Venice is a maze, an intricate network of canals and narrow streets coupled with courtyards of breezy, brightly colored houses with fading watercolor facades: an artist’s paradise. Venice is masks for the carnival, ferry boats for public transportation, puffy jackets and fur coats for the local venetians who find the chill in February weather, though we found it quite mild. The water that flows in from the Adriatic Sea and into the canals is a vibrant aquamarine, smooth and calm like glass when the gondolas glide through, the gondoliers ducking under bridges and weaving their way through what they call their main road.
“No cars,” our gondolier joked, but when I looked around I realized it was true. That was one of the greatest aspects of Venice, the ability to wander around without having to worry about cars or mopeds or bikes (though waiting for the ferry boats became tiring towards the end of the weekend). With a map and my friends leading the way, we made our way across bridges and through the alleyways to find what we were looking for.
I knew I would love Venice (and Italy, as this was the first time I had stepped foot in this country) but my first impression was of magic. When I say that Bruges is a magical, fairy tale town, I meant it, but that only means that Venice is the magic. Venice is the fairy tale. You could probably find a princess in one of these lofty buildings that look like palaces, even if they are only dentist offices or high-rise hotels. You could find the mysterious but handsome prince who turns into a swan by day and waits for the evening when he can turn back into a human and dance under the moonlight. We passed by Miss Havisham’s house from Great Expectations on our way back from the hotel, beautiful and decrepit, ivy choking the iron fence, with glimpses of a garden full of overgrown moss and low hanging trees.
My first real impression of Venice hit me when we finally arrived in Lido, the island where our hotel was located. As we walked down the street, we found fairy lights strung up above our heads, guiding the way. A thick fog fell over Lido that night, and as we walked away from the shops and lights there was only the occasional streetlamp and the moon to illuminate crooked trees and flat rooftops. The streets were desolate and the only sound came from a foghorn that haunted the night. We were essentially walking through the perfect setting for a murder mystery novel, “’twas a dark and gloomy night en Italia.”
The next morning, we went to the local beach and I felt an even greater sense of the sublime, a term coined by the transcendentalist thinkers to mean a feeling of magnitude about the world, brought on by one’s surroundings. The sublime can be both terrifying and enlightening, evoking a sense of wonder that can reflect the nature of mankind or even one’s own soul. We walked along the beach and collected shells, including spiral conch shells, scallop shells in alternating patterns and colors, and smooth white clamshells that looked translucent in the light. The mist still clung to the horizon, but this time the sun was trying to break through, which made the sky a golden haze. I sat on the rocks at the end of the jetty and stared out into the space that was everything and nothing at once. I’ve always loved staring out at the sea and wondering what could be found at the end of the horizon, but in this case it was even more surreal. The water was clear and calm, lapping up against the rocks and blending in with the sky, but the most mystifying part was the fact that it seemed that there was no horizon. In the low visibility, I could barely see where the water met the sky. It was both calming and horrifying, like staring at the end of the world. I realized how far away I truly was from my school, my friends, and my family back at home, somewhere through that fog, thousands of miles across the Atlantic. I know it’s probably terrible to say, but home hadn’t really crossed my mind until then, and even then I didn’t miss the life I’ve left behind for now. In that moment, I was content with sitting on a beach in Venice. This is one of the greatest life lessons I’m learning during my stay in Europe; to just sit back and enjoy the moment, live in the present tense. Carpe diem.
by Michaela W., Staff Blogger
