Venice has slain me. After a quick rest in Milan, which included
jogging from piazza to church and ducking pigeons (those rats with wings
are everywhere in Italy), we hit the Inter-City Express to Venice.
Three hours and a thirty minute ferry ride later, we set foot in the
land called, Venezia. Amid thousands of European and Italian
tourists who decided to celebrate the day after Easter Sunday with a in
Venice, I pulled a heavy rolling carry-on toward our hotel. People
crowed into the narrow corridors and wide open spaces of St. Marks
Square. It's amazing the sheer numbers. Not to mention that
there are no cars in Venice; only water freeways and human walkways.
There are streets without names and without cars. Only after wheeling luggage through narrow corridors packed with Europeans on Easter Holiday does the fact settle in. Venice is a city for people; a city for feet; a myriad of crooked lanes that all lead back to water. Come by boat, ferry, or gondola, water instead of interstates move both goods and people in this ancient Italian city.
The sounds of horns are absent and the bells from numerous church domes ring out every hour on the hour. While wandering through unmarked lanes filled with vendors selling the traditional Venetian masks or glass, it's easy to realize that although times have changed the stores, nothing has changed the shape and the presence of Venice. There are houses which have seen the births and deaths of generations. St. Mark's Square, once host to the greatest thinkers and religious figures of Italy, now pays tribute to God and Gucci.
Everyone says that Venice is a city for lovers. I still vote for Paris. No gondola ride can compare with croissant and coffee while sitting at a small table gazing up at the Eiffel tower with that special someone at your side.
