Sin City

Venice was built on a swampy island in a lagoon by the Adriatic Sea.  The city has no castle and no defensive wall; the water acted as fortification that kept plundering armies at bay.  Despite its natural defenses, Venice was ruled first by Napoleon and then the Austrian Empire before joining Italy in the 1800s.  

The network of canals may have been a smart idea back in the day, but now products are so expensive in the city because all the goods must be shipped on the water.  During high tide in the winter, the streets are often flooded.  Since the dams are not finished, Venetians and tourists must walk on raised wooden platforms or slosh through the dirty, rat-infested waters with knee-high boots.  Living in Venice certainly is dreamlike, but it also seems impractical.  Maybe that’s one reason why less than 60,000 people live in the heart of the city, and most of them are old.

All this I learned from a local guide, an Italian woman with a long nose and a bubbly wart on her upper lip.  We started in the San Marco Square near the wharf on the Grand Canal.  The church is decorated with golden mosaics both inside and out.  A security guard was denying people entry if their shoulders and knees weren’t covered.  I pulled down my cargo shorts, being mindful to hide the hinges on my legs, but I was also wary of displaying my underwear to the church-goers. 

Although God supposedly designed the human body, apparently he took issue with our butt-cracks and bendable areas.  Perhaps he was disappointed in his work and was disgusted each time he saw the results.  There was a man ahead of me whose cargo shorts insufficiently concealed his joints, and he managed to slip past the scrutiny of the guard.  Despite his success, I adopted a stern look when confronted by the guard.  My austerity was enough to grant me admission.  Upon interpreting my facial features, the guard trusted I would not befoul the religious icons with the sight of my anatomical pivot points. 

These bizarre rules only exacerbated my puzzlement with the church.  Why could I show my elbows but not my knees?  I didn’t have to cover my ankles, but my shoulders could not be bare.  Was God upstairs reviewing the security cameras installed in his churches?  Was he searching for wardrobe malfunctions?  I suspect the real reasons had nothing to do with naked joints.  Those were family-friendly stand-ins for unspeakable private parts.  When the security guards said you must cover your knees, they were really saying that penis better stay in your pants.  The church, by the way, was exquisite and free.

Just outside the square, hordes of visitors were snapping pictures of themselves in front of the Bridge of Sighs.  On the canal below the bridge, prisoners would take their last boat ride before being hanged to the death.  As the convicts passed under the bridge, the legend goes they emitted a sigh of relief or regret.  I don’t know why modern visitors want to record a smile in front of a place with such a dark history.  They may as well be taking Selfies while sitting in the electric chair.

 

From the Bridge of Sighs, we made our way through the labyrinth of narrow walkways to the Rialto Bridge.  Along the Grand Canal, all sorts of boats were docked:  gondolas, motoscafos (water taxis), police boats, fire boats, and ambulances. If there were an emergency, the cops would meander their way through the little canals that run like capillaries to the main artery that snakes its way through the center of Venice. 

Not all areas are able to be reached by boat, especially when the high tide swells up the canals so that vessels cannot duck under bridges.  This would serve as an ominous warning if I were an old man searching for a settlement in which to retire.  There is nowhere to drive a car, and bikes are outlawed as well.  If you want to get anywhere, you have to walk or take a water taxi.  Fortunately, the city is not too large. 

After the walking tour, the group attended a demonstration on glassmaking.  We sat on the floor.  Above us hung sparkling chandeliers that cost as much as this trip to Europe.  I consider the vacation to be a wiser investment because there is no dusting involved.  Below the sparkling decorations, there was an oven that emitted an orange glow.

“The temperature inside is one thousand degrees Celsius,” our guide explained. 

Sand is melted down into a malleable cross-breed between a solid and a liquid.  The glassmaker then inserts his rod into a fiery chamber and swirls some volcanic goo onto the end of the stick.  He blows into the hole in the rod and the glass expands like a soap bubble.  He spins the glass against a flat surface to create a cylindrical shape beginning to resemble a bottle. 

