Damn you, Michael! I scream inside my head. You ruined it all.
I think forlornly of all the things I had written down that I wanted to see and do in Venice: St. Mark’s Basilica, Il Campanile, Il Rialto, the tiny islands of Murano and Burano, the gondola rides, the narrow alleyways that string around the lagoon.
A crazy idea begins stirring in my mind. Just go to Venice. Don’t let Michael take all of your dreams away. You can still have this.
Aldo had canceled my flight along with the rest of the wedding-related events. He had to pay a small cancellation fee, but I’d received the rest of the credit on my airfare. My heart starts racing in anticipation. The more I think about this, the more it feels right. I’ll be thousands of miles away from home, where no one knows me, and there’s so much to explore. This is the distraction I need.
“Connie, you gave me a great idea.”
“I did? What?”
“You forgot already? The vacation.”
“Oh, right! But I thought you said Aldo found a job.”
“He did, but that doesn’t mean I can’t go alone. I am a grown woman.”
“Oh, Vee. I’m not so sure that’s a good idea, being all by yourself.”
“I’m not suicidal, Connie, for crying out loud!”
“I’m sorry, Vee. We’re just very worried about you.”
“I know. But you can all stop worrying. I’m going to be okay. And this is just what I need.”
“Being by yourself?”
“Yes. I need to be able to hear my thoughts. Besides, I’ve always wanted to take a vacation alone.”
“So where will you go?”
“Venice.”
“Are you crazy? I said to take a vacation to distract yourself, and you want to go to the place where you were supposed to marry the love of your life?”
“I know it sounds crazy. But you know I’ve always wanted to go there. Why should I let Michael ruin this for me? He’s already destroyed what we had. Venice will always be the place where I was supposed to have my fairy-tale wedding, but I can change that perception by taking this vacation and making it about me rather than about some guy I thought I knew and about a fantasy wedding day.”
Connie sighs.
“Ma’s not going to like this.”
“That’s all right. I’m supposed to like the idea, not her.”
“Just do me a favor, Vee?”
“What?”
“Think about this for a few days before you make up your mind.”
“Okay. I can do that.”
“When were you planning on going?”
“I was thinking at the end of the month.”
“That’s just two weeks away.”
“I would leave now if I could, but despite what you think, I haven’t gone completely bonkers. I don’t want to be in Venice the week I was supposed to get married or the following week that would’ve been our honeymoon. So the last week in June is when Michael and I would’ve been flying back to New York.”
Connie nods her head. “Well, that’s a relief. At least you have enough sense not to go any earlier.”
“I’m going to apologize to that Bridezilla and then I’m heading home to start planning my trip.”
“You’re already forgetting your promise to me to think about this more!”
But Connie’s smiling.
“I’ll have a couple weeks to change my mind. Don’t worry. That’s enough time to think about it.”
“Ahh! You and I both know you’ve already made up your mind.”
She’s right. I have decided. No one, not even Ma, can stop me.
I’m headed for Venice.
14
La Serenissima
The five domes of St. Mark’s Basilica in the distance grow larger as the Alilaguna nears Venice. The Alilaguna is a boat operated publicly, which takes people from the Marco Polo airport into Venice. I have read this is the most spectacular mode of transportation to arrive into the heart of Venice. My heart races as we approach the city I’d fallen in love with as a child. The anticipation of the other passengers on the Alilaguna is palpable. They, too, are just as eager to set foot in La Serenissima—or “the serene Republic,” as Venice is also known. And serene she is.
Golden sunlight bathes the lagoon. As we near the dock, countless gondolas dot the canals. Gondolieri stand out like peppermint sticks in their candy-cane-striped shirts and straw hats as they effortlessly glide their gondolas through the undulating waters. In one gondola, a middle-aged woman sits statuesquely. Her cobalt-blue dress stands out in stark contrast to the shiny cranberry-colored accordion she plays. Large, dark sunglasses à la Sophia Loren and a wide-brimmed straw hat with a blue ribbon complete her ensemble. A couple in their sixties hold each other as they listen to the melodically sweet sounds emanating from the accordion. In the distance, someone is belting out notes from an opera. I turn my head, straining to see where the singing is coming from. A young man handsomely dressed in a pale gray sports jacket and crisp linen shirt, opened at the neckline to reveal his bronzed skin, sings notes from the opera La Traviata. A group of tourists, mostly young women, sit in this gondola, entranced by the singer.
