Monday Morning Punch

To spend one's mornings in still, productive analysis of the clustered shadows of the Basilica, one's afternoons anywhere in church or campo, on canal or lagoon, and one's evenings in starlight gossip at Florian's, feeling the sea-breeze throb languidly between the two great pillars of the Piazzetta and over the low black domes of the church - this, I consider, is to be as happy as is consistent with the preservation of reason.
-- "Venice: An Early Impression," Henry James

While sipping hot chocolate, Lee Hong and I sauntered along Rio Di San Trovaso - or was it Rio Di San Barnaba? We walked along this tributary that leads to the Grand Canal before. I'm sure of it because yesterday I saw that church just behind the bridge. Was this the church near Campo Carmini? Or maybe it's the one that remained unnamed in our map? I squinted to try and be certain, but the changing light and the reflection on the river played tricks on me.

The scraggly outline of the reflected Venetian houses resembled a map of Venice: Pretty to look at, ever changing, sometimes useful, but more often simply entertaining. Many people say that all roads lead to Rome. In Venice, where some streets were too narrow to walk two abreast, we were never sure where the roads lead to.

"But you will never get lost in Venice," said the lady at a shop called Il Mondo in Miniatura, "because wherever you walk to, you’ll still be on one of the islands in Venice. And wherever you end up in, it's always beautiful."

She has lived in Venice for 20 years, and we believer her. Il Mondo in Miniatura sells marble, hand-painted miniature houses of Venice created by Giovanni Moro.

"That's our most important work," she said as we admired a photograph of the whole town of Venice. "A Japanese company commissioned us to recreate the whole town – 1000 buildings, 400 bridges, churches, towers, and gondolas. They asked us if we can do it, and we said 'no problem.' Of course, it was a challenge, and it took us more than 6000 hours to complete the project and make sure everything is accurate."

She pointed to a miniature yellow apartment hanging on the wall: "That's where I live."

A vaporetto sliced through the reflection, shattering our map. So we kept walking, over another bridge, into another alley, then more bridges and alleys, and eventually – inevitably – we reached the Grand Canal.

I imagined that the water in the canal is the same water that carried those who founded Venice, the barbarians, the Byzantine rulers, and the Crusaders. Their boats went under the same bridges, their children played on the same flooded streets. The Venetian explorer Marco Polo who traveled to China must've returned to Venice via these same lagoons.

I imagined that those who built the grand domes of Santa Maria della Salute a millennium later felt the same sun that we stood under that day. They saw the same sun that shined through the clouds, turning the leaves of the few available trees to pale gold. The same sun created gray shadows and reflections that started dancing whenever the wind blew. On top of Ponte della Accademia looking westward, they saw – as we did that day – the yellow-orange-pink glow of the Salute dominate the horizon as the sun set.

I also imagined that like us, they wondered why this magical part of the day lasts only for a few minutes. Why do sunsets happen so fast anyway? Throughout the day, the sun seems to hang above us, and then early evening, it disappears as fast as it could. Just as when it's at its prettiest – the clouds turn orange, yellow, and purple as it reflects the fading glow of the big orange sphere – it's in a hurry to leave.

But maybe it's not in a hurry to leave. It merely wants to usher in the highlight of the evening. Like many famous performers, the sun gives an encore: After it has set past the horizon, the sun delivers an afterglow. The clouds dim slightly, like curtains coming down the stage, and then after a few seconds – we have to pay attention as this is a fleeting magical moment -- the sky turns bright orange again.

Every evening in late November 1908, Claude Monet and his wife Alice made gondola trips in Venice to enjoy "these splendid sunsets which are unique in the world." In that year, Monet painted "San Giorgio Maggiore at Twilight," a view of the monastery island of San Giorgio, painted from the south-eastern end of Venice. On the right are faintly visible the dome of Santa Maria della Salute and the mouth of the Grand Canal.

Sitting on a bench with my wife, with the San Giorgio monastery standing across the sea of Venice, watching moored gondolas toss about, we saw Monet's painting come to life.

A river taxi unloaded a group in black ties and evening gowns, a group probably on their way to watch an opera. A gaggle of teenagers take turns sitting on the ledge to take pictures of themselves. One stall owner closes for the day; another one beside him opens for the night crowd. Without fail, everyone sneaks a peak to admire the glowing dome across the sea. But really, what is it in Venice that is not to adore?

All canals, bridges, and buildings of Venice demand that a photograph be taken. It is even more so after sunset, yet few people seem interested. Joseph Brodsky wrote that the canals "look muddy green in the daytime, and pitch black at night." It is not pitch black. The canals, like the sky, can be deep blue, and both dance with wild abandon. Household lamps become orange, cool white street lamps turn green.

When the sun sets beyond the horizon, the pigeons go to sleep, the day-trippers go back to their beach resorts, and the tourists retreat to their hotels in Mestre. My wife and I stood in the middle of the square facing Basilica di San Marco. Even travelers like us, who were intent on avoiding the beaten path, cannot ignore the city's grandest public space. The blue skylight hung quietly above us. The square dwarfed both the Romanesque-Byzantine-style basilica and the bell tower to its right. Even the arcaded Renaissance buildings on both sides seemed to curtsy in deference to the square.

Henry James, sitting in front of his favorite Florian café, may have complained that at night there were few people left to watch, except for few stray tourists. Or maybe he rejoiced that finally, Piazza San Marco revealed itself.