An almost non existent breeze still managed to find its way all the way from the piazza into the café. I leaned back into the velvet-upholstered chair and observed the wall paintings as I waited for my order to arrive. Beautiful men and women sitting on clouds draped in deep colours of red and blue surrounded me. Golden candelabras were lighting the room, even in the depth of summer. Heat was radiating out from the room as well as in from the piazza. Nowhere was safe.
A waiter came with a silver tray balanced in one hand and a soda streamer in the other. The white ice cream topped with a lemon sliver was already melting, but so was I so I couldn’t blame it. The waiter gave the streamer a shake, sprayed some of the water over the ice cream and put the hand-blown glass bowl down in front of me. Well, you can’t be in Venice and not eat from hand-blown glass I guess.
I was sitting at Caffé Florian on Piazza San Marco, strictly speaking the only piazza in Venice. The rest are apparently called campo. An orchestra was playing music out in the square and an extra 6 euros have been added to my bill, my contribution to the music which I could not escape however far into the café I ventured. As I watched the orchestra through the large open window I wonder how much has changed here since Goethe himself was sitting here. Judging by the look of it at least the décor remain intact, and the tourists are certainly no new concept in Venezia. Although, I presume that any orchestra then would have played less Sarah Brightman. With my beautifully sparkling lemon gelato consumed I open up my book and continue tracing my travelling companion. Goethe’s Italian Journey.
