Memoirs of a Floating World

In search of an ancient mariner republic built on the sea in the seventh century, Seiji Komachi washes up on the shores of Venice.

On some mornings, bellboys of hotels along the Riva degli Schiavoni are seen scampering through the lobbies with buckets and mops in hand. An acrid stench sometimes spreads through the cafeterias, where Venetians and seasoned pilgrims enjoy their morning coffee with a brioche, while those on their first visit to the Bride of the Sea clamorously sidestep puddles and surging drainage holes to keep their shoes dry.

It’s one of the many perks of staying at the prestigious Venetian hotels along the prettiest promenade on the floating city, where at high tide, the water rises above the embankment and floods the foundations of most buildings.

Prisoners once incarcerated in the dungeons below ground were more than aware of the tides — stagnant, filthy dampness added to their misery which led them to utter sighs as they were led to their cells via the bridge that became known as the Ponte dei Sospiri (Bridge of Sighs) from where they could have a final glimpse of the lagoon.

Its masterful structure, built in between two concrete towers above a narrow canal, is now on the list of must-sees for travelers. A flotilla of gondolas are usually moored opposite the bridge, ferrying affluent visitors over the waterways small and large that make up the grandest of settlements built on water.

Venice has drawn the eyes of everybody from Shakespeare to Hollywood, and the whole world despaired when in 1996, a fire broke out at La Fenice, the city’s opera house that burnt to the ground leaving only the façade and several chambers unscathed. Even now, a jungle of scaffolding and canvas attest to the restoration of one of Venice’s most venerated structures, and as before, La Fenice (the Phoenix) will likely rise again from the ashes, ironically enough. But while opera may be absent from the city’s agenda, the arts have always held a special place in the heart of Venice.

Handicrafts, from the famous masks to one of the city’s most profitable exports, glass, grace the shelves of every corner store and gift shop on every avenue. Murano, an isle not far from the city accessed by ferryboat, is the age-old epicenter of glassmaking, where maestros commonly divulge the tricks of their trade to the public in exchange for a small tip spent on cigarettes and espressos. Intricately designed horses, angels and earrings
are gracefully pieced together on their tongs and tweezers, an art that runs in each of their families and has made for brittle but beautiful souvenirs.

Meanwhile, masks, some made of papier-mâché, others of clay, are Venice’s other dexterous invention, glamorized in the masquerade of the annual Carnival of Venice and more recently, Stanley Kubrick’s Eyes Wide Shut. Indeed, Kubrick came to this very city to order the masks he utilized in his controversial flick, and the store that furnished them
can be found on a less frequented pebble stone street not far from the Rialto Bridge.

Towering above the Gran Canale (The Grand Canal), Venice’s backbone waterway that divides the city into two halves, Rialto is one of only a handful of bridges that allow pede-strians to cross from one side to the other.

The other options of course are the gondolas or the ferries, since automobiles don’t exist, or private vessels for those fortunate enough to be in the company of rich Italian hosts. At nightfall, the Gran Canale turns into a flowing constellation of flickering lights, reflecting the illuminated buildings on both banks. Couples, families, kings and vagabonds from the world over stroll along the embankment, some-times peering into cafes and bistros, sometimes perusing street side stalls selling miniature masks, woodblock prints and glass ornaments.

As the stores and markets close and street traffic dwindles, Venice’s elite dine in their stately chambers on the uppermost floors of their mansions, with expensive-looking vessels moored to the piers of each. An occasional siren is followed by the splashing wakes of police motorboats, and sometimes even ambulances, whose sleek, gleaming hulls are designed to penetrate even the narrowest of the city’s hundreds of canals.

Fire-works sometimes erupt, and the literati gather at the Caffe Florian, one of Piazza San Marco’s (St. Mark’s Square) oldest and most revered cafes. Plans for a cigarette and a cappuccino there means joining the inevitable queue made bearable by the impressive sight of the Basilica di San Marco (St. Mark’s Basilica), an architectural masterpiece incorporating the Byzantium-inspired designs of the 11th century.

Four bronze horses stand tall above the western façade, brought to Venice from Constantinople during the Fourth Crusade of 1204. It’s a place where waiting in line for coffee might even be a pleasure, so long as the tides don’t rise above the boulders.

Text & Photos: Seiji Komachi