I try to imagine the initial conversation between the founders of Venice.  Something like, “Hey, guys, I know this area is a bunch of small islands, which are probably sinking, that also flood regularly, and will forever be a colossal pain in the ass to get to and from, and we’ll never eat anything but fish — but hear me out — I’m thinking a city with huge plazas, cathedrals, and boats … boats as far as the eye can see!  Are you with me!!??”  In what must have been a safe zone, where all ideas were welcomed, and with nobody able to kill the individual outright for such stupidity, Venice was born.  

Actually early Venetians sought a way to protect themselves from barbarian raids on the mainland.  The 120 islands, which comprise Venice, seemed easily defendable.  As for the sinking, after the wells were sealed off and the aquifer no longer drained, the sinking has slowed significantly.  

We hoped a 1030 train from Florence and arrived in Venice two hours later.  Breakfast in the station proved exciting.  In true Italian fashion, there appeared to be zero order to it all.  After a few false starts and annoyed looks, we deduced the system and feasted on cuppucini and croissants like hunters must feel after a particularly elusive kill. 

Upon arriving in Venice, and realizing I left my camera battery in Florence, we set out for San Marco Square.  An iPhone would have to do for the day.  Mom kept saying, “One of the peasants now, eh?”  I was not amused.   

Everyone who comes to Venice stares at the boats.  I get it.  You don’t usually see police boats, bus boats, construction boats, taxi boats, and garbage truck boats.  It’s unique.  I remember thinking my first time, “It’s a city bus, but in boat form!” and being mesmerized by the nautical-ness of it all.  While my wife will kill me for saying this, it’s not the boats that make Venice such a cool place.  The Grand Canal and the Rialto Bridge are lovely, but the canals in Vegas (at The Venetian) don’t smell like raw sewage and their “Rialto” Bridge has moving sidewalks.  Rather, wandering the small alleys most intrigues me.  Rather, it’s the land of Venice I love.

So instead of boating to San Marco from the train station, we walked.  You feel wrapped up and protected by the narrow streets, which only allow a seam of sky between them.  You island hop over tiny bridges.  Beyond the next turn is unknowable, but you continue down the path anyway.  Then, suddenly, everything opens onto a plaza with restaurants, shops, kids playing soccer, city life.  It always feels like a surprise.  Then you duck into a narrow corridor and move on.  (In the picture below, you can see a sealed well in the foreground.)

San Marco Square seems to never change.  It’s the same four coffee shops selling the same expensive food with the same bored musicians, whom I suspect are chained to their chairs, playing the same six Italian-ish songs.  Just more selfie sticks than I remember.  And flooding.  When we arrived huge pools of water gently suggested an ominous future.  Scaffolf used to walk on lay in piles, ready for the next inundation.  I love it though.  Being served coffee by waiters dressed as boat captains while people watching, to me at least, is worth it at any price, wet feet or dry.  

We toured the cathedral at the head of the plaza, Basilica San Marco.  The staff required me to check my backpack off-site, down an alleyway, in a make-shift store room of an abandoned shop.  One might question the wisdom of exchanging a bag holding a $40,000 camera (without battery) and laptop for a ticket so I could visit a church of a religion I do not participate in.  However figuring God was on my side (in a generic sense) I gave up the goods.

In truth I love Catholic Churches.  They really nailed the design of the space.  The building’s architecture just makes you believe in God.  How could you not?  How could something so beautiful, commanding such power, harnessing such energy not be divinely inspired?  Just entering the space momentarily causes you to catch your breath, as if personally welcomed by Him by a friendly pat on the back.  

Speaking of nailed, the interior decorating, on the other hand, leaves something to be desired.  Depicting human sacrifice is a choice, not one I would make, but a design choice nonetheless.  Putting this motif everywhere and on every available surface sullies the ambiance.  The Arabs were on to something with geometric shapes and patterns. 

They asked us not to take pictures, so I didn’t.  I sat in awe of the space and gave thanks for the many blessings in my life.  One of which turned out to be my backpack, returned to me with nothing stolen.   

Afterwards we wandered up and down the alleys of Venice and shopped. We never set foot in a vaporetto (boat bus).  I bought gifts for my peeps and stuff for me.  Mom stopped at every window, eyes wide open, as if opening presents on Christmas Day.  She said to me, while we watched a bouncing, miniature, windup gondola dancing back and forth, “Why would anyone want such a thing,” but then, without a hint of irony, said, “I just love these gold fish frozen in stackable, glass ice cubes.”

I hope to make it back to Venice.  I would love to rent a place and stay, exploring the cozy alleyways after dark.  Just a sliver a sky, not too much, so as to not feel exposed, in a city unlikely as it is dissolving into the sea.  

Tomorrow we visit Poseidon.  RBD also arrives tomorrow afternoon.