But the glassmaker didn’t intend to create any ordinary chalice.  He wielded his pliers and plucked at the gelatinous substance.  Out of the amorphous blob he pulled out a head, a mane, and four legs with hooves on the ends.  In a matter of seconds, the glassmaker crafted a horse.

“Now this is still extremely hot,” the guide said.  “Around 900 degrees Celsius.  If I were to touch this, I would stick to it.”

He flapped a piece of paper until it touched the glass.  Instantly, the paper caught fire.  The guide explained that the glass must cool gradually in a chamber.  If exposed too long too soon to the open air, the glass would cool too quickly and explode.

After the demonstration, I browsed around the shop.  There were wine glasses, animal figurines, jewelry, clocks, and various unnecessary decorations.  Two colorful wine glasses cost 120 euros.  The red glass is especially expensive because gold dust is used to create the specific hue. 

“These luxurious items don’t fit in with my middle-class belongings,” I said out loud to no one in particular, and April laughed at my joke. 

“These fancy wine glasses will look nice beside my plastic cups,” she said.

Surrounded by first-class tchotchkes, I am always tempted to buy beautiful things even though they serve no purpose other than to distract me momentarily.  Ornate paper weights are functional, but then again I could find a rock that would do the job and save me fifty bucks.  An expensive piece of glass is merely an affirmation of one’s wealth, or a reminder of one’s lack thereof.  The glassmaker told me the artworks are pricey because they are original.  I prefer to think you pay more simply because you can.

If you make a lot of money and store most of it in your bank account, someone could mistake you for being poor, which could be a blow to one’s ego.  Therefore, if you are wealthy, you must buy flashy junk to prove that you are, in fact, wealthy.  As I walked around the shop, I realized that the price is not only a deterrent to buy, but also to use.  As the prices soar exorbitantly, the less it is handled. 

Most of my grandma’s expensive possessions are stored behind glass cases, and I never touch them.  They do not help me provide food, and they do not make me happy.  That is precisely why I chose to visually adore the disuse of these expensive glasses in the store rather than at home, where they would sit in equal disuse. 

On my way to the wharf, I doubled back to San Marco Square.  The plaza was filled with old cafés.  One of them has been in business for over two hundred years.  The longevity enables them now to charge the highest prices in the area.  Near the major eateries, a pianist accompanied by a small string section played such romantic music that forced me to linger around the band to savor the pleasing melody.  The music captured the feelings I got while watching movies that romanticized Europe.  The music also reminded me that Venice is a city for lovers on private gondola rides.

I took a ride on the gondola because one is expected to do so, and the discounted price was more than reasonable when you consider that many people all over the world dream of such a day.  But if you think in terms of merely floating on water in a glorified canoe, the idea of paying such a fee seems farfetched.

I boarded the vessel with friends, none of whom were romantically involved.  We didn’t have a musician playing an accordion, but it was pleasing to hear the oar dip lightly into the water and propel us down the murky green canals. 

The bases of the brick buildings are covered with algae.  A putrid smell like raw sewage hangs in the air.  The gondolier didn’t say a word to us, not even hello or goodbye.  Instead, he chatted with his fellow gondoliers in Italian.

“I wonder what they’re talking about,” I said.

“They’re probably complaining about their girlfriends,” Ash said.

The gondola ride wasn’t as romantic as I anticipated.  It was more akin to a wordless romp with a well-meaning, but financially-driven prostitute.  I enjoyed lazily floating on the canals despite the driver’s lack of engagement. 

After stepping off the boat, I indulged myself with a final scoop of gelato before heading off to Austria.  Despite being neighbors with the Pope, Italians seem to worship pleasure in all forms.  There may be too much traffic, way too many carbs, and way too many gypsies in Italy, but if I should ever return to this country I can overlook all of that.  A sweet scoop of gelato on a hot summer days makes all your problems go away.