I am in that disoriented state, part sleep deprivation, part cultural shock, where I feel profoundly dislocated. I wondered, with all my reading, with all the art I've seen from here, with all the preconceptions that are unavoidable towards Venice, what would I actually experience on arrival. The initial answer—where the heck do I find the vaporetto?
Just steps from the airport bus stop is a sudden view of the Venice of canals and steeply pitched bridges, but I can’t find the boat dock. Two steps in, and I’m already lost. I would approach the news vendor, but his rack of pornography intimidates me. I finally get directions, and board the boat.
The Vaporetti are the city buses of Venice. Old men, women with toddlers in strollers, a gaggle of schoolgirls, the boat fills and empties as we motor deeper into the city. The mom nearest to me spends most of the journey with her head bent over and cooing with her son. Their fingers explore each others mouths.
Then I have to navigate again. Within a hundred feet I am off the map. Nothing on the map matches the reality around me. I even double back to see if I got off at the right stop. I find my hotel down an alley, off a bright plaza, and dump my gear in a room that is plainer than the website seemed to suggest. Lost again instantly, but no matter.
Initial impression. The city is as spectacular as you would imagine it should be. The light on my arrival was milky, a low sun cutting through a hazy sky like through butter, and the buildings along the Grand Canal glowed. I knew it was ephemeral and that I might not see its like again, but I knew I was in no condition to do much with this light except to be stunned by it. Photography in this state of disorientation is nigh useless. It takes about two days when I travel before I can make a good picture.
Already I sense a geographic indicator for Venice. The more carnivale mask shops, the closer you are to San Marco. One of the show windows proudly advertises, in English, “Supplier of masks for Nicole Kiddman and Tom Cruise in ‘Eyes Wide Shut’”. But it is easy to wander down lanes, some so narrow you can nearly touch both sides with elbows outstretched, that have no commercial activity. Then, an espresso bar. This time I choose the tavola, not the counter, and pull out the Palm and the fold-up keyboard, which always gets attention. “Technology!” the barista says brightly.
An old, bent over woman, in a green cardigan and a floral scarf, purposefully walks to the edge of a small plaza with a bag of bread. Instantly, a hundred pigeons swoop down a lane and surround her. She dumps her bag on the stones, then crosses the canal. She has to pull herself up the bridge by the railing, but soon she disappears around the corner and into a narrow lane.
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