Post from Tim:
Venice needs little introduction, as all its stereotypes breath in reality - stripe-shirted oarsmen, bow shaped gondolas, graceful canals, historic buildings, romantic accordion music, and labyrinthine streets. But I arrived in summer during tourism's peak season and spent my first day head spun by the incredibly huge crowds. The popular Paizza di San Marco, for example, lures tourists with its beautiful basilica covered in mosaics and marble, but it fills to capacity like Washington DC's mall on the 4th of July or New York's Times Square during New Years Eve. Every day, all day long.
It isn't hard to escape the fray, but doing so requires loads of energy and the ability to walk, walk, and walk some more - you just have to head straight from the touristic areas and not consult a map until its time to go home.
The streets seem to be planned by a Venetian throwing spaghetti onto a cartographer's table - leaving a jumbled maze with unexpected turns and large avenues that suddenly compress down into alleys hardly wide enough for two people to walk side by side. The layout reminded me of a small village Michelle and I visited on a Greek island, where residents designed their streets with a similar chaotic layout to purposefully confuse invaders. But Venice is at least 200 times larger and more complex. Even so, I always ran into a familiar road, eventually getting home safely. And by banging around the city in this unplanned manner, I found the quiet parts of the city where only dawdling old women broke the peace of their neighborhoods.
What I enjoyed most about Venice was its historic decrepitude. The residents can sweep the streets until their brooms fall apart, but nothing will sweep away the years of grunge that cover the sidewalks. Large patches of plaster will continue to fall from walls like bark from old trees and layers of weathered brick will continue to be exposed. Watermarks will stain the walls and continue to blemish the quiet shades of red, yellow, and brown. And while Venice may one day pass laws restricting its residents from hanging laundry over canals, the paint from nearby window shutters will continue to peel and the canal will still be green.
The city was so alive with texture that I felt it with my eyes.
It isn't hard to escape the fray, but doing so requires loads of energy and the ability to walk, walk, and walk some more - you just have to head straight from the touristic areas and not consult a map until its time to go home.
The streets seem to be planned by a Venetian throwing spaghetti onto a cartographer's table - leaving a jumbled maze with unexpected turns and large avenues that suddenly compress down into alleys hardly wide enough for two people to walk side by side. The layout reminded me of a small village Michelle and I visited on a Greek island, where residents designed their streets with a similar chaotic layout to purposefully confuse invaders. But Venice is at least 200 times larger and more complex. Even so, I always ran into a familiar road, eventually getting home safely. And by banging around the city in this unplanned manner, I found the quiet parts of the city where only dawdling old women broke the peace of their neighborhoods.
What I enjoyed most about Venice was its historic decrepitude. The residents can sweep the streets until their brooms fall apart, but nothing will sweep away the years of grunge that cover the sidewalks. Large patches of plaster will continue to fall from walls like bark from old trees and layers of weathered brick will continue to be exposed. Watermarks will stain the walls and continue to blemish the quiet shades of red, yellow, and brown. And while Venice may one day pass laws restricting its residents from hanging laundry over canals, the paint from nearby window shutters will continue to peel and the canal will still be green.
The city was so alive with texture that I felt it with my eyes.