I feel as if I’ve stepped into the pages of a fairy tale. Every scene seems surreal. Pale green water serves as lawns surrounding Venice’s residences. Lavishly ornate palaces dating back to the Byzantine era grace the landscape. Warm pink crumbling walls stand out against the turquoise-colored sky. Marble and Istrian stone churches gleam white. Shiny onyx-colored gondolas contribute to the chiaroscuro tones of the city. Perhaps that is why photos of the city come out so well—all the light and dark shades Venice has to offer are a photographer’s dream come true. Suddenly, I understand what so many tourists mean when they say, “You can’t take a bad photograph in Venice.” As I snap away with my cell phone’s camera and examine each photo after it’s taken, the pictures are stunning. I know they will look just as perfect once I print them.
Happiness fills the air like the church bells that are currently ringing from St. Mark’s Basilica. Everywhere I look, people are smiling and laughing. I can’t help but smile as well. It doesn’t matter that I’m here alone. I’m blessed just to finally be in this magical city. If you ask me for two words to describe Venice, they’re: happiness and perfection.
From the idyllic views to the sweet sounds of music that seem to surround every corner of the city to the balmy breezes that carry the scent of espresso being served at the outdoor cafés, all of my senses are engaged. But instead of being overwhelmed, I am energized and very much alive. My adrenaline is soaring, and all I know is that I want more of this natural high. Tears come to my eyes. To think, I almost didn’t come.
The Alilaguna has now arrived at the San Marco dock. With my one sensible rolling piece of luggage and a JanSport backpack, I disembark. Having done my research, I know that the city is most easily traversed on foot, so I made sure to bring only what I absolutely need. Even though I’ll be staying for three weeks, I just packed one week’s worth of clothes. I’ll find the nearest lavanderia once I’m out of clean clothes. In addition to sightseeing and acquainting myself with the city, I want to get a sense of what life is like for the locals. Doing my own laundry will make me feel in a small way like one of the natives.
Though I need to walk away from the Piazza San Marco to get to my hotel, I can’t resist taking a detour and head for the square. Savoring every moment as I freeze the scene in my mind like a camera capturing a photograph, I take in some of Venice’s most popular landmarks—St. Mark’s Basilica, Il Campanile, Il Palazzo Ducale, Il Rialto . . . Though San Marco is where throngs of tourists flock, there is an unspoiled atmosphere here that is often found in more remote, less-traveled regions. What strikes me the most is the silence from the absence of motor traffic. That alone enhances La Serenissima’s tranquil atmosphere. Even the numerous merchants selling cheap Carnevale masks and miniature gondola replicas do not mar the city like they do in other tourist hot spots.
Though I am anxious to see the interiors of the landmarks in San Marco, I need to check into my hotel. My stomach is also growling.
With my street map in hand, I walk toward the direction of my hotel, by the famed Riva degli Schiavoni. A long winding quayside, the Riva degli Schiavoni is busy with the water buses, or vaporetti; water taxis; traghetti, or gondola ferries; and gondolas. A sea of tourists mob the merchants’ stalls, buying everything from T-shirts to marionettes and cheap versions of glass-blown vases. Across the water, I can make out the picturesque island of San Giorgio Maggiore. The church and monastery bear the same name as the island and are some of the architectural marvels I have on my must-see list of attractions. I’m especially eager to go to the top of the campanile, or bell tower, and see the spectacular view of Venice it affords.
