"Blogging isn't journalism, it's graffiti with punctuation."

>photo blog #4

>christine’s mediterranean extravaganza: the fourth stop, august 16-19, 2005

VENICE
(take note of the brilliant colours in these photos, compared to the solemn greyness of the previous three cities)


i met rana, kirstie, and jen at my hostel (all canadians, we was), and we ate lunch at pizzeria trattoria da ivano, right next to the green water that reflected acqua on our ankles.


we spent the day together, marvelling aloud, “i can’t believe people live here, those lucky fucks.”


and if venice is sinking, i’m going under …


. . . it’s beauty is religion, and it’s christened me with wonder.



doesn’t it look like a huge hand from the sky is reaching down to snatch that boat?


you can see the ottoman influence in the building’s design. and the reflection off the water was loaded with secret musics.


the famous piazza san marco, with the ancient bell tower, the 12th century basillica (in which i screamed “fuck off!” before storming out), and those cocky pigeons.


we all piled into the gondolla, and naturally of course, broke into a cacophonous rendition of “like a virgin.” the only things we were missing were a man in a lion-mask, and pop-up-video bubbles.


the quiet lapping of the crystal-green water against the ancient casanovaesque homes silenced us pretty quickly.


i’m somewhere in the shadows of this photo, but take note of our gondolier, singing an italian opera, and actually wearing those stripped gondolier shirts.


the colours of the grand canal … emerald greens and azur blues with a sun-heat that tickles your skin. i’ve never seen anything so naturally beautiful.


the gondolla slips are as classically ancient as you would dream, and the ottoman façades that echo your voice are as intoxicating as you would hope.


in a solitary moment, the owner of pizzeria trattoria da ivano offered me a jug of free wine. even though i’m not a big drinker, i figured that even if i horked on the shit, i was gonna gulp it down for him and his kindness. i teetered home wretchedly tipsy that night.


the pigeons in piazza san marco, fearless, brave, and in control, will eat right out of your hand like ravenous wolves (take note of the pigeon shit EVERYWHERE).


of course, after so generously bonding with my feathered friends, they decided my shoulder was the perfect place to poop.* sigh.*


i could have stayed put in this quiet cobblestoned thoroughfare for the rest of my life.


hours before my train sped out of venice, and the night enveloped me like a worn old blanket, i decided to dunk my feet into the depths of the grand canal … just to say i’d done it.

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