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AsiAn DrAgon / TRAVEL

It’s bright and dark, crumbling but exquisite, touristy but wonderful. Alan C. Robles explains why he’s in love with

beguiling contradictions

ne fine summer morning in Venice, I was squeezing my way through the crowds on the tight streets of the Ri-alto district. Bobbing and weaving, I found myself behind a stocky, mid-dle-aged German in shorts, striding

along, looking pleased with the world. Suddenly, ahead of him an African boy peeled

himself off the white marble wall of a church and moved on a course to intercept. Calling out, “Signore, signore, special price!”, the boy showed the treasure he was offering — packets of small flat cardboard Mickey Mouse figures that would dance frantically when stood in front of a boombox.

“Nein, nicht Mickey Mouse,” the Germal growled in a low tone so expressive, I could read the subtitles: Kid, anything but that.

The thought that of all the souvenirs anyone would bring home from Venice – a delicate Carni-vale mask, a glittering Murano pendant, even the memory of the first vaporetto (water bus) ride on the Grand Canal – the thought that anyone would pick a dancing Mickey Mouse made me grin invol-untarily.

My smile must have been audible, because both the boy and the German turned around and looked at me. Seeing my face, they both broke out into smiles of their own. The German good-naturedly said again to the peddler, “Nicht Mickey Mouse.” We went our separate ways, walking the narrow sun-flecked streets of my favorite city.

Often, when I tell people about how much I like Venice, I get the feeling from their reaction that I might as well be rhapsodizing about Auschwitz. This has puzzled me, so when I sat down to write this story I made a serious effort to arrive at a logi-cal, thorough explanation for our totally differing attitudes. This is what I’ve come up with:

1. Why I like Venice: because it’s Venice.2. Why people hate Venice: because it’s Venice.Naturally there are details. In fact, there’s a bill

of major particulars I’ve heard from the haters: the city is overcrowded, the canals smell, everything is touristically commercial.

The crowds: They’ve always been and will al-ways be there, though there are less people in winter and spring. When Christopher Hibbert wrote that

“Venice was, indeed, now crowded with visitors at all seasons,” he was describing the year 1361, nearly seven centuries ago. When he further said of Piazza San Marco that “on most days (it) was a disorderly, hurly-burly of a place...,” he was talking of the 1500s.

The stink of the canals: This seems to be some-thing that some people easily detect — I never have smelled anything, apart from the salty odor of the sea. I asked a friend who had walked for days up and down the city if he’d whiffed any fetor. He didn’t.

The touristy image: Yes, Venice seems too gon-dola romantic, too cloyingly sweet, too beautiful to be true. Why is it that no matter where you look, it’s easy to find a postcard perfect scene? Even the bus stops are photogenic. Isn’t it suspicious how the palazzi along the Grand Canal are suffused by a camera-ready gorgeous golden light in the late afternoon? Somebody must have fixed the sun or something, right?

In the 1800s, after Venice was ruined as a trad-ing empire, it reinvented itself as a hugely popular tourist destination. Perhaps this “must-see” reputa-tion grates on some people. They might also dismiss Venice as your great grand aunt’s destination, fit only for turkey-trotting oldsters. Not a happening place for those weary, jaded, endorphin-deprived but hip world travelers whose idea of tourism con-sists of bungee jumping over Angkor Wat out of a helicopter half on fire, piloted by a one-eyed Rus-sian paraplegic.

So why do I like Venice? The romantic English poet Lord Byron said it for me: it’s “a fairy city of the heart.”

My own first visit was frantic. A backpacking student on an Interrail race to see as much of west-ern Europe as I could within a month, I arrived early morning, stayed one night and took the train the next morning for Florence. In one day, I rode the vaporetto number 2 down the Grand Canal, scoured San Marco’s Basilica, the belltower and Doge’s Pal-ace, blitzed through the Accademia museum and the Rialto, elbowed my way through a sea of tourists on the Riva degli Schiavoni, and stood on the Bridge of Sighs. That warm summer evening I stood at Pi-azza San Marco near the Campanile with a throng of boisterous fellow parvenu backpackers listening to the schmaltzy band outside the opulent Caffe Flo-

Afternoon on the grand Canal

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rian play Cielito Lindo. All of us were standing there because we were unwilling to sit down at a table and pay the cafe’s outrageous prices.

It was cramped, it was touristy, it was hot and confusing. It was glorious. I was hooked for life.

It was like being in a lost ancient city risen from the sea, shimmering in the sunlight, encrusted with seaweed, flecked with the slime of antiquity. I was transfixed by combinations of water, stone, and light I’d never seen before; massive solid stone buildings, glinting like jewel boxes, seeming to float delicately on the water. The contradictions were beguiling — Venice was decrepit and exquisite, crumbling and enchanting, bright and dark. It was a dreamlike place of strange shapes, stunning vistas, palaces and ruins, mysterious labyrinthine streets. Up to now I still eagerly watch how an inhabitant walks to the end of an impossibly narrow street, turns and then seemingly vanishes into the wall; later you see it’s

Most people ever go to Venice to do only two things: see Piazza San Marco and then ride a gondola. That works (though I’ve never been on a gondola). If, after finishing off the San Marco mu-seums (don’t forget the Museo Correr), the Basilica, and the Campanile, you want to see more:

1. Use a good map and walk all over. About 10 years ago Magnetic North came out with the excellent “Illustrated Map of Venice.” If you can find it, buy it.

2. Visit the Scuola Grande di San Rocco and Frari cathedral (they are near each other). Make sure to buy the guide-

When in

books to both.3. If you go to the Accademia mu-

seum, invest in a guide that explains the paintings

4. On a late afternoon (around 4:30), if it isn’t raining, take vaporetto number 2 from the Ferrovia, Santa Lucia train station to San Marco. Sit in front.

5. Find your way to the island of Torcello and look at the Last Judgement mosaic on its 12th century cathedral. Rent the audio guide.

6. Eat gelato at Nico’s on the Zattere. It’s right near the bridge around the cor-ner from the gondola builders.

actually a corner of an even narrower street.Back in Manila after that first trip, I read ev-

erything I could about Venice. It was like trying to eat food by looking at pictures. It was years before I could return, but I’ve since come back several times, the latest this year when I was a guide to a close friend who’d never been to Europe. It let me see Venice through the eyes of a first time visitor. I thought: it’s so beautiful, it’s a cliché. Almost like a theme park (something that hasn’t been lost on many: there’s a small reproduction of Venice in Las Vegas, and an incongruous half-sized Campanile standing right here in Manila’s McKinley Hill).

We went to Caffe Florian and had zabaglione. As we sipped the eggnog and sat back contentedly, my friend told me, “I’ll have to work hard so that some day I’ll manage that smirk on your face.” He was referring to the self-satisfied smile I have every time I am in Venice. AD

narrow street: some alleys are even narrower than this

Even the city’s decay is fascinating

a room with a view

Piazza san Marco — the Basilica and the Campanile — at night. napoleon called it “the world’s most beautiful drawing room”

The glorious golden light of a late afternoon in Venice