Venice is separated into six sestieri, or districts: San Marco, Dorsoduro, Cannaregio, Castello, San Polo, and Santa Croce. My hotel is in the largest of the sestieri, Castello. I did not want to stay in San Marco, the most popular district for visitors. Though still a tourist mecca, Castello also offers a quieter side of Venice just behind its waterfront, with peaceful narrow alleyways, gently weathered palazzi (palaces), and breathtaking churches such as Santi Giovanni e Paolo. Another reason why I’ve chosen to stay in Castello is that it is still accessible to San Marco and is along the Grand Canal, where I can easily hop onto a vaporetto when I don’t feel like walking to the farther sestieri or the Venetian lagoon islands.
Turning onto the Campo Bandiera e Moro, I locate the red banner with the words La Residenza hanging from the second-story terrace of my hotel. The hotel’s facade looks just like it did in my Venice guidebook. A fourteenth-century palazzo, La Residenza was built in the Gothic-Byzantine style Venice’s buildings are known for. Made of what looks to be Istrian stone—a more durable stone than marble—the hotel is three stories. The second story sports five portico windows and is most likely where the Gritti, Partecipazio, Morosini, and Badoer, the patrician families who resided at this palace over the years, had their quarters. I had learned from my art and architecture of Venice course in college that the porticoes signaled where the doges resided in their palaces. Many other wealthy or noble families in the city followed this habit of keeping their quarters on the second floor in the center of the building.
La Residenza’s lobby is breathtaking. Frescoes hang on ornate marble walls, and lush drapery and beautiful antique furniture complete the reception area. After I check in, I’m anxious to see my room. I’ve chosen to pay a little extra to have a room with a view. Since I’d selected a two-star hotel instead of the four-star hotel Michael had chosen for our honeymoon in San Marco, I felt like I could splurge by getting a room with a view. Stepping into the room, I’m relieved to see it isn’t tiny. European hotels, unlike American ones, are known for their cramped quarters. Though not as extravagant as the lobby, the room is tastefully decorated in exquisite ivory-colored furniture that complements the palazzo’s creamy exterior and interior walls. A king-sized bed is cloaked with a modest duvet that has nothing more than brick-colored stripes. The best, and my favorite, feature of the room is the double arched windows. They’re Byzantine in style. The windows’ draperies are in the same red as the stripes on the duvet and are tied back.
Setting down my backpack on the bed, I walk over to the windows and open one. The vista looks out onto the facade of a church, whose name I’m not sure of. It doesn’t look like any I’d seen in my guidebook or the other books on Venice’s landmarks that I’ve read. I inhale deeply the fresh air.
Content with my surroundings, I quickly unpack and take a shower. At this point, I’m completely famished.
Deciding to wear a halter sundress I’d made years ago, I look at myself in the mirror inside the armadio, or armoire, that can be found in every Italian home. Built-in closets like the ones in America are not the norm in Italy, so huge armoires are used instead. My dress is white with tiny, black polka dots and has a snug, collared bodice with a full skirt that reaches halfway down my calves. It seems like the perfect dress to wear in Italy. I pull my hair back in a high ponytail and tie a white chiffon scarf over it. I break the fashion rule of never wearing wedge-heeled sandals with a full skirt so that I can be comfortable walking around. I complete the ensemble with wide black Jackie O–style sunglasses. Grabbing my purse, I leave my hotel room.
I decide to forego asking the hotel’s front desk clerk for a recommendation and let my nose guide me to the right restaurant for my dinner. La seconda colazione is the midday meal in Italy, unlike the lunch that Americans eat at this time. In the evening, a light cena, or supper, will suffice, in which a panino or even just a few slices of bread with cheese and olives constitute a typical Italian supper. Again, I want to live just as the Italians do, so I’ll eat the way the locals eat.
I make my way back toward Piazza San Marco since I want to explore its streets more. The aroma of cooking fish reaches my nose. I follow the scent and soon come upon Castello Rivetto, and notice the dazzling fish on display in its window. All the times I’d had fish when I visited my relatives in Sicily, it had been the best, most fresh fish I’d ever tasted. Without a second thought, I walk into Castello Rivetto.
Several gondolieri, still wearing their straw hats, are seated at some of the tables. Of course, plenty of tourists are also present.
“Buon giorno, signorina.”
“Buon giorno.”
“Will it be just you dining with us today?”
