Venice is a city that absolutely lends itself to the lost art of strolling.
The dictionary definition is as follows:
To stroll : to walk in a leisurely or idle manner
To my way of thinking there are some additional inflections to "strolling" that are important when qualifying exactly what one means by strolling...
First: there must be no discernible point or objective to the walk other than the walk itself. It is not about a destination or purpose.
Second: the stroll is contextualised by its environment and thus the environment conditions the stroll and characterises it. It might also dictate pace, length and direction but only in an unplanned fashion.
Third: when the stroll turns into a walk or a journey it is time to stop as it is, by definition, no longer a stroll.
So with this mind - or at least later to be recalled and noted - I set off from my hotel for a stroll. I took my camera as it would be remiss of me not to capture one or two aspects of Venice - although this should not be confused with the purpose of the stroll, but instead a by-product.
My eye was looking for shadow. For "chiaroscuro" to punctuate the mystery and majesty of Venice.
My feet took me towards the Rialto bridge but with some effort made to avoid the main lanes crammed full of enthusiastic and chattering tourists. Far From The Maddening Crowds (with apologies to Thomas Hardy)
Mine were the blind alleys and narrow paths, the slight bridges and low roofed "sottoportegi" that at night might be slightly unnerving but that by day provide visual nourishment and mental stimulation - not to mention the odd photograph.
Sometimes I wish I could record or film my strolls - but then the smells and glances would still escape me and thus frustrate further, so memory and imagination suffice.
An old gentleman on a small bridge tells an African street boy where he can find free food. The boy doesn't understand, so the gentleman keeps repeating in Italian, slower and louder each time. Then he has a brain wave and writes the address and area on a piece of paper - pointing to the direction. The boy - who wears a giant, almost comical sized crucifix - nods and smiles. The gentleman smiles and leaves. The boy wanders off in the opposite direction to which the gentleman indicated. An old lady watches silently, half hidden, from a window above the narrow canal.
A run down pizzeria sets up for lunch in a small out of the way square. Jazz plays quietly and the notes waft across the street. Brightly coloured chrysanthemums fill window boxes and their petals flutter very slightly to the jazz notes or perhaps it is the breeze...
Narrow laneway in full shadow is navigated slowly by an old lady with two canes and thick spectacles. She mutters to herself unintelligibly but with some evident frustration and continues slowly on her way. I encounter her 20 minutes later in a cul de sac still muttering and seeming not to register me or recall me.
Young tourists - probably lovers - pass me in an old tiny square in a hidden alley, giggling, smiling, high on romance and adventure. I turn a corner to find a brass door belonging to the home of a painter - his name carefully embossed above his profession and surrounded by decorative stamps. Below is appended a scruffy hand written note explaining where his work can be seen...a lovely contrast.
An accidental press of the shutter button by the market in Rialto produces the best shot of the day. I contemplate buying a copy of Il Corriere Della Sera to brush up on my Italian as I hear an old man request the same journal from a news stand. I decide against it and head to an old trattoria "alla Madonna" to meet with Cesare for lunch.
I drink cold beer and review my snaps and recall the best moments of my stroll, writing some of them down here...
A beautiful hour.
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