Sisterchicks in Gondolas! (25 page)

To our right stretched the long, open piazza. Two outdoor cafés looked like they were doing a brisk business. The one on the right had yellow chairs at the small tables.
The other café, across from us on the left side of the piazza, had tan, wicker-backed chairs.

Being in such proximity, I guessed the competition between the two rivals had continued for many years. Each had its own “colors” and distinct clientele.

“That café on the left,” Sue told me, as she consulted her tour book, “is the Caffe Florian. Hemmingway used to go there. So did Mark Twain, Charles Dickens, Lord Byron, Henry James and—”

As soon as I stopped recognizing the names of the famous people on Sue’s list, I interrupted her. “Would you mind if we just have a look around and do some of our own discovering?”

She didn’t mind my suggestion. The tour book went back in her bag, and we spent the next four and a half hours being swept along into the nucleus of Venezia with thousands of other tourists. We saw it all. The view from the top of the crowded, claustrophobia-inducing bell tower, the tour of San Marco Basilica’s interior, and a shortened, self-guided tour of the Doge’s palace.

My general impression of it all was, “so much.” There was so much gold. So much art. So much detail in the mosaic tiles, and so much history. We were surrounded by people, by many languages, by more odors and sounds than I could take in.

I was on overload—sensory, emotional, and mental overload.

Sue took it all in. When we returned to Dallas and started to tell our stories, Sue remembered everything about the hours we spent at San Marco Square. I think her heart and mind were so wide open that she had all kinds of space to take in every drop of the experience. I was open but already full of the stuff that had made the trip most memorable to me.

The parts of that day that I do remember are the simple moments. One of them happened inside the basilica. When we first entered, everything in the cross-shaped church appeared dark since it had been so bright outside. Slowly, as our eyes adjusted and the filtered light changed, we saw the details in the tiled mosaics. The atmosphere was different from any church I’d ever been in. It felt mystical. The Eastern-Byzantine influence was like nothing I’d seen in other European churches.

Inside the huge dome was a breathtaking tile mosaic that filled the dome in separate frames, like a movie. The pictures told the story of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. In one of the arches next to the dome was another picture story. This one was of Noah and the Great Flood. The frames were all worked in bright-colored tiles that could have come from Murano.

Two features of that mural captured my attention. One was the image of Noah letting the dove out to see if the land was dry. The releasing of small birds was memorable for obvious reasons.

I pointed it out to Sue, and she nodded and smiled.

The other detail in the portrayal that caught our attention was that the first two animals in line to board Noah’s ark were none other than lions. Lions, lions everywhere.

The actual burial place of St. Mark was difficult to see due to the swarms of visitors crowded around guides explaining in several languages what the tourists were viewing. A marble canopy with carved columns and an incredible altarpiece in thick gold detailed intricate scenes from the New Testament. That part of the tour was just too much for me. I quietly shuffled out and found an open pew where I could sit and reflect.

Sue wasn’t ready to stop until I convinced her we should find some much needed food. We hadn’t eaten anything since our morning baci.

“I don’t want to miss anything,” she said.

To solve that problem, we sat at one of the outdoor tables at the Florian Café so we could watch all the action around the piazza. The big attraction was the unceasing feeding of the pigeons.

Vendors at carts sold small bags of corn for one euro. People of all sizes, shapes, colors, and ages poured the corn into their hands and held them out for the tame pigeons, which perched on the open palms and pecked away as if the birds hadn’t seen food for a month.

“You would think those birds would be overfed,” Sue commented, as we finished our ham and cheese
pannini
.

“They keep coming out of nowhere.” I watched a little boy timidly hold out his handful of corn. He quickly pulled away when the first bird tried to peck a kernel.

“Are you going to make fun of me if I buy some corn to feed the pigeons?” Sue asked.

“No, of course not. I’m going to take your picture!”

After we paid for our late lunch, we strolled across the plaza to where it seemed less congested. Sue bought a bag of corn, and I readied the camera. She sedately poured five or six kernels in her hand and held it out, waiting for a taker. No pigeons came her way.

Two teen boys were standing nearby. In broken English one of them said, “You want birds to come?”

“Yes, do y’all have a secret to get them to come?”

The boys exchanged glances that we should have interpreted as far too mischievous. But Sue was intent on attracting the birds, and I was concentrating on being ready to snap pictures. Neither Sue nor I saw what happened next.

All we knew was that, in one motion, both the boys dashed over to Sue and poured their corn packets over her head. Instantly three pigeons landed on her head and picnicked in her tussled cornfield.

I thought she would shake the birds and seed off her head as quickly as she could. But, to my surprise, she stood there, looking shocked yet saying, “Did you take a picture? Did you take a picture?”

I laughed as I slowly circled her, catching every angle of the birds in her red tree house.

“Jack is never going to believe this,” I said.

“Hey, I’m not believing this,” Sue said with a squeal.

“Sue, if you’re thinking of asking me if your hair looks good in these shots, you can guess my answer.”

“I wasn’t going to ask,” Sue said. “I’m not that much of a birdbrain.”

She laughed so hard at her own joke that the birds flew away. Bending over and giving her hair a good shake and ruffling her scalp, she said, “Your turn. Hand over the camera, and I’ll take some pictures of you.”

I went with the more sedate pose of holding out my palms and had no trouble attracting the rousted pigeons, which came back for the last of the corn. Their beaks tickled as they went for the kernels in my hands. Their smooth gray feathers caught the late afternoon sun pouring over the piazza and reflected a dozen jewel-toned colors. I admired the up close view of the birds as much as all the inlaid gold-, ruby-, and sapphire-adorned works of art we had viewed in the man-made places of worship. God does a much better job of making works of art that reflect His glory.

