandering around Venice, realizing that one is inside a floating city. In pretty much every way that matters, the "islands" that make up the city are man-made, the stone foundations of the buildings resting only on marshy sub-soil, so that the pavement, and even the floors of many buildings, rise and fall like waves, showing the inexorable flow of the tides that will eventually reclaim the city. It's a little creepy.

My Columbian friend is departing today for parts unknown, but the American and I make plans to walk around the city together, meeting up on Ponte dell'Accademia after she has joined forces with an old friend of hers who is in the city. The first bit of the plan goes well, and after a relaxing morning I train into Venice and make my way to the Accademia Bridge to meet them, arriving in plenty of time. The bridge is one of only three crossings over the Grand Canal, and as such exists in a constant wash of tourist flotsam, most of which is aged about 50 years and arguing in pairs about the directions that their concierge gave them to Piazza San Marco. I stand and people watch for a bit before my two associates show up.

Here is where the trouble starts. The two ladies with whom I have thrown in my lot for today - they do not deserve real names, so I shall henceforth refer to them by their slave names - are neat enough, indeed the first, "Ponce", was fun enough to generate hours of lively conversation the previous night. However, I am shocked to discover that, despite their individual merits, when they are together they turned into giant, giant losers. They seemed to desire no lively conversation, prefering to trudge about with a barely-contained sense of impending doom, half-heartedly snapping pictures and generally offering no entertainment, education, or anti-pidgeon defense. I discovered by and by that I was having a worse time hanging out with them then I would have walking around alone. Needless to say, this was an incredibly trying event for my backpacker's optimism, and this, combined with trouble back in North Carolina, put Will Jones, Unlikely Hero Out For Adventure under great psychologial duress.

I discovered this only after walking around Piazza San Marco. The Piazza is considered on the grandest in the world, and for good reason. Surrounded on three sides by massive, elitest shopping arcades rendered in rococco-baroque post-modern chinchilla styles, the opposite end is dominated by the incredible Basilica San Marco, which resembles nothing so much as Liberace's fantasy boy scout tent, rising in a massive series of domes and layered facades that could easily inspire "Lode Runner II: Mountains of Exile." The square is massive, easily two football fields side-by-side, and provides a breeding ground for the famed Venetian death pidgeons, which swarm upon tourists by the hundred.

There is a small issue with getting into the Basilica toting my daypack, but it only sets me back about five minutes in leaving it with a nearby bag check. The inside of the place is absolutely ridiculous, layered with more carvings and gold plating than they seem to know what to do with. I can understand the reasoning behind all the hullabahoo, though. See, the reason this is the Basilica "San Marco" is because it is the final resting place of the Apostle Mark. That's right, this building holds the casket - and thus the corpse, for those of us keeping track - of one of the 12 men emotionally closest to He Who Is Called "I AM." He's an important guy. Myself, I didn't know that we actually had bodies for any of the disciples. I had thought that they had disappeared into antiquity, buried in mass graves or eaten from their crucifixes of martyrdom by the crows, or something like that. Apparently I was mistaken.

The altar surrounding the body of St. Mark is easily the craziest thing I have ever seen in my life, at least in terms of wealth and opulence, particularly when it comes to the Pala d'Oro. This is a sheet of solid gold about the size of an average tablecloth that is carved with religious scenes and studded with hundreds of gemstones, most of them the size of the last joint of your thumb, everything from emeralds to rubies to sapphires to opals and beyond. It's value is so far beyond estimation that I couldn't help but gape at the incredible show of wealth used to honor this man who, by all accounts, purposely spent his life as a pauper. Messed up.

Outside the basilica I wander through a sea of pidgeons so densely packed that I actually managed to step on one. That's right, I stepped on a freakin' pidgeon. Mainly remarkable because it simply never happens. I was concerned for a moment that I had killed the thing, but fortunately I jumped back soon enough and it fluttered away in a quite pidgeonly manner. I hope I didn't rupture any of it's internal organs or anything, but there's really no way to tell.

Tool around the church a bit more, then we head back outside. The girls want to climb the belltower nearby, but between the price and my growing dislike of them, I opt out. From here I'm wandering solo. I check out the Bridge of Sighs, which is quite pretty but nothing special on the face of it, then grab lunch in the form of a very cheesy sandwich at a local restaurant. I'm trying to have some fun, but the day has turned cold and I'm very discouraged, fighting off a very bad funk. Before too much longer I just bag it and head on back to Mestre in hopes of making tomorrow a better day. A meal of Chinese food, when I actually manage to catch the restaurant open, helps a bit, but when bedtime rolls around (aggravating enough because of the three overbearing Italians I'm sharing a room with) I'm seriously considering just moving on to Florence tomorrow and leaving Venice to its own devices.

November 12

The entire time I am in Venice I am seized with an incredible desire to steal something off of one of the overly ornate gondolas that carry lovers down secluded canals at a euro a minute. Maybe a paddle, if I coiuld manage it... or maybe one of those ridiculous red heart-shaped pillows. They're just begging for it.

The day dawns happily, thank God, with good news from home and a shining sun. I breakfast on sugary rolls purchased from a corner market (basically the only thing that I can have without facilities to cook noodles), have some internet time, and make an early kebab lunch in a nearby park, all of which helps my spirits for another try at Venice.

Upon training into the city, it's a whole new ballgame. Sucking up the expense, I jump on a vaporetto (water bus, the primary means of non-foot transport in the city) to cruise along the Grand Canal. It's a lovely little journey and allows me to see Venice the way it was meant to be seen: from the water. I have a merry time waving to other passing boats, taking pictures, and soaking up the scenery.

While I'm on the vaporetto, I am treated to the rather hilarious sight of 3 smaller taxis, each built for perhaps ten people yet packed with at least 20 Asian tourists apiece, rocketing by in the opposite direction. Mere tourists, or elite aquatic death squad? You be the judge.

On the extreme far side of the main part of the city I disembark, setting foot for the first time in the Castello district of the city. Compared to the most tourist-swamped areas of the city, it is incredibly peaceful. This is where the trees grow. It is so nice that I am compelled to sit on a bench and people watch for a few minutes before continuing my walk. I gradually make my way back across the city, an affair taking several hours, but this time I actually enjoy myself, gazing off into the distance quite a bit and stopping to hear the performing street musicians. One of them, on a flute, is piping out a version of Louis Armstrong's "Wonderful World." It's the perfect mood-setter. On my way out I manage to find a church that is hosting an exhibit of Leonardo Da Vinci's inventions, and I sneak in for a mildly interesting peak at the man's genius. It's a good capstone for the day.

I hit my hotel tonight pleasantly ready to move on, having left Venice on good terms. I get to chat a bit with an American chap who is my roommate for the night, then drift off into a lovely sleep and dream sweet dreamy dreams.

Progress Thus Far:
Countries Visited: 9
Stupid Tourist Moments: 58
Monuments Flipped Off: 42
Free Booze Ganked: 10
Free Food Ganked: 27

i see trees of green, red roses, too
i see them bloom, for me and you
and i think to myself
what a wonderful world
-Louis Armstrong

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