Revisiting the Past: Venice

In 1967 I was a stroppy, love-struck teenager.  That year I went on a school cruise around the Mediterranean.  My boyfriend was good looking.  Far too good looking for me. Before the ship left I asked a friend to keep an eye on him.  And she did.  So much so that when I got back, she was his girlfriend and I was history.   Ah well. 

Most of the cruise was wasted on me – I was far too busy being the tragic heroine torn from the arms of her one true love.  We visited Tunisia (hot, dusty and leery men), a Greek Island (no idea which one), Ephesus (ruins) and Venice (canals).  The long days and nights on board were spent reading and re-reading the gorgeous boy’s one letter to me.  Looking back, I’m surprised he knew how to write – gorgeous, yes, but not bright.

So when Andy and I went to Venice in March this year, it was as if I’d never been before.  And it was beautiful.  Truly beautiful.  We arrived at the tail end of Carnivale, of which I knew nothing.  All these people in spectacular costumes and masks gliding around and graciously posing for photographs.  Amazing.

We visited art galleries, strolled over bridges, ate pizza and pasta, waded through the floods at high tide (Andy bought plastic galoshes, I took off my shoes and paddled through), took water buses and photographs galore. 

I have no idea how I managed to ignore its allure the first time I was there – the only excuse I have is that I was 14, and didn’t know any better.

Snapshots of Venice at Twilight

The sky is turning red over Santa Maria della Salute.

Street vendors begin to pack stalls; trundle cheap wares

up tiny alleys; head home for pasta.

Beside the bell tower a couple in bridal costume, remnants

of Carnivale,  strike poses for photographers.

A girl with autumnal hair and distant eyes weaves

through crowds, not seeing the Bridge of Sighs,

familiar as wallpaper.

Two women stand close to a closed Museum door, fingers

tracing words, working out the meaning.

Tourist boats wait for dawdling hoards, hooting

impatience to be on, to be gone, hurry up!  A clutter

of Japanese girls suddenly runs, startled from chatter.

Outside the Danieli gondoliers cover boats, gather

together, hats tilted, sharing cigarettes and stories.

An old woman, bent in half, trudges a shopping trolley

over another interminable bridge, as a young man, naked

to the waist, throws open shutters, leans out into the twilight,

sated, glorious.