Venice is like a woman you don't know you're in love with until she's gone.  Everything takes on a romantic flare.  Anything you see becomes romanticized.  During the day in the sunlight, this city's beauty is second to none.  I just held Meg's hand as she pulled me through the streets and across the little bridges. It's a city made of eye candy,  I think it's impossible not to fall for Venice.  It's a city where getting lost is kind of the point.  Every turn is more intriguing than the last, more fascinating, more intoxicating, more infinitely interesting, more beautiful.
   

St. Mark's Square is the main piazza in Venice.  And no matter what path you choose to get there, once you pass under the last arch that leads into the square, St. Mark's Basilica seems to appear out of nowhere.  It's like the buildings are purposely concealing it until the last moment.  And then very suddenly they open and everything happens.  You will be weaving through the canals past a church, cafes, and tourists looking around wide-eyed as though if they blink, it might all cease to be real.  Then the buildings part and you're in St. Mark's Square.  With the Doge's Palace and cathedral at its head, it seems more like a giant rectangle than a square, but since I was never good at geometry, who knows. 

   

St. Mark's Basilica kinda says, "Yeah, catholocism bitch," when you walk in.  Too far?  No.  Seriously, it's overwhelming, awe-inspiring.  And that's to me; a 2012 non-catholic.  I mean this thing is competing with X-Box, IMAX, looking out of airplanes on an electrically lit city at night, high-definition pictures of the universe and carne asada fries, and it holds its own.  600 years ago it was competing with, like…not getting killed for not being catholic, warm bread and gout.  If I was a pagan who walked in here, I'd be like, "Yeah, Zeus is cool and all, but Jesus has way better taste and mosaics kick ass."  Zeus who?  Catch up.  I've been catholic for like 30 seconds now, zeus is so two minutes ago.

 

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Wandering around trying to get a feel for the city, we decided to cruise down the Grand Canal just to see where we would end up.  In Venice the public buses are boats, or boat-buses, or boauses? We exited the public boat (Meg just told me they're called "vaporettos") and walked a few paces to the steps of San Lucus Church.  Breeze on our backs, sun on our face, and a woman at the foot of the stairs playing Phantom of the Opera on a cello, the view of the Grand Canal was breathtaking.   

Inside the church were tourists and Italians alike taking pictures and staring in reverence at the art and architecture.  I don't think anyone actually uses churches for church in this town.  This was a quieter part of the city.  It feels…enchanted is the word.  Like you've gone back in time but didn't notice.  In a regular city, modern city, you enter a new area and quickly know what to expect for the most part; residential, downtown, etc.  Not here, here when you turn a corner and it's like candy for your eyes.  Never boring nor predictable.      
  

In Venice there's no trashcans and no trash.  Where does it all go?  Do you know where the most unromantic place is in Venice?  Tell me because I can't find it and we've been looking all day. Venice is like the most photogenic woman in the world…and she's always wet.  And forget how they built the pyramids.  How did they build Venice!?  Did they have medieval  scuba tanks 1500 years ago?  Did they have wizards who cast spells so they could breathe underwater?   The city is built underwater.  At least the Egyptians had the benefit of land.  The buildings literally rise out of the ocean like a James Cameron movie but prettier and catholic.  After being in Italy I totally want to be catholic.  I don't care if it's right.  It's beautiful. 

There are no internet cafes, no one walking around with coffee.  If you want coffee, you sit and drink it out of a glass mug.  There is no one who looks as though they would rather be somewhere else.  Every other corner is a gelato shop or a corner store coffee stand with a full bar.  There is no drunk driving because there are no cars (although some of the gondola guys are a bit tipsy).  Bikes aren't even allowed in the city.  There are no rats, stray cats, roaches, or hipsters.  Usually getting lost in a city would be annoying, but here it's like getting lost in a book.  Where ever it takes you, it's fine.  Just let go.  The touristy parts of the city are a bit bothersome…but all the tourists say that. 



