Most people are quite happy if they are able to live their enire life without a dirty flock of pigeons descending upon them in a crazed scrabbling of beaks and flapping wings. Pigeons are not considered a noble bird, at least your typical filthy city pigeon (perhaps the valiant carrier pigeon salvages some grace for the species). They wallow in putrid rainwater and eat crumbs of garbage. Their main purpose, as far as I can tell, is to provide merriment to the small children who endlessly chase after them.
All this goes out the window as soon as you set foot in San Marco square, the main gathering location for tourists, and – consequentially – pigeons.
Common sense regarding potential disease or what the bird has most recently walked in is ignored as people – most likely intelligent, nice, and in most circumstances normal people – line up to purchase bags of birdseed. For what purpose? Why, to hold in their hand, of course! And what do you think happens when someone holds birdseed in each hand, in a square crowded with unruly pigeons?
How cute. No matter what happens the rest of their lives, at least this couple will always have this romantic moment in Venice.
The huge quantity of ravenous pigeons fearlessly swooping about square was equally disturbing and hilarious, and I honestly could have spent a good hour viewing this disaster. I’m telling you – it was a bit chilly, rainy, and I was surrounded by hungry pigeons – but I gladly would have stayed right where I was. Alas, the weekend schedule would not allow me to waste a morning on foolish birds, and I soon found myself remembering that unwritten maxim among tourists: find the tallest available object and go to the top. It doesn’t matter if it is a church or an office building or a stepladder – just do it.
This rule was duly noted, and in no time I was pushing my way around the summit of the San Marco bell tower, complete with commanding (and windy) views of Venice. For the small price one euro I was educated via audio guide, from which I became fascinated about the pillars of Doge’s Palace. Namely, that amongst the hundred of white pillars are two red ones, between which they called out the names of those condemmed to be hanged in the square that day. Thankfully this tradition was discontinued a while back, and public executions have since gone out of style. To continue the pillar theme, it was between the two huge, 1000 year old columns on the square where the gallows stood. It’s claimed that it is bad luck to stand between them, but there was a trashy tourist stand set up in that very spot. Hopefully that means it will go out of business.
The other main tourist dealio in Venice besides the square San Marco is the Grand Canal. As one may be able to deduce from the name, the Grand Canal is the most important and longest canal in Venice. It’s about two miles long with an average depth of seventeen feet, and it is beautiful. Lined with impressive old homes, as well as the occasional palace and church, it is incredible when viewed while cruising up the canal in a boat. The whole canal takes perhaps an hour to travel – not bad, given that you’re basically on a water bus that is making passenger stops – and it is worth every minute. This is one spectacle that I’ve seen where I can 100% honestly say that pictures do not do it justice. It must be witnessed (just like the pigeon feeding frenzy).
Pigeons, three outstanding pizzas, wandering around narrow alleys, gelato, enjoying a bottle of wine on the canal, water taxis, getting pushed in a sandwich shop by an elderly German man…these were just the precursor for the real motive for this trip – the Venetian Ghost Tour! That’s right, for just a couple euros you will receive a guided tour leading through several of the haunted sites and stories of the city. For example - the tale of Marco Polo’s outcast Asian wife, a cunning beheading (resulting in lots of walking for the beheader), knife fights and blood in the wells, and horses galloping up staircases. The tour ended at the Rialto Bridge, the city’s most famous four hundred year old bridge gracing the Grand Canal. This last one may have been my favorite story – highlights include the bridge mysteriously crumbling into the canal night after night, a pact with the devil, a rooster, and the spirit of a sneezing infant. Eerie, and a good conclusion to the tour, especially when paired with the cheap cigars purchased earlier that day!
Duplicate all that for the return trip and you’re looking at about fifty euros in bus fares (disregarding the taxi), plus the hassle of the bus (of which there is only one per flight, and if you miss it…you’re not at a major airport so good luck) and then the time premium to get to the secondary airport. However…travel in general takes time and money, so why do I document all of this here? Merely so you do not book a flight on RyanAir thinking that it is the best deal in the world.
new clothes be made to fit? If you have any new enterprise before you, try it in your old clothes…perhaps we should never procure a new suit, however ragged or dirty the old, until we have so conductd, so enterprised, or sailed away in some way, that we feel like new men in the old, and that to retain it would be like keeping new wine in old bottles.”
dsf
where it is possible to heave bread across a table with impunity, or perhaps start an ill-advised slap fight with a member of your entourage. After all, there is no spillage to fear! Unfortunately, due to a late arrival – of which I may have been a part of but not ultimately responsible for – the reservation was voided and an alternative establishment was chosen. Thus preceded my plate of paté, of which we shall never again speak of again.
There is no Cola region of the USA, no town called Texas Pete’s Hot Sauce, no food or wine named Pacific Northwest or Gulf States. One could make the argument for Chicago style deep dish, I suppose, but I think the only comparison would be if the state of Illinois was actually named Pizza. Same things goes for BBQ. I’m sure I’m missing some example (possibly many, really), but whenever I look at a map of the USA I don’t think to myself, “Cleveland! That’s a sauce!”
British Sea Power was the target band this evening, and the only disappointment was that I did not arrive even later than I did. The opening band was, to be kind, sub par. It consisted of a skinny, somewhat scruffy kid with a guitar and a spotlight. The first song I was subjected to included a girl sitting on the stage at his feet, with a guitar that she would sometimes tap. I at first wondered if the tapping of the guitar was actually supposed to be happening. The whole phenomenon appeared odd, as if a bold audience member just decided to park herself on stage. Slowly, painfully, I realized the girl’s tapping was intentional and was probably supposed to be considered creative. It reminded me of a painting, of which the artist says, “My finest work! It represents the intrepid human spirit, guided by the ghosts of time among the ruins of pride and the sands of hopelessness. Notice how the mountains climbing out of the waters of despair rise among the clouds of rebirth, where the birds of unity soar!” Then when you look at the canvas you think to yourself, “What the f, it’s not art it’s just green and orange triangles.” The kid sang in English, but spoke in French so I can only assume that he was apologizing to the audience between songs.
favorite show had been. Turns out it was some little bar located high up in the hills of England, where sheep had wandered around inside while the band was performing. That would have been a sight to see, especially if sheep have a secret sense of rhythm.