Ciao a Tutti!: Venise: Graceful and Beautiful Decay

1. Bridge of Sighs Yonder

And so, we went to Venice! The three-day trip was mostly a relaxing stay in a city of beautiful spaces, spaces that leave the tourist both at peace and unnerved by the idea of living surrounded by water on all fronts.

Here's an example of collective confusion: one student was not feeling well. Without giving you details, Urie and I (with the student, of course) left our hotel past midnight to find the hospital. (Yes, there is a hospital somewhere, but don't ask me where. As the concierge of the hotel told us: "You take a left, over the bridge, then you get to a fork, take a right and then a left."

He was sadly mistaken, in his instructions and forgot to mention the extra ten other bridges, the many more turns and the fact that the hospital's facade is that of an old convent.)

However, we finally found the place, and after another sordid amount of corridors (minus water this time), we ended up in the waiting room, quite aptly called by this name, as we ended up WAITING for more than an hour before seeing another soul. Had our emergency been great, we would have had time to die 7 times 7 before we were seen. Urie, by then, had fallen asleep on a row of chairs, and I was remonstrated by a nurse who came, NOT TO HELP US, but to plug her phone and charge it, and to scream at me and tell me that Urie needed to stand straight in his chair. Forget that he might have been the patient; he needed to stand to attention. Italians have little patience for our informal ways.

The doctor, when we saw him, was charming and gave the student what she needed to feel better. We made our way back to the hotel and finally went to bed at 2:30 a.m. Meanwhile, another student had gone to the reception area (the only place where we could access wi-fi) and was told by the receptionist to go back to bed; that the only reason he was up was to wait for the "teacher's" return from the hospital. Students, who knew that Urie had run a fever the whole day, were certain that he was having problems and that our visit to the emergency room was prompted by his illness. Not so; Urie's presence was only dictated by my need of a human GPS.

Other than this little nocturnal adventure, we spent time in San Marco, in the Palace of the Doge, visited the prison of the Doge's palace, and took a tour of the Venice tourists usually never see. Passed the church where Vivaldi was baptised--every other church plays the Four Seasons every single night; saw the Greek quarters and the Jewish quarters, visited the Peggy Guggenheim's Modern Art Museum, etc. It was a very busy three days, but Urie and I enjoyed it. Here are a few pictures of our time in the north-east of Italy:

2. San Marco's Church

2. Palace of the Doge

3. Every Man Is an Accuser

4. Leaning Tower

Hercules and the Pigeon

Some of the Doges

Prison

Canal

More of the Same

The above pictures are a few from hundreds I took. San Marco needs no further explanation (google it if you want to know more, or wait for my return!). The interior of the San Marco Church is decorated in mosaic, with a strong Byzantine influence, Some of the works of art were quite beautiful.

The palace of the doges was intesresting, The doge was neither god nor king, but a lay leader who received a crown for his reign and wore papal robes. Through a complicated electorate system, whoever became the doge was "it" for as long as he lived, and remained in power unless found to have done unethical business.

Gondoliero

The position was a military one, but one much more dignified than that of a General or anyone in the armed forces. The position could not be passed on to a next of kin, but rather the election process started all over whether the doge had been in his position for one day, one year, or one hundred. (1,600 names of venerable Ventians were put in the urn, of which 30 were chosen, from the thirty, the number was reduced to 9; these nine would then select an additional 40 names, who through a voting process, would select 12 among the 40; these 12 would swell their ranks to 24, to then eliminate and add to their numbers until, eventually, one was chosen from these never-ending multiplications and divisions of potential doges. I cannot quite recall the formula.

Napoleon Resided Here.

The result, however, was an election free of cheating or of payments for a secured spot, as the papal Borgia was known to have done in Rome. The doge was respected.

Another interesting political move was to accept from citizens any complaint they might have had about neighbors or friends. If someone had been somewhat insulted or affronted by someone else, the victim could write a letter signed by two witnesses, accusing the perpetrator of said crime. The doge and a jury would hear all witnesses and deliberate on a punishment, However, if it was found that someone had falsely accused someone else, the accuser would be meted out the punishment reserved for the victim of the accusation. In this way, one would have to think twice before pointing the finger.

Casanova (played by Heath Ledger years ago in a movie by the same name) was a victim of accusations regarding his philandering ways. The accusation boxes were similar to the one in picture 3 and were found throughout the city.

Sunset over Venice

Urie and I had decided to go to a concert, but needing to catch up on sleep, we thought we would be just as well served by listening to the Four Seasons on YouTube (not withstanding we had packed lightly and didn't have "concert worthy" outfits). We went to the grand canal and took pictures of birds and sunset instead. The next day was reserved for art.

When it comes to modern art, I have to say that I like very few pieces of it. My pragmatic nature prefers realism to what I would consider soul-less blotches of paint. The Peggy Guggenheim museum of art is one of the top five attractions in Venice, and I was glad to have seen it, but I can easily say that it is a once-in-a-lifetime experience with an emphasis on the "once." Acutally, I might have appreciated it better, if I had not had my big adolescent of a son breathing down my neck and sputtering his anguish at having to look at one more room of art "he could have painted himself."

Don't Remember but Liked

There was a Jackson Pollack exhibit while we visited, and my favorite of his pieces was actually the old cans of paint he used ages ago (as seen above). Not a painting, but rather the remains of a painting day. I found that easier to connect with than the actual paintings he did (none of which were taken in photos, though we were allowed to touch one and "connect" with it. It was rugged and grey. The end.)

Of the museum's pieces, I enjoyed a few, most of them painted by French artists. Does my blood recoignize our shared origins? I know not, but every time, it was with a shrug and a nod that I saw the French titles and felt slightly more at home. Otherwise, there was an array of works by Rothko and others that I found interesting. (Ms. Guggenheim's daughter had a room dedicated to her art, most of it a bit clumsy; but her story was nonetheless touching and her mother's love crushed by the loss of the daughter.)