The sunlight graces
the staircase, exposing the true dirtied face of the stone. I smooth my hand
over the dingy, marble step I sit perched upon, careful to keep my fingers safe
from the swarms of tourists who are making their way up the stairs. I pinch my
eyes closed and try to imagine how the bridge might have looked when it was
first constructed. In my head, I envision the bridge that spans the Grand Canal
of Venice before it became dirtied by the weather and flocks of hurried
sightseers. It is gleaming, the exact way it had seemed to me only four days
earlier when I stepped out from the train station into the blazing June
sunlight, greeted by a symphony of scents and the melodic sounds of the Italian
language.
I pull my eyes
open, back to the reality of the less than perfect stone. Sighing, I lean
against the marble railing and wrap my arm around one of the pillars. Maybe if
I squeeze tight enough I will stop time and stay in this city forever. In front
of my face, the Grand Canal stretches far out
into the sea. Along the horizon I can see ships rocking in the sparkling blue
waves, but peering at the water directly below the bridge reveals this to be another
illusion of this city. Beneath me sits a sickly green bath, heavy with
pollution. I raise my head and peer back out into the horizon. These sights feel
much easier to digest and appreciate when they appear picturesque.
All too soon, my
view is spoiled by the intrusion of fuzzy, black spots. I’ve been staring out
into the sun for too long. I’m forced to look down into the LCD face of the
watch encircling my wrist, time to head back to my room at the hostel. I slowly
stand, smooth out my white cotton peasant skirt, and make my descent down the
stairs. My walk back is deliberately slow. I want to make sure I breathe in and
absorb every last minute of my time in this city. I also want to make sure I
don’t miss out on any last minute shopping finds. One particular store window
catches my eye. Dimly lit, it’s crowded by sinister wooden masks, reminiscent
of Carnival. Unlike the brightly colored porcelain masks sold throughout the
city, these are the hardened faces of animals stained with deep reds, blues and
greens. The oxygen around me seems to lose its potency, my eyes are glued to
the deep black pits in the wood representing the creature’s eyes. A shudder
streaks down my back and my mind is instantly hijacked by the memory of my nightmare from the night before. The one laced with the disfigured faces of those I'm less than excited to greet back in Seattle. I
couldn’t sleep after that dream. Not when tomorrow I will no longer be able to
run away from these faces. I decided
to get up and watch the sun rise instead. Let the glowing sky melt my fears,
flood my mind with the mixing of peaches and pinks on the horizon.
Now, standing in
front of that shop window my mind is a slave to this dream again. I turn and quickly continue my journey back home along the
cobblestone streets. The unintelligible Italian conversations floating out of
the cafes distract me momentarily. I will miss this vacation from English I’ve
enjoyed so much over the past weeks. And I will miss the dark Italian
gondoliers who fill this city in their striped T-shirts, vying for my
attention. All promising me a ride on their particular gondola will forever
change my life. If only their claims were true, I would buy a ride at once and
never again fear returning home.
Back at the
hostel, I drag my feet up the three flights of stairs, past the receptionist
desk where a blooming bouquet of daisies sits. The flowers I bought as an
apology gesture for two nights earlier. I’d realized too late after curfew that
no amount of Italian wine was going to erase my concerns. When the bleary eyed,
dark haired woman finally let me in the door at 3 a.m., she scolded me in broken
English for waking her child. I am not looking forward to problems back in the
states, but I am certainly no longer living in a welcoming environment here in Venice.
Arriving at my
room, I collapse onto the bed, knowing full well that I need to start packing if
I want to catch my bus in time. I want the blankets to swallow me up. If only I
could stay and rest on the bed forever, away from the tribulations at home,
away from the wrath of the embittered Italian woman at the front desk. Instead,
I force myself over to my suitcase and begin gently folding my clothes,
strategically cramming each camisole and skirt into the bag. With my suitcase
zipped closed, I begin to notice music floating through the air of the room. I
walk over to the window and discover it is the notes of a flutist playing in
the courtyard below. People sit drinking their morning coffee, merchants sell
wildly colored scarves, and tourists stream through the center of the open
square, all set to the soundtrack of the flutist’s rendition of “Let it Be.”
I
ease myself onto the bed and let the melody carry me off to happier memories
from the past eight weeks. The blooming flowers of Giverny that inspired the
infamous paintings of Monet, the sweet scent of the orange trees that lined the
streets leading to the April Fair in Sevilla, and the natives rich with wisdom
that I had met in shops, bars and cafes throughout the cities I visited.
Despite my disheartening dream, I know that these vivid experiences and so many
more have taught me for the first time what it means to be alive. I only hope
that these memories and the photographic proof I’ve captured will help me
navigate the seemingly hopeless waters that await me at home.
I shut the window,
creating a much too abrupt ending for the song, but it’s time for me to go. I
carefully lug my suitcase down the three flights of slippery stairs until I’ve
reached the doorway. The sunlight floods in as I yank the door open and step
out onto the stone courtyard. My sunglasses are lowered to shield my eyes and I
suddenly notice that the song of flutist has changed…
“Yesterday, all my
troubles seemed so far away. Now it looks as though they’re here to stay. Oh, I
believe in yesterday.”
My mind is now
swamped with more memories from my travels. Numerous gift shops throughout Europe had sold music boxes playing this infamous Beatles
tune. It was a song I hummed to myself countless times over the past weeks. Adopted as my trip theme song, it encompasses everything
I have reflected upon and everything I have been running from.
There are now
tears hidden behind my glasses, threatening to descend down my cheeks. I head
towards the bus station, letting the notes fade into the background. Once
again, there is Grand Canal and the bridge
that spans across its banks. It stands before me naked, the imperfections
completely obvious. Yet, the green waters and graying stones pronounce the
character of the city and the numerous stories of the people who have enjoyed
its sights and sounds. With “Yesterday,” stuck in my head, I feel acceptance
slowly awakening within me. I see my own life paralleling this scene. Imperfections
abound, but my life is rich with character and charm, and it is very much thanks to the dilemmas that await me on the other side of the ocean.
