The dark, silky, smooth waters of the canals are silent now, only a few late boats are disturbing the lights that are dancing in the rhythm of the waves. Where there were armies of city guests, only a few hours ago, clucking happily excited about everything and nothing, now only the locals and the (not so few though) night crawlers of touristic persuasion are to be seen, slowly parading the centuries old worn narrow streets, stairs and bridges. La Serenissima is tired, but doesn’t fall asleep.
I am sitting on the stairs of a small pier, with feet dangling over the water. The heat of the day has dissipated, but the humid, warm air makes my shirt cling to me like a second skin. The presence of a certain breeze is most welcomed, although it brings smells and hints of a city that has overstretched itself. Not really unpleasant, but I am assaulted by a mixed wafting of cooking, stagnant waters, diesel fumes, human waste, rotting wood and some others, which I could not (and would not want to) identify. I am in Venice, and Venice is telling me to either like it or leave it. I am staying.
I can almost hear Venice yawning, and the gondolieri are no different; their service has slowed down to an almost halt. The gondolas are moored very near to each other, and are tugging at their moorings like a small herd of playful horses, wanting to go and run over the waters of Venice, their prairie. Near the pier where I sit, a few gondolieri are burning the midnight oil, singing a sad song, about a girl who drowned herself in the canal, because her parents would not allow her marriage to a handsome gondolier.
They say his shadow can still be heard in dark nights, running his black gondola, draped in black velvet, looking for his lost love. I’ve no idea if the song is for them or for the tourists, but it doesn’t matter really, it’s beautiful. Theirs is a company of trade secrets, apparent romantic occupation, and the recounting of old legends in hushed, grave tones is always a bonus for the people who enjoy riding in their beautiful boats.
On my way back to the hotel, I kept looking at the black waters and the shadows that were crawling from every corner or alleyway. I wish I had the talent to catch these, and of course I also wish I had my tripod with me. Farewell, Venice, it was nice to find you the same old magnificent lady called La Serenissima. And I am glad that you talked to me. Your silent words were heard and understood.
All photographs were taken with Nikon F3, and Ilford HP5 400 @ 1600.