Romance is an illusive thing.  Just when you think you've found it, it slips away leaving you wondering if it ever existed at all.  You see it everywhere; books, movies, old stories, but never in front of you.  And even when you think you see it, the picture is blurry.  It has more in common with Bigfoot and UFO sightings than regular life.

  


I mean everyone knows what flying saucers look like, but have you ever actually seen one?  Well, we finally managed to lock romance down.  It was hiding in a little square in some secret place in Venice just off a little canal in an area called…we're not sure.  We were lost.  But it's a little square with a rose garden in the middle, a gelato shop, and a classically trained Venetian guitarist wearing all white and playing soft melodic melodies all dayon a Reneisance-ish instrument.
                               

 














As soon as we crossed the little bridge into the square, we were like, "Romance! So that's where you've been hiding! You've got girls back in LA looking in bars and nightclubs and you're hanging out in a rose garden in it Italy." Sounds a bit feathery, but it felt like love just hung in the air floating around on the music and never quite touching the ground.
    

(The man who owned this gelato shop lived just above it with his wife, mother, and two daughters.  Every so often one of the daughters would call to him, "Papi.. papi..papi!"  He came out of the shop and they called to him as though the world would end if he left their sight again and pouted in the way only Italian women can pout; dramatic and irresistible.  Finally her grandmother took her from the window, then the other daughter came out, "Papi..papi!"  It was priceless.)

There were only a handful of tourists, but we all felt like we had happened into a special moment and we could stretch the moment as long or short as we pleased.  Who hangs out with the Romance, the one and only?  I mean the actual one; not the one Drake and Trey Songs and Usher try to convince you is romance; the one they got on lock in between the strip club, the club, and the after party.   That romance is like the Superman you see on Hollywood Boulevard; red cape but not flying and no powers.  This Romance could turn friends into lovers faster than a speeding bullet and leap sober inhibitions in a single bound.  
 


This called for gelato, of course.  Meg grabbed us two cones and we sat against the wall with the other groupies.  Romance is way better in person.



   


 
Now, Italian men don't disappoint either.  You can literally feel the pride at being a man - and an Italian man at that.  Italian men are always playfully up to no good.  They push mischief like missionaries push religion, politicians push agendas, and black republicans.. well, actually, there are no black republicans.  The point is Italian men stand around like they can't wait to be up to no good.  I used to think I was trouble, but now I realize I'm just Italian.  I thought I was charming and flirtatious.  Then I met Italy.  These guys are bred to charm.  

 


The women are no joke either.  In the United States, women vi for the attention of men.  In Venice they know they can have the man's attention.  But to have the man,ahhh that's the trick.  The women walk around like they have bigger dicks than the men.  Italian women walk around like, "Yeah, I have the nani, you want the nani.  Do something about it if you have the balls."  Seriously, it's crazy.  You'd have to be trained from birth to attempt to charm them.  Italian guys depend on style, charm, and the confidence of being a man.  L.A. guys depend on women's insecurities and sunglasses(mostly sunglasses though).    The moms are the most entertaining though.  Italian moms treat their kids like their lucky to hang out with them.  They just walk around talking out loud on their phones and it's the kids' job to keep pace.  They don't even get mad if the kid falls behind.  They just leave them for the next mom, I guess.  They smile and laugh when their child cries.  It's almost condescending except right at the end of the tantrum, they kiss them and say something in Italian like they're telling a puppy it's adorable.  I assume they treat the fathers in a similar manner.   

Whatever the case, in Italy the message is clear: the attention belongs to the women.  Nobody is confused on this point.  Sons get love and encouragement, but if they even happen upon a little attention, they are to hand it over to their mother immediately.  

