First impressions...
I debark from the plane straight onto the tarmac and squeeze into the shuttles awaiting our arrival. No one bothers to announce where they are headed, but it seems the only choice, so I flatten my body into the minimal available space just as the doors slide close, and grin as I recall why I truly love traveling.
You have to just. let. go.
I grin to myself as young, eager travelers push right up against me until they can snake their way forward in line. As a trio of feisty old women hustle me aside and confuse the sleepy counter boy by rapid firing their breakfast orders in three different languages. As the immigration officer threatens to arrest me if I overstay my visa, but breaks into a grin when I tease back instead of shrinking. I grin as I resist the strong temptations of my stomach, overjoyed at the sight of the food behind the glass.
It's easy to get trapped in your world, your way of life, and find yourself believing it's the only way, but two minutes into another world and I'm so happy. Even being jostled about, looked at annoyed for my lack of Portuguese, sleep deprived, hungry... I'm still overjoyed to be here.
I'm doing this.
I would precede those words with "I can't believe", but I can. I always knew this would come, some plans just take longer to bring to fruition.
Two minutes on the ground...this was the right choice for me. Fuck. Yes.
Fresh off the plane and reunited with my mom, she pulls me - with gentle, jet lagged resistance - to the subway platform and out into Rome. Stepping off the train and into the presence of such a wonder as the Colosseum, I get another burst of energy and want to see alllllll the ruins. In time. For now we fade into the hoards of gawking tourists, cameras in hand, and walk along the plaza, making our way to Fontana di Trevi, drinking in the teeming life of Roma and the wonders it holds.
We weave back and forth through traffic, amid honking horns and seemingly close calls. My mom leans forward to confess to the driver, in Italian, "I don't understand the rules of driving here."
"There are no rules!" he exclaims, and I chuckle to myself in the backseat. Yeah, makes sense.
We shiver on the platform a while, chasing patches of sunshine, and finally board our train, off to Venice.
It's incredible.
As soon as we arrive, we plant ourselves on the steps outside the station to breath it in.
Remember to move slowly. Remember to appreciate.
Eventually we make our way to a "bus" stop and board a large boat, winding our way down the Grand Canal for 45 minutes. It could have taken twice as long, I wouldn't have cared.
Venezia was not somewhere I expected to love so completely, but everywhere I turn, I find something beautiful. Worn...decaying...majestic. Living ruins.
Observing the city as we float by, I'm filled with something I can't put my finger on...wonder...amazement...contentment...joy...belonging. Each narrow, twisting alley or building of flaking stucco and timeless architecture calling to me.
Church bells bring in the morning as light creeps through the curtains and onto the landing I rest in. The first stirrings of daily life can be heard downstairs and soon the inviting smell of warm bread wafts to the floors above.
The dork in me is happy as I explore the Piazza San Marco. Aside from the gorgeous buildings and rich history, this is also the Piazza in which the opening scene of the Italian Job takes place. Ridiculous, I know. But to walk through, in real life, something I have watched and loved for over a decade, is, well....pretty cool.
In the evening, we attend a concerto of arias from select operas, during which chills run through me for an hour straight as rich voices fill the chambers of the old Doge Palace Prison, with beautiful piano accompaniment, played on a piano gifted to the palace by Adolf Hitler...the intricacies of history are fascinating...
We make our way to Burano, a tiny wonderland of brightly painted houses, shops of lace, beads of glass, and picturesque moments left and right. This lovely place is a small island near Venezia, kept alive by fishing, lace-making, and tourism. And it's dying.
We see a house for sale here and the temptation, though fleeting, is rather strong. I could live in this colorful paradise, where the days are crowded and noisy, but the nights are quiet and peaceful, as all the tourists flood home at once. I snap a picture of the sign and number...just in case.
"Fancy seeing you here!"
I glance up from my seat on the steps to find myself engulfed in a circle of faces starring down at me, smiling and expectant. My confusion takes only a moment to subside before I return their greeting with a grin. We shared a table on the train to Venice just days ago.
"Hello! Good to see you! How in the world did you spot me?"
"Honestly," the husband responds, "I recognized your pants and then realized I knew you!"
Shared laughter.
Traveling is a different, but lovely, world.
After many boats, many steps, and many coffees...we're beat. Set to buy a pizza and return to our room, we make our way slowly home. Venice, however, has other plans for us, as we unwittingly stumble upon a block party/neighborhood benefit to raise money for the emergency fund. And when Venice throws you into a party...well, you order an Aperol spritz, listen to Italians belt American songs, two step in the street while the locals look at you like you're crazy, and you stay. Obviously.
Because you're here to experience.
