Venetian Gothic
Venetians are prideful - where God put water they demanded land, and they broke their backs to build the foundations for bone-colored palaces in the slick black mud. But their ambition was man’s folly, and now the salty lagoon reaches up with wet fingers to drag the city back down to its depths.
The vaporetto is not running. The workers are striking, grim-faced as they pass by tourists who anxiously hang off the docks, searching for a way off Giudecca. But this is a strike. You can’t leave.
You stay up late practicing Italian and try to use it in the city. The locals blink back at you. They respond, but in a harsh dialect that you can’t understand. You don’t try again.
Drinking water costs twice as much as wine. You desperately order some through parched lips and the waiter brings back a single bottle for your entire table. You silently savor the three swallows you are given.
Ten pigeons go unnoticed in the campo, thirty pigeons become a nuisance. But then the swarm comes, smothering innocents in diseased feathers.
“You better buy some rain-boots before the acqua alta”, everyone keeps telling you. But you’ve looked in every store and can’t find a single pair, and now the water’s rising.
An Aperol spritz costs two euros and somehow there is always a two-euro coin in the bottom of your purse to pay for it. The bitter liquid is an ungodly shade of acidic orange and it burns your throat when you swallow. You don’t like it. You order another.
The Venetians pull their scarves tighter as the summer heat grows more stifling. You realize you’ve never actually seen their skin, and then you remember this used to be a plague island.
Flower sellers walk through the streets trying to pawn roses. If you ignore them, they’ll nick your skin with thorns.
You’ve eaten so much pizza and pasta that your insides are caked in dusty flour. You’ve heard legends of hidden Asian and Mediterranean restaurants hidden within cramped alleys, but you can never find them. Locals sneer when you ask and give you more carbonara.
“Ciao, bella”, gondoliers croon from the canal in their black-and-white prisoner’s stripes, beckoning you towards their velvet seats with over-wide smiles. You rush past quickly - you aren’t supposed to talk to strangers.
In the daylight San Marco is packed with tourists, but at night they flee to the mainland and the piazza is deserted save for the leering black eyes of masks in shop windows. Sometimes you could swear they’ve moved.
You greet the dogs that run past you on the street but they don’t respond. You try in Italian, but still no luck. You start to think they can’t actually see you.
After dinner you ask for a cappuccino. Spoons clink to saucers and silence falls as everyone turns to stare. The cameriera shakes her head. It’s too late for that. You flinch.
A great, hulking cruise ship slowly passes San Marco. It blots out the sun.
You walk into a lace shop on Burano. The old lacemaker smiles at you with too many teeth. She tries to sell you tablecloths and lingerie. You politely say no. She tries to sell you a burial shroud.
You run for the night boat through the darkness, its lights and engine hum the only sign of its approach. You cannot miss this boat. There will not be another. You will not get home.
The stone stairs into the canal are slick with invisible slime. You’ve seen people slip into the black water. If they come back, they don’t like to talk about it.
The buzz of mosquitoes keeps you up at night. Winter comes and they still don’t die. You wonder if you’re just imagining the sound now - if you’re going crazy - but you wake up with less blood than when you fell asleep.
You stand in line at the Poste Italiane for hours. They call another number, but it’s not yours. It isn’t anyone’s. Your postcards never reach your family. There’s no proof you were ever here.
