Slow Death

My conflicted falling-in-love with Venice in March

I love my job. I get to go to beautiful, interesting places with beautiful, interesting people—generous people. Most recently it was Venice for five days.

I had never been before, and I’ve never seen anything quite like it. It was like waking up in an Escher drawing, not knowing what was around the next tight turn, and then your breath would be taken again, and again. The light and colors alone were enough to drive me crazy. I was in an espresso fueled frenzy of aquatic stimulation. It was romantic, even when it smelled strangely of sewage, even when the bar owner threw a sideways glare at me and my oversized backpack. I was enchanted.

Before 11am the streets were quiet, but the coffee counters were full. 3.50 Euros for a macchiato and two biscotti. The men over 60 would walk slowly, alone, with their newspapers in hand. There were many men alone, sitting alone, strolling alone, watching groups of young men with a curious frown—watching alone. Otherwise, the men were arm in arm with a women their age and nearly the same exact height as them, dressed as though they just came from church.

My instant love for this place was not without reservations. I was in a snow globe, trying and failing to protect the native inhabitants from the outside world and its influences. I penetrated the membrane for a few days and gathered souvenirs of what I found inside. I couldn’t help myself. It was like seeing a rare flower the day after its full bloom, just before it begins to wilt, and you know it will never look as beautiful as it does in that moment, and that every moment from then on will only bring decay. Being in Venice was like that, recognizing the other side of the full bloom, cherishing the far side of its prime.

They call it a dying city.

And if each moment from now on leads to death, may they be as beautiful as Venice.