“Si.”
The waiter smiles and gestures for me to follow him. He doesn’t seem to take note that I’m alone. I see another woman seated by herself at a table, and a few men are also dining alone, not that I care. I’m reveling in my own company. And in a city like Venice where throngs of tourists, merchants, and even its residents are always milling about the streets, you never truly feel alone.
For antipasti, or appetizers, I have a simple tomato-and-fresh-mozzarella salad. But as I discover after taking my first bite of the salad, there’s nothing simple about the taste bursting forth from the juicy grape-sized tomatoes and the smooth ribbon-like texture of the mozzarella, which seems to melt as soon as it touches my palate. After dining on the most heavenly tagliolini a la carbonara, I’m convinced I will never be satisfied again with the pasta in the U.S.
I choose a broiled swordfish for my second course, even though the pasta has sated my hunger. In Italy, when one visits a restaurant, it is common to order an appetizer, first course (usually pasta), second course (a meat or fish dish), and sometimes dessert. Restaurants hate it when American tourists order only one dish, and forget it if you even suggest sharing a dish. Italians eat this way in their homes as well. When I’d visited my relatives in Sicily on several occasions, I wanted to cry halfway through the meal because of my bloated stomach. My sisters and I would plead that we’d had enough to eat, but my aunts never believed us and just kept piling the food on our plates. After a trip to Sicily, I always gained weight.
But even if you don’t eat an appetizer, first and second course, and dessert, it’s easy to pack on the pounds. Italy is a culinary paradise, where food is screaming to be tasted. I once told Aldo, who had never been to Italy, “I’d go to Italy for the gelato alone.” When there are long spans between my family’s visits to Sicily, I begin craving the gelato in Italy. I have found one place in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, that comes close to making gelato much like what you find in Italy, but it’s still not the real thing.
“Signorina, desidere qualche dolce?”
Where has the time flown? I’ve been too consumed by my stupendous meal to notice that an hour has gone by in a flash. Though the desserts on the menu are tempting, I want to give my belly a break and walk off some of the calories I’ve just consumed. Plus my sweet tooth is really aching for gelato.
“No, grazie. Solemente il conto.”
After paying my check, I continue heading over to San Marco. It’s two p.m., and the canals and streets are much quieter than t
hey’d been when I’d arrived this morning. People are finishing up their dinners and having their siestas. I yawn at the thought of everyone napping, but I fight off the fatigue. I haven’t come to Venice to sleep, even though that’s what the Venetians are doing right now. So much for living like a native! Most of the merchants at the souvenir stalls have already packed up their wares to go home and eat dinner. They’ll return around five p.m., the typical time for businesses in Italy to reopen after siesta. I make a mental note to come back in the evening to see the piazza in full swing at dusk.
Walking around the cobblestone streets, I’m still in awe of the enormous architecture around me. The most striking is St. Mark’s Basilica. I decide to enter.
To my surprise, dark, cavernous space greets me. I was expecting to find a brightly lit cathedral with vivid frescoes adorning the ceilings and walls, much like the other cathedrals I’d visited in Sicily and in the pictures of the churches I’d seen in my college art history courses. But instead, gilded mosaics cover the walls and ceilings of the Basilica. There is a blend of Byzantine, Gothic, and even classical elements in the architecture and art. The gilded surfaces give off their own light, almost as if the source is coming from flickering candles. I’m almost certain this had been the intent of the architects, since certain Biblical passages that are represented in the art shine brighter than others. I suddenly realize that I don’t know much about Venice’s history even though I’ve longed to visit the city for so many years. The one Venetian art history course I’d taken had covered some of the city’s history but focused more on the paintings. I’ll definitely have to take a guided tour of the Basilica and even a walking tour of Venice to learn all there is to know of this amazing city on the water.
I step into one of the pews and kneel down. Making the sign of the cross, I bow my head in prayer. But again, no words come to me. I look up at the altar. Suddenly, I imagine myself standing there in my wedding gown with Michael. I quickly shut my eyes, squeezing them tightly, forcing the image out of my mind.
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