 

Meg and I caught a group of pre-teens walking in front of us (side note--all Italians kind of yell all the time except it's not yelling; it's Italian and it's cool.  If I just walked around screaming, I'd get locked up, but Italians are just having a casual chat.)  Anyway, one of the guys in the group said something, I think smart-assy, and glanced over at a girl in the group really slick like just to see if she caught it.  Then just as he turned away, sure that she had missed the comment or perhaps let it slide, she full on whipped her hand around from behind and smacked him in the back of the head, like she was a trained Olympian smart-ass-back-of-the-head-smacker.  His reaction was surprise followed by an odd sort of non-surprise, like this happens ten times a day, but somehow she still manages to catch him right when he drops his guard.  I'd never seen anything like it.  I got a little jumpy around Meg after that.  I'm a smart ass and Meg learns quick.  
  

 

 

   

 

We walked along the canals toward our hotel as the sun set. Exhausted but not tired.  The buildings seemed to change as the sun moved across the sky.  One might say as the light changed but it seemed as though the light was constant and somehow the buildings changed their perspective on the light, as though the mood set the light instead of the light setting the mood.  Megan walked slowly with her head on my shoulder.  She once told me she likes the world just after sunrise.  I like the world just after sunset.  "When the sun sets, a city is what it is and they're all different; LA, New York, New Orleans.  No two cites are the same at sunset.  "But at sunrise every city is the same all over the world; every city is quiet.  The world is still, then slowly it gains momentum with the sun and then the cites become different."  She's right.  I never thought of it that way.  Anywhere you wake up, it's familiar only at that particular time of day.  That's a comforting thought.  

  

I still prefer sunset though.  People change just after sunset.  The outer part of them feels safer in the sun, but the inner part of them feels safer in the dark.  A conversation at twelve noon is the polar opposite of a conversation at twelve midnight.  Who's to say which one is a more accurate expression of who you are.  Just before sunrise and just after sunset look almost exactly the same; the sky I mean.  It's the same change just heading in different directions.  Maybe that's what we love about each other.

                                                                Our hotel suggested a local opera house.  There were no operas running in Venice at the time, but there were a number of venues holding classical recitals.  The performance was interesting.  It consisted of a harpsichord player and another musician.  The two of them must have been somewhat famous in the city.  The audience was mostly Venetian and broke into applause as soon as they took the stage and after each piece.  We enjoyed it.  We felt cultured even though we weren't sure what was happening at times.  The performers played selections spanning a hundred years of Venetian composers.  The harpsichord was constant bt the other performer changed instruments, all of which were played in Venice throughout its classical history.    

The only tough part was that they explained the history of the composition and new instrument before each piece, which was great if you spoke Italian, which Meg still hadn't learned after a day and a half in Italy.  I mean I know we're on our honeymoon, but she's slipping.  She fell asleep on my shoulder near the end.  She does that during late movies as well, like in the theater - knocked out. I woke her to leave a little early as she was missing the last bit anyway, but she would protest it the cutest manner possible and so I'd concede as I often do to cuteness.  I'm a pushover.  It's pathetic.  And so she'd slowly pass into sleep again.  I stopped waking her finally. I had a thought that perhaps she was getting the better end of the deal. I don't mean that the concert was boring or unenjoyable; quite the opposite was true. The music was fascinating and  even though the language escaped me, the feel of what they were saying somehow penetrated past my ignorance of the Italian language.  And the feel of what was being said made sense.  I even got a few of the jokes, or at least that's what I told myself.  Meg however was sleeping on her husband's shoulder in Venice listening to the most beautiful classical Venetian music played by masters.  As I looked at her, I envied her dreams, and even though she would not remember them mentally and the shock of the applause would wake her suddenly and cause her to lose hold just enough for them to slip into oblivion, her soul would remember the feel of them.  And many years later when we are fighting or life is in the wintery parts of love, as love of course has seasons, sadness would suddenly slip away and we would laugh and somehow forget what we were even arguing about.  Those moments seem accidental; spontaneous moments of happiness which jumpstart the laughter, which elevate us past hard times.  It won't be spontaneous though.  It will be Meg's soul remembering the feel of those dreams she had many years ago asleep on her husband's shoulder.  They must have been something special...lucky.