Venice, Italy: Beneath the City’s Skirt (cont.)

I entered the maze with a feeling of empowerment. The paths I chose from there were based solely on the number of people I could see down them; I picked the ones with the fewest. Right then left, left then right, over bridges, under porticos, through piazzas. And then suddenly it was quiet. I passed a rundown outdoor cafe, heard no English, and knew I was far off the beaten track. The patrons openly stared at me, eyebrows raised, amused. I walked on, head held high.

On my trip here by train I’d read about the Venetian backlash against tourists. The article I was reading said that the city can be likened to a stage: every gondolier’s flourish an act, every vendor’s haggle done for effect; something I’d certainly sensed upon arrival. But recently, the story had said, the locals had launched an ad-campaign with the slogan “Tourists go home.” Their posters boasted pictures of vacationers being mauled by pigeons and other violent protests. They felt infringed upon. The irony was, of course, that Venice’s economy is dependant on tourism. According to the article, the majority of Venice’s buildings were vacant, pure facade; Venice without the tourists simply didn’t and can’t exist.

With all this in mind, I was suddenly embarrassed to ask anyone for help. I felt like the impostor that I was, infringing on the daily lives of a community. I thought about my home in New York, about how annoyed I get when I have to contend with slow-moving, neck-craning tourists on the sidewalk or worse on the subway, and then I thought about how I would feel if they were in front of my home. I knew my intentions were good; I wanted to see so that I might be able to understand. But as I stood in that back alley amongst the filth of the “real” Venice, I realized I had crossed a line, their line, or perhaps even my own line.

I passed a woman putting out her trash. She gave me the evil eye and slammed her door. I wanted to disappear. Just ahead I could see a tiny bridge that opened up into a Campo. I headed toward it and passed a monk in full regalia. He smiled at me, and I said, “Bona Sera.” He didn’t respond. Over the bridge I found myself in front of a towering cathedral, one of the biggest I had seen so far. It was surrounded by trees and lush foliage. I counted eight different streets that converged here. The sign in front said “Chiasa di San Francesco della Vigna” Not knowing what else to do, I swallowed my pride and got out my map. Except I couldn’t find myself. I couldn’t find the church. I looked up and couldn’t even find a street sign. As dusk set and I began to panic, a man approached me and said in perfect English, “All you need to do is ask if you need help.”

He was nondescript in a suit and carried a briefcase. I showed him the map and said, “Dove?” (Where?)

He looked at me and shook his head. “’Dove,’ she says.”

I was so embarrassed I couldn’t even look up at him.

“Well, you’re off the map,” he said after looking for a moment. “But if it’s any consolation, this is one of the most complicated parts of Venice. All I can tell you is to go in that direction.” He pointed opposite my instinct.

I thanked him and began to walk away, head down.

“You know,” he said. “Venetians are rather nice if you just talk to them.”

It was all I could do to make myself turn around and smile. Following his finger, I wound my way back past the yellowed laundry and the group at the café. And I found myself where I was meant to be, with those gawking at anything that sparkles or shines. But I had seen under the city’s skirt and I was too ashamed to even find luster. Or perhaps the city has seen beneath mine, a woman who wants see the world and is frightened when she finds it.

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