All this rain makes Venice the land where water both rises and falls. The seas get deeper and stones, on ancient landfill, slowly sink. Yet Venice still is so special. Everything here revolves around boats. Everyday plans, even dinner reservations, need a tide schedule to insure dry feet getting to and from the dock. The bells signal a warning and portable raised boardwalks assist the nautically challenged during the highest of tides. There is also the factor of 20 odd centuries of ooze coating the ill-circulated canals. A dinner table by the water might look good at high tide, but at low, you would be willing to pay a little extra to sit away from the odoriferous canal. Nevertheless, a singularly unique city and way of life.
Venice reminds me of some famous old movie siren. A beauty remembered from the past, one that always remains in the mind's eye as the face and body pinned up inside a gym locker. Beauty, with the riches and rumors to fill out the image, and the imagination filling in what details the airbrush had left fuzzy. Meeting her in later flesh, you can still see what magic there was, but the ravages of time and a poor building site, have left the old girl, while still awesome, just a little pitiful.
Gone are much of the riches that turned a third century swamp into a gold-gilded maze of palaces and blue waterways. Gone too are many of the residents, leaving the aged stone to be patched by fewer neighbors, and despair from the taxpayers who pay to repair the rest. As I too live on an island made of landfill, it is best to remember that it is still Mother Nature who decides what man can build, where, and how long it will remain. Be it quick like Pompeii, or a slow, drawn-out affair like fair Venice - the end is inevitable just a matter of time. (Note for return: renew flood insurance.)
Rain yesterday too, and Jean and I think about heading to warmer climes. But worldwide weather is fickle with Nino or Nina everywhere and clothes are running low. Laundry won't dry in this humidity, and in spite of the European facilities* (who won the quiz?), we need to think of others who may have to share our transport. My faithful walking shoes are self-destructing, Jean just can't find the perfect black leather Italian purse, and Stanford has started to dribble. So, it is with full tummies and empty money belts that we wait for a boat to the airport and home.
These old money belts were new when we started our lives traveling together, and they tell the tale of our two natures. I first adjusted mine to fit, and then cut off the excess length with no thought that I was ever going to have a middle-aged middle. Jean, always one to hedge her bets, has kept the extra 10 inches of strap, duly tucking it in every time she puts on the old garment, and has yet needed to adjust the strap. On the other hand, as a Scotsman's purse, mine is seldom opened and is in as-new condition. Jean’s is worn out.
- Rodericcio Returnedo
Post Script
Like every new travel destination, the Italy of my expectations was more and different than what I found. Writing these dispatches has made me ponder things I would have missed were I younger or needed more sleep - or had fewer friends. Thanks to those of you for reading and especially the replies. Worst thing about travel, by far, is missing family and friends. Email now eases that problem. To those who, by now, delete or block all emails from RodOnIsle, I am glad to know you have a real life. (But you didn't read down this far anyway so screw you!)
And the answer to the quiz:
Why do backpackers prefer European style hotels?
Laundry facilities!
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