I debark from the plane straight onto the tarmac and squeeze into the shuttles awaiting our arrival. No one bothers to announce where they are headed, but it seems the only choice, so I flatten my body into the minimal available space just as the doors slide close, and grin as I recall why I truly love traveling.
You have to just. let. go.
I grin to myself as young, eager travelers push right up against me until they can snake their way forward in line. As a trio of feisty old women hustle me aside and confuse the sleepy counter boy by rapid firing their breakfast orders in three different languages. As the immigration officer threatens to arrest me if I overstay my visa, but breaks into a grin when I tease back instead of shrinking. I grin as I resist the strong temptations of my stomach, overjoyed at the sight of the food behind the glass.
It's easy to get trapped in your world, your way of life, and find yourself believing it's the only way, but two minutes into another world and I'm so happy. Even being jostled about, looked at annoyed for my lack of Portuguese, sleep deprived, hungry... I'm still overjoyed to be here.
I'm doing this.
I would precede those words with "I can't believe", but I can. I always knew this would come, some plans just take longer to bring to fruition.
Two minutes on the ground...this was the right choice for me. Fuck. Yes.
Fresh off the plane and reunited with my mom, she pulls me - with gentle, jet lagged resistance - to the subway platform and out into Rome. Stepping off the train and into the presence of such a wonder as the Colosseum, I get another burst of energy and want to see alllllll the ruins. In time. For now we fade into the hoards of gawking tourists, cameras in hand, and walk along the plaza, making our way to Fontana di Trevi, drinking in the teeming life of Roma and the wonders it holds.
We weave back and forth through traffic, amid honking horns and seemingly close calls. My mom leans forward to confess to the driver, in Italian, "I don't understand the rules of driving here."
"There are no rules!" he exclaims, and I chuckle to myself in the backseat. Yeah, makes sense.
We shiver on the platform a while, chasing patches of sunshine, and finally board our train, off to Venice.
It's incredible.
As soon as we arrive, we plant ourselves on the steps outside the station to breath it in.
Remember to move slowly. Remember to appreciate.
Eventually we make our way to a "bus" stop and board a large boat, winding our way down the Grand Canal for 45 minutes. It could have taken twice as long, I wouldn't have cared.
Venezia was not somewhere I expected to love so completely, but everywhere I turn, I find something beautiful. Worn...decaying...majestic. Living ruins.
Observing the city as we float by, I'm filled with something I can't put my finger on...wonder...amazement...contentment...joy...belonging. Each narrow, twisting alley or building of flaking stucco and timeless architecture calling to me.
Church bells bring in the morning as light creeps through the curtains and onto the landing I rest in. The first stirrings of daily life can be heard downstairs and soon the inviting smell of warm bread wafts to the floors above.
The dork in me is happy as I explore the Piazza San Marco. Aside from the gorgeous buildings and rich history, this is also the Piazza in which the opening scene of the Italian Job takes place. Ridiculous, I know. But to walk through, in real life, something I have watched and loved for over a decade, is, well....pretty cool.
In the evening, we attend a concerto of arias from select operas, during which chills run through me for an hour straight as rich voices fill the chambers of the old Doge Palace Prison, with beautiful piano accompaniment, played on a piano gifted to the palace by Adolf Hitler...the intricacies of history are fascinating...
 |
| She found Waldo... |
We make our way to Burano, a tiny wonderland of brightly painted houses, shops of lace, beads of glass, and picturesque moments left and right. This lovely place is a small island near Venezia, kept alive by fishing, lace-making, and tourism. And it's dying.
We see a house for sale here and the temptation, though fleeting, is rather strong. I could live in this colorful paradise, where the days are crowded and noisy, but the nights are quiet and peaceful, as all the tourists flood home at once. I snap a picture of the sign and number...just in case.
"Fancy seeing you here!"
I glance up from my seat on the steps to find myself engulfed in a circle of faces starring down at me, smiling and expectant. My confusion takes only a moment to subside before I return their greeting with a grin. We shared a table on the train to Venice just days ago.
"Hello! Good to see you! How in the world did you spot me?"
"Honestly," the husband responds, "I recognized your pants and then realized I knew you!"
Shared laughter.
Traveling is a different, but lovely, world.
After many boats, many steps, and many coffees...we're beat. Set to buy a pizza and return to our room, we make our way slowly home. Venice, however, has other plans for us, as we unwittingly stumble upon a block party/neighborhood benefit to raise money for the emergency fund. And when Venice throws you into a party...well, you order an Aperol spritz, listen to Italians belt American songs, two step in the street while the locals look at you like you're crazy, and you stay. Obviously.
Because you're here to experience.
Comments
Post a Comment