Day 8…Grazie! Preggo!

We made the decision that this morning there would be no mad dash for the shuttle bus that would cart us to Venice where we would spend another lovely day. No, we wanted to laze around in bed, sleep as much as we can and take nice long showers damn it! That’s precisely what we did. And because of our laziness we also paid a significant price which came in the form of having to catch a local bus to Venice instead of the hotel shuttle. Umm…it was fine. Except…

So here’s something weird we’ve discovered about Venice. As I mentioned before we had met one street vendor who was Bangladeshi. Mind you he was one of thousands. It seems strange that there are so many of our countrymen here but honestly one can’t take a step without tripping over their distinct presence. For example, on the bus to Venice as we boarded there were approximately 5 Bangaldeshi guys (you can tell, trust me) and after their disembarked, another 7 embarked heading in our direction. They spoke some of the most gangstah Bengali that I’ve ever heard. P and I had problems understanding all of their conversation.

In Venice we boarded a waterbus and headed to the Rialto stop where we had a fairly lousy lunch. Then we walked the inner paths to San Marcos to catch the waterbus to Murano (approximately 25 minutes boat journey). There we watched master glass blowers at work, gawked at chandeliers that wouldn’t look right in anything other than mansions, was whisked away to the back of a shop where we were shown jaw-dropping glass jewelry which we couldn’t dream of buying but could only drool over (yes P included…oh and he’s so sweet cause he was willing to buy me any one of the €300+ creations) and purchase little gifts for family.

After consuming two flavors of gelato (yum!) we boarded the boat back to Venice. Next we had another run I with our fellow Bangladeshi. As I mentioned, most of the Bangladeshi’s living in Venice and Mestre are illegal, pandering fake purses, sunglasses and other touristy trinkets on the streets (the legal ones work in the restaurant and shops). You note that their eyes are constantly shifting left and right alerted to Polizia presence. The gentleman who we scored our designer knockoffs from yesterday told us that if the police catch him, they’ll demand papers and if they can not be produced then these already pretty poor folks are fined €100.00. So today, as we were wandering around (we are doing a lot of that during this trip you will note) a gentleman approached us selling roses.

I walked right past him thinking P would be on my heels however I turned around to see him happily chatting with the man. As I approached I noted that he was speaking very bad Hindi so I asked him where he’s from. He explained that he hailed from Kolkata, India…and then he told us his very sad story. This is what he said: He paid a gentleman 4laks (approximately 8G’s) to be taken from Kolkata to Dubai, Dubai to Iran, Iran to Greece and Greece to Venice where work would await him. He set off with 11 other gentleman of which only 3 made it. He told us of how they had to walk for 8 days in waist deep snow, many of his fellow travelers succumbing to frostbite and other ailments that took their lives. Once in Venice the men were dropped off like bags of rice and left to scatter without actually ponying up with their promise for employment. This guy looked so forlorn as he said he was stuck, that he couldn’t go anywhere else because anywhere he went he would be asked for papers, which he did not have. His friend suggested that he go to London but again he faced the same problems.

I stood there my eyes large with sympathy, my heart hurting. He asked us where we were from and said that life was no life when you were illegal. Even P seemed deeply moved. The man thanked us for the purchase of the flower, murmured a prayer that we will beget children soon (AMEEN) and shuffled off to convince another couple to purchase a rose. P and I turned away quiet, lost in our own thoughts. Around the corner we spotted two policia harassing a (legit) vendor. I made to turn around and warn our Indian friend to make a run for it since he too told us that if he was caught selling the flowers in Venice, he would be fined as well. P said that he was pretty sure the dude was careful and that he would be okay so we moved on but neither of us said anything for a long time again, very consumed in our sadness for the man. I pray he goes home to his loved ones and his country soon or if not that, he finds happiness in this foreign land.

So P did actually buy me a gorgeous delicate necklace (made in Murano). The store was housed in San Marcos Square. The shop keeper was a big badass flirt who screamed Italian perv to me but that was okay since I feel as if the experience goes with the country. Excited to exam the goods I plopped down on the stairs that ran the whole length of the Piazza with the church in the distance right directly in front of us and I decided to give my dad a call who was thrilled to hear from us. Chatting with him was almost like reliving the experience of being in Europe but due to outrageous cell phone charges we spoke for only a brief moment and besides, the lights in the square lit up exactly at that point. In awe we walked to the smack dab center, stood together and smooched (we’re so stupid because it was a quick peck after which both of us looked around in embarrassment). We walked on for a bit and then stopped to hear one of the outside orchestras where we did embrace, taking in the fact that we were in Venice, undoubtedly one of the most romantic places on earth.

Dinner was a simple affair (me: lasagna, P: bad pizza, us: tiramisu and cappuccino)

Leaving San Marcos was painful, I’m surprised to admit. I had told P earlier that it’s astounding to realize that it’s a good possibility that in our lives, we may never make it back to this exact spot (again seeing as how there is a whole huge world yet to explore). I felt glum yet decided that if I was going to leave, I’d leave in a blaze of glory or in my case, camera flashes. I scored a front row seat on the waterbus back to Pl. Roma where we were going to catch the local bus to the Novotel and immediately found myself gripped with the need to take every possible picture known to man of Venice. Much to P (and the other occupants) annoyance I flashed on in complete disregard for anyone’s eyesight. I most certainly do not regret this decision.

Unfortunately we discovered that the bus to Mestre (in particular to the part of town we were going to) was not running any longer and that we would have to catch one bus to the train station, then change to another bus that would drop off us near the hotel after which we would have to hoof it. Crickets, you know I’m not down for too much walking but Venice has changed me. I was the one encouraging P (who is far more gung-ho about padding it absolutely everywhere) to consider this an ‘adventure’. He looked at me as if I had lost my mind, muttered that a taxi would be far less complicated and hustled me into one toot-sweet.

Right now our bags have been repacked, gifts safely tucked away and P is watching CNN as I write all this down. Tomorrow…Roma hopefully with a stop off at Florence for a couple of hours.

More to write tomorrow I’m sure Loves.

Ciao for now!