One pigeon, two pigeons, three pigeons. Saint Mark’s Square is crowded to the point that the pavement is a sea of shoes. A skyline of straw fedoras and lacey parasols contour the horizon as far as the eye can see. Here, right now – it is not the place I long to be. The chaos and heat burden my already congested mind, a mind that lately has been wandering carelessly, aimlessly. Is there ever an end goal in the acts of mind wandering and daydreaming? To most they may seem an exercise in futility; to me they are what keeps my magic resonating through my days, spreading far and wide like the circles that a solitary skipping stone imprints on the surface of a still lake. The circles aimlessly wander, too, yet they exist in their own right as something which simply is. Mind wandering’s aimlessness is its raison d’ être.
Silly as it may seem, there is a method to my meandering madness, a scope to my wandering in wonderment, and that is to break free from the crowds and meditate on the poetic beauty of this decaying, precarious, and undoubtably most captivating and chimerical city built on water and quicksand, not destined to last but still standing nonetheless. I want to meditate in solitude, in the sun, in Venice.
One vase, two vases, three vases. I reach the island of Murano, where the swirling patterns of kaleidoscopic blown glass artifacts repose neatly in shop windows, humming in their slumber and occasionally gawking at the unsuspecting tourist. These objects have a lifelike quality to them, possibly due to the way they catch and reflect the sunlight, projecting colorful dancing shapes on otherwise bleak walls. A whirlwind of hues takes over my senses, and I feel swaddled in blankets of crimson, cerulean, emerald, and gold, floating in and out of a dream state, skating down the bow of a rainbow as I pass by these vases, platters, and jewels.
One bridge, two bridges, three bridges. Torcello is an islet hosting 10 inhabitants, a canal, and a row of farm-to-table restaurants. Hemingway frequented it in its heyday for an occasional stay and indulgent meal. I can’t help but wonder what thought he may have jotted down on his diary while sojourning here, and how different Torcello must have looked at the time.
An unusual, unfriendly bridge beckons me over for a closer look, and I approach with surprising slowness and weariness. There is something unsettling about this odd construction, but I can’t say what with precision. Careful not to lay my feet on the steps leading to its summit, I lower myself down to my knees searching for a flattering angle to photograph the bridge. As if under hypnosis, I snap one then another with shaky hands and nervous reverence, not knowing why I feel the way I feel, nor when I feel the way I feel. Time ceases to move forward, time resumes its race, time is lost and wasted like the water flowing under this bridge of dread. I feel fear but pull forward and leave the inhospitable yet tremendously seducing bridge behind me. I sense that I’m being watched and escorted along this path along the murky canal.
In a corner under a canopy of lime green grapevines, we sit quietly at a round table, biting into the freshest, sweetest tomatoes our mouths ever had the pleasure to devour. These tomatoes I speak of are no regular fruit. These tomatoes are sinfully divine in their intoxicating sweetness. Ristorante la Taverna Ponte del Diavolo, which I am being told is named after the unfriendly bridge, “the Devil’s bridge.” These tomatoes are the absolute sweetest we’ve ever tasted.
A heron glides onto the salty water surface and, wasting no time, catches her prey. She stands immobile, unperturbed, perching on one leg in the salty canal, while the fish succumbs and the water flows. Not caring about pain, agony, ensuing death, we continue to voraciously eat. These tomatoes are indubitably the sweetest we will ever savor – indulgent, opulent, sinful like this city on salty waters.
One bell toll, two bell tolls, three bell tolls on the island of San Giorgio. The alleys are empty and eerie when the surrounding buildings begin to cast a shadow from the setting sun. Many shapes come to life on the still golden lagoon water, their secluded performance reserved to the acute eye of a curious and attentive seer. The shapes form the same infinite spirals and patterns that I’ve seen on the glass vases.
A small crowd of locals gathers in a humble tavern where politics and sports ought to be diligently discussed with a side of tapas and companion beverages. I sit outside on the edge of an aged cask, sipping on a Negroni and watching the dissipating orange hues making way to violet skies. I slowly drown myself into a dazzling daze to the sound of steady waves, dreaming of twilight dreams and Venetian mosaics dancing under the setting sun.
One thread, two threads, three threads. Burano is the island of minutely crafted doilies and laces, stitched together to form bath linens, table cloths, and artisanal items of clothing. For centuries, women on this isle have been patiently arranging paper-thin cotton threads into eye-catching labyrinthine patterns. “No, thank you very much, I shall not buy that. I have simply been looking to get an iced coffee in the sun”, I say to the shop attendant.
The buildings all around me are a dashing cacophony of clashing colors that, somehow, play a most harmonious symphony. Their music recedes in the background as I turn the corner to reach the opposite side on the landing no more than 700 feet away. I hear crystalline children’s laughter and refreshing splashings of water, the sounds of old-fashioned summertime fun in inflatable plastic pools, out in the courtyard, out under the sun. I walk by the youths as I take in the scene, reminiscing about the sounds of my own childhood and being catapulted back 30 years.
I walk 30 years into the past, 60 seconds into the future, and around a 90-degree angle. A corner. It’s right here in front of my eyes, the corner bar I have been looking for the entire week. The corner bar where I want to meditate on the essence of Venice and sit in solitude with a simple iced coffee. I recognize this place with the lonely table in the sun from my meandering visions. “Hi, may I please have an iced coffee?”
