A search for the 'authentic' Venice

I stood alone, gazing open mouthed at the outrageous city of Venice; my travelling companions had abandoned me, finding the streets too small, the food too expensive and the whole experience rather claustrophobic. We had come to discover authentic Venetians, and found a kind of commercialised theme park instead. Yet I remained fascinated by the history of excesses; of wealth and trade, of gamblers and crime. It remains a lagoon of excess, albeit an excess of tourists.

I felt inexplicably enticed by Venice, to its senseless labyrinth of alleyways that draw you deeper and deeper until you are thoroughly lost, devoured by the city. To the roaming traveller within me this sensation is an addiction; I travel with the hope of getting lost, lost in streets and marketplaces, and lost in new and alien cultures, in the hope, perhaps, of finding myself along the way. So I remained alone on the island city of cobblestones and canals, hoping to catch a glimpse of what the city once was, and never can be again. Venice is a city in decline, it’s sinking and flooding, its population migrating to the mainland; and yet tourists arrive in droves to experience a sort of pseudo reality, to search for the authentic within a city that survives by faking the authentic.

I had heard whispers of a hidden academy, the only remaining school where traditional needle lace making was taught, the technique passed down through generations. I became obsessed with finding the elusive Il Merletto School, imagining their students akin to Bengal Tigers, an almost extinct species fighting for survival; the last of their kind.

I am told their school lies just beyond the tourist Mecca of San Marco and I wind my way toward the square, past shops filled with glittering masques, past gondoliers ensnaring tourists upon bridges, past North African salesmen tempting me with ‘genuine’ designer bags spread out upon their limbs. In the square my senses are overwhelmed by raucous sounds of piano accordions belting out Frank Sinatra, mixed with delighted squeals from eager visitors and the incessant fluttering and cooing of pigeons as they scramble to be fed by tourists.

I duck into a small opening off the square and the sounds are instantly muted, blocked by the thick stone buildings that have stood for centuries. The sudden silence is eerie as the dank, grey alley engulfs me, a musty smell invading my nostrils. I creep further along the alley, my footsteps upon worn cobbles the only sound except my heart thundering as I anxiously await my discovery of a small untouched piece of Venice. My excitement reaches its peak as I step onto the threshold of the school, when abruptly the front door bursts open, a tour of 30 youths emerging chattering animatedly. Crestfallen, I turn away only to realise my search for the ‘untouched Venice’ was a farce. I had already found the true city, even if it was not the ‘authentic’ Venice I had imagined and yearned for.