There is something soothing about standing on a boat. You learn the way the water reacts to vibrations in its liquid state. The ground feels it too but we aren’t tuned in enough to understand it. We feel it but never have enough focus to think of it. It isn’t like that with water. Its a lot more blatant.
Standing on the Vaparetto, moving away from the view of San Marco square in the evening is a delight. You can’t see the crowd and it looks just as beautiful as it was built to look from this distance. I wish I were leaving Venice in the night. So that whenever I feel a little butterfly in my stomach, I’m not bolting in full daylight’s view. That didn’t stop me.
Zitelle is here. Its a nice short walk to the hostel. Its quiet, perfect for my last night in Venice. I had imagined this day to be a little different. It’s probably better than it could have ever been. An evening of recollections. A sunset on a bridge. A stroll through the crowd to find a secluded pier. A random bunch of smiles here and there.
I think of my day as I sink into my pillow.
I’m back in Kazakhstan. I just got off the lorry. That was a long ride on the back of a truck. My back is numb, my stomach in growling and my head is looking for a soft spot to rest. Its gone from winter to summer in this hypothetical time.
I carry my warm clothes on my back now. The landscape is getting clearer. I walk a few kilometers before I see a friendly looking cottage. I knock on the door. No answer. Then, there is a click from the door. Some one is opening the door. The door slowly swings open.
I’m up. Last few hours in Venice. Its time for a walk to memorize.
The walk ends with some goodbyes to bridges, alleys, canals, buildings and memories. Its a warm yet cold goodbye to a city that is familiar yet, not even slightly. I will come back someday, when I am a different person.
A gloomy walk to the bus station, Tronchetto. Here we go again Calatrava, 4 million Euros and the pedestrians can feel the pinch.
The bus stop by the water. Feet dangling, watching someone miss their bus, fellow procrastinators try to help the distraught.
Time to catch the bus to Roma!
I slip back into sleep.
The cottage door slams shut before I can see who was behind it. I think for a minute. The door flies open and there is an old frail lady with a wonderful smile on her face. I smile back.
A loud voice wakes me out of my uncomfortable sleep. We are in Firenze.
Next time, must visit. I think to myself.
A groggy nap until I’m in Rome.No more visits to Kazakhstan.
Its strange, this city. Rome feels different. It feels familiar but from a distant past.
Floccinaucinihilipilificating 