The Dream

I'll never forget the day that I arrived in Venice. I'd already traveled the UK and Ireland for a whole month and spent over a week in Paris... but none of it compared to the city I'd been waiting for.

We walked from the train station to our hotel, and despite the stomach-churning sleepless journey across the alps, I was awake the moment we stepped out of the station into the stifling sun of a 40 degree summer. A canal was right there in front of me and despite the weight of my luggage, I ran across the square to watch a water taxi arrive.

Crossing stone bridges and trying not to stop at every store in the market, the bustle I hated in London was had a different vibe in the sinking city. Everything was designed to attract and trap the naive tourist and I was excited to be that sucker! I stared through the window of a mask shop for five minutes. I couldn't go in with my luggage, but the beautiful leather masks and the glorious marionettes hanging from the ceiling were drawing me in. I could imagine myself in the beautiful dresses on display, dancing at a ball in masked ball at the height of Venetian glory.

These were my first minutes in an Italian street and I couldn't explain the sense of peace and calm that washed over me the minute I arrived. Maybe it was the lull of lazy gondolas floating upstream at their own soothing pace. Maybe it was the beauty of the scenery, the old buildings with facades that while wearing away were somehow more beautiful for being damaged. My brother thought it was the noise I liked. The beautiful peace of a bustling city with no cars. No engines, no honking, none of the urgency and panic that an asphalt road seems to bring to a place.

The walk to the hotel only took twenty minutes, including the time it took to stop and dream. I hadn't slept and my legs were aching, but I barely noticed. I had been dreaming of canals and masquerades since childhood. I was finally there, with the outrageously high expectations of twenty years of dreaming. I wasn't disappointed.