SUBSTACK: Honeymooning in Venice
Ciao punctuations, lots of boating, and the art of turning a dead-end into a piece of magic.
10.16.24 for Absolument !, my Substack channel
The Grand Canal Entrance
Arriving at Venice’s Marco Polo airport is a mind flip of its own. Instead of walking out to the curb to catch an Uber, or hopping onto a train, you’re suddenly in line at a boating dock. I imagined us getting onto an oversized ferry, like the ones I took (and loved) a thousand times while living in Seattle. Instead, we shared a tiny, semi-enclosed, wood-paneled boat with a dozen people. A small girl no more than 8 years old practically sat on my lap. We were in complete darkness for most of the hour-long ride, as it was around 8pm. Eventually, the boat dramatically slowed and we approached the entrance of what I quickly realized was *The* Grand Canal.
While entering the city by boat at night, the Venetian lights doubled as they reflected and danced in the water. There was a particular sound the passenger boats made as they coasted along the water: an eerie hum. The sound echoed and etched itself into the mind. There was a haunting feeling when pairing this noise with the vision of darkened waters, buildings soaked with patina, and empty rooms with peculiar, glass chandeliers. The tremendously age of the city hit us, along with the presence of all of its long-gone people who once enjoyed the same water route. We looked onward at the people along the sidewalks in front of us, some dining with their bodies a few inches from the edge of the stone. The water sat perfectly level to the sidewalk, daring to soak some ankles. Everyone’s movements appeared to be in slow motion—including the pace of our boat—until we reached our Sant'Angelo stop. Our feet met the surprisingly sturdy ground of the San Marco neighborhood and we curved through the silent, narrow streets with our luggage. We saw some spotted street lamps, and even fewer people. Some words of awe escaped us along the way.
Am I already crying in a cafe?
We stepped foot in the cafe for the first time the next morning, and there were a few men standing at the counter in their cropped beige bomber-style coats. Their whitened hair was trimmed almost squarely around them, their bones solid seeming. The emotions that hit me when I saw these brief details turned me to a puddle of mush. There can be so much nostalgia buried in a place you’ve never been. And people can have places stuck in them. My Papa, for example, was so deeply Italian without me paying it any attention while he was alive. This cafe moment was the first time the world confirmed it for me. The string that connected his accent, his hairstyle, his prim clothing, the sparkle in his eyes, the tender version of his masculinity—it was sewn in him from his Italian father. He was born and raised in Ecuador speaking Spanish, but everything about him shouted Italian. I understood this now, and felt water in my eyes while eating my first delicious cornetto with jam inside cafe Marchini Time.