The train screeches to a stop, I stumble off. The air is filled with salt and sweat. People
rush all around, everyone has a place to be but my mother and I. We change our currency alongwith time on our clocks. Station vendors call to us, offering breads, cured meats, and ornaments. The station drips in extravagance, everything embossed in the richest of golds. Turning on ourheels, we maneuver through the surplus of travelers to greet the glowing water. Golden sun, golden buildings, golden water, everything around us is kissed by the sun. This city must be its child, proudly shining upon every inch for all to admire.
We stroll through the streets, suitcases in hand. Locals breeze past with endless places to be but we take time to soak in the sinking city. I had never heard so many foreign tongues move at once; my mind is mesmerized by the cacophony of Venice. Each layer of the city peels back to reveal an even more intricate maze. But this enigma is just beginning. Plush entryway sofas entice us into our hotel. Radiant renaissance paintings kiss every wall. They seem to speak to one another, whispering about me; they know I don’t belong. With room keys in hand our starlit elevator floats us above the city, the lights twinkle sweet nothings in morse code fashion. We would soon immerse ourselves once again in the city of canals.
Cold snarls at our ears and fingertips. Gloves fail to stop the whipping winds that push
their way through the streets. This city was built to chill my body to the core; I can feel my very bones turning deep blues and lavender, colors foreign to a city dipped in gold. I tightly grip the hand of my mother, scared that if I were to let go my fingers may be left holding hers. Venetian winters would laugh at Georgia’s meek attempt. Shops and grocers glitter every street with bright displays of blown glass and foil-wrapped chocolates. The sweet smell of pastries blends with salty canal water, abrasive but it wraps itself around me as if to try and keep me warm, distracting me from winds that persist even in the narrowest of streets. Through the maze, we emerge at the heart of the city. Children giggle and shriek as they chase and are chased by copious flocks of pigeons that dominate the city center. They descend on each small palm-full of seed as if they aren’t overfed on a regular basis.
We enter a small church. A lacquered black wall highlights the intricate biblical stories
and designs carved into its form. A gold chandelier melts off of the ceiling, dangling crystal
droplets from each point. I sit down in a small wooden chair to take in its ornamentation. The atmosphere in the church is palpable, immense. The air is static and smells of aging wood. Though I am not religious, I can tell there is magic here. My mother and I sit in silence,
saturating ourselves in the rich histories of belief. It feels welcoming, a foreign feeling in
comparison to my past church visits. Warmth flows from every fiber of this place as if to say
“Appreciate me while you can.”
We turn back into the labyrinth, gem-toned gondolas reflect their crests upon the canals.
A sapphire boat entices me with its silver chairs and shiny interior. I couldn’t resist the charm of the gondoliers and convince my mother of this crucial moment. Off we go! Polling through the radiant channels. Blind corners and ancient buildings thin each waterway. Striped captains belt their notes, warning comrades of our approach. Flashing cameras set the scene, I am a celebrity. Thousands of tourists want to capture the moment, the intricate movement of the Gondolas along the canal. My cheeks hurt to stay camera-ready. Even though I am not the focus of their precious photographs, I feel like the only person in the world. I have this soon-to-be inaccessible slice of the world in a tight grasp. A future to soon be swallowed by the sea. Who was I to deserve such precious, fleeting moments? Our Gondolier lulls us into the night, snuffing the last sparks of light out of sight in the sinking city.