The feeding of the pigeons was delightful and turned out to be a great ending to our long afternoon in the open-air “living room.” It was one of those touristy things that, as you watch others, you think you don’t want to do. But
once we entered into the experience, it turned out to be a favorite memory.

To cap off our full and fabulous day, Sue and I went in pursuit of what turned out to be her favorite tourist custom. Sunset was approaching. We needed to find a gondola that came with just the right gondolier.

We found him along the waterfront near one of the great columns that rose into the night sky at the water’s edge and guarded the entrance to the Piazza San Marco. A winged lion stood atop the column.

Our gondolier was sitting on a bench with several other gondoliers in front of the lined-up, waiting gondolas. His name was Matteo, and he was the only one of the lot who looked like he was over forty. He was also the only one who didn’t look up at us and grin as we approached. That’s why we chose Matteo. It was a good choice.

He spoke English and understood clearly when we said we wanted to see all we could in an hour’s ride. We told him we didn’t want to go down the Grand Canal like everyone else. We wanted to see his favorite parts of Venezia.

With a respectful nod, Matteo helped us into the padded seats of his carefully detailed gondola and backed up from the dock. Across from us, beyond a span of seawater, was the island of San Giorgio Maggiore, where the men had visited the Benedictine monks. From where Sue and I sat in the gondola, we had a perfect view of the lowering
sun as it tossed a wide, loose knit shawl of golden light across the waters. A shawl to cover dear Venezia.

Matteo steered the gondola down what looked like a main canal opening. He leisurely pointed out the sights: the home where Marco Polo was born; the balcony on the home of Casanova; the oldest church in Venice; his personal favorite seafood restaurant.

“Their specialty is
seppia al nero
. It’s very good.”

“And what exactly is that?” Sue asked.

“Squid cooked in its own ink.”

Sue made a face, and I knew we wouldn’t seek out that restaurant for a late-night snack.

Taking the camera from me, Sue snapped a shot of the restaurant. Then she took a few close-up shots of me. She started to get into the fun of taking pictures and caught several of Matteo, with his steady posture, as he watched the canal ahead of us. This was a man who took his work seriously. We liked Matteo.

“Was your grandfather a gondolier?” Sue asked.

“Yes. And his grandfather and so on.”

“That’s so amazing to me. When did y’all start working as a gondolier?” Sue asked.

“I was seven.” He went on to describe the intense training that included becoming fluent in other languages. Matteo spoke seven languages and had been doing this since he was fifteen.

My respect for the gondoliers rose as we listened to
Matteo. What he did was a dying art. During the winter months, he could go several weeks without picking up a single fare. I don’t know if he told us all this to pique our sympathies so that we tipped him well at the end of the ride, but it worked. We parted with our money willingly. A significant reason for that was the final point of interest he showed us on our circular route back to the dock.

“Ahead of us you will see
Il Ponte dei Sospiri
. The Bridge of Sighs.”

“I read about that,” Sue said.

I gave her a little tap on the leg, motioning that we should let Matteo tell us his version. Sue snapped pictures of the covered passageway that was suspended two stories above the canal. The gray edifice was ornately decorated. Two windows were positioned like two eyes that had their lids closed. This was because the windows were covered on the inside with what looked like a permanent shade that had only enough slits to let in air.

“The prison is on this side. The court in the palace of the Doge is on the other side. When a prisoner was found guilty in the court, he would be taken across this bridge on his way to prison. Here he would take his last look at beautiful Venezia and sigh.” Matteo demonstrated with a deep sigh. “This is why it is called The Bridge of Sighs.”

As our gondola slowly passed under the structure, we looked at its underbelly. Sue drew in a deep breath and let out a long sigh.

I said, “Are you trying to see what the prisoners felt like?”

She shook her head and smiled softly. “I already know what a prison feels like. I’m sighing to see what if feels like to come out of prison and float away, a free woman.”

For the rest of her life, I knew this place, this day, this bridge would be Sue’s bridge of sighs. She was free.

And so was I.

So how do two free birds that are ready for the next season of life celebrate on such an evening? After Matteo helped us out of the gondola, we flitted right over to the nearest gelato bar, ordered big, and said ciao to Mama Venezia.

W
hen, over the years,
my mind wanders back to our trip to Venezia, I still think of her as a woman. In a strange way, I want to grow old the way she did.

Venezia candidly revealed her many sides to Sue and me that short week without once trying to hide her age. We watched her rise to her full height in the noonday sun and smile broadly on us, revealing rows of cracked and yellowing teeth. She blew baci at us from her curved footbridges painted a sweet shade of sienna. At sunset, her most dramatic hour, the Grand Dame stood still and let the sea-soaring birds adorn her faded tresses. On our final night there, Sue and I watched from a gondola as Venezia calmed her indigo waters and, with a sigh, invited strangers to come dance beneath her rising moon.

Venezia always will be a personality to me and not just another European city.

I miss Paolo and his corner café. I miss Lucia with her amber eyes and the way she presented us such gracious offerings of her daily bread. I miss the sound of Malachi’s rumbling voice. I miss our view of the moon and stars from the rooftop.

Both Sue and I miss the water that surrounded us every day and lazily floated under all the footbridges we crossed. We miss the way the morning light changed the deep night waters into white wine colors. We miss the palace and the simple kitchen that had no oven.

And yes, of course, we miss the gelato. We’ve tried imposters in the U.S. that have advertised themselves as “Italian gelato,” but sadly they are all frauds. We know gelato. As a matter of fact, some might consider us to be experts when it comes to Venetian gelato. At least we’re certain we could earn a merit badge in that field.