Night at the Rialto

Venice is confusing. End of story. No, there's more to the story.

After spending time in France and western Italy, Venice seemed like a completely different world. We arrived in the early afternoon at the train station, Santa Lucia, in the blazing, stagnate heat. The smells of the lagoon and the bustling city were...um...amazing. The first view of the Grand Canal was the busy vapretto depot. People were yelling across the canal, the street vendors were selling fruit and drinks, everybody was going somewhere. With all of the bustling and a huge backpack, there just wasn't the time to take in the amazing first impression of the Grand Canal.

We jumped on our vapretto and headed off to the Lido where we were staying. It was a whirlwind view of Venice, zig zagging across the Grand Canal from boat stop to boat stop until we whizzed past St. Mark's square and out into the lagoon. Wow. The sights, no matter how quickly they passed, were inspiring.

We got to our hotel on the Lido and relaxed for a moment before running up the street to jump into the Adriatic. The water, warm; the surf, shallow; and the swim wear, wee. Nothing could have been better to help unwind after a long day of traveling. When beach time was over and we left the sounds of the gentle waves behind us, the twinkling city across the lagoon started to beckon us towards adventure.

If you've ever been to Venice and went exploring on your own, you know that getting lost in inevitable, but that's okay. For some reason, I thought that my sense of direction was stronger that the labyrinth that formed 1600 years ago. What was I thinking, indeed? After wandering through tiny alleyways, crossing countless bridges and running into dead ends that were just steps into water, I finally made it into the open air. The key to finding the way out is to try following the strongest echo. An echo in Venice is like prairie dog in the Great Plains: there are millions and you'll never catch the same one twice. That being said, I did find one and it led me to a sight to behold, the Rialto Bridge.

Everything in Venice is amazing and breathtaking and memorable and more than you dreamed of and magical and surprising and so much like a fairytale that it's difficult to take it all in. Meeting all of these descriptions was the Rialto Bridge. The night was black and crisp and the palazzos along the canal gave off a soft glow. In contrast to that glow was the bridge: a immense stone structure reflecting more light than all of the glowing palazzos combined. The light, the noise and the mystery all teamed together to draw me out of the maze that is Venice's alleys and out into the wonder that is Venice at night. There began the adventure that took me from being a tourist lost in the alleys to an explorer wandering through the market places and enjoying Venice for all that it is.

Thank you Pont des Arts

Nothing wears you out in the way that long international air travel does. It's odd. You are sitting, your mind being the only part getting exercise, yet you lose all energy. You're not storing it anywhere, it is just being sucked into the altitudes. I thought that I would just get more and more excited as I got closer to my destination, but the mounting excitement surfaced as lethargy and a sour disposition. What a way to start a trip.

To top off the foul mood, landing at Charles de Gaulle airport was not what I was hoping for. For some reason or another, I imagined landing, well, at the Louvre...not in a cement wasteland. The bullets falling from the sky added to my dreariness. French hail is an experience, rivaled only by Texas hail, I'm sure. Either way, I was in France, and once I heard nothing but French all around me, and saw nothing but Dior ads, and saw people eating croissants...I forgot that I'd been awake for 28 hours.

The train into Paris seemed to take forever. It was crowded with wet people, hot because it was July and smelled bad...because a large percentage of the train's population had never heard of Old Spice or Secret... 'Nuff said?

...But then, I exited the train at Grands Boulevards and the sun came out. There were birds chirping, cafe attendants drying off the wet tables, steam rising from the streets. It was perfect. I dropped my luggage off at my hotel in Montmartre and went exploring.

Having friends already in Paris made the first day feel like I was still home. We picked up right where we left off, but this time it was with a few bottles of wine and Paris all around us.

I was told that we were heading to a place called Pont des Arts. I had no clue what it was, except that it would no doubt be a bridge. It was Bastille Day, so there were already a lot of people out and about, both tourists and Parisians, but when we got to the pont, it was a different world. The Pont des Arts is a wooden foot bridge crossing the Seine, just down river of the Ile de la Cité and Pont Nuef. Although it is a thoroughfare, it's also the most prime picnicking locale in all of Paris...and the Parisians know it. The view from the bridge is spectacular, but the camaraderie is even better.

Before heading to France, I was told by all too many people "oh, the French don't like Americans. Have fun with that." My first evening on the Pont des Arts disproved this often-told lie. We sat with our bottles of wine, our cheeses and baguettes, and me with my watercolors, and soaked in the people around us. Our neighbors all made such strong efforts to welcome us in English. We shared wine with complete strangers. One man gave us lessons on how to pick a good bottle of French wine. He defined the different regions and then explained what you'll get with vin de table vs Appellation d'Origine Contrôlée. He told us about what it's actually like to get to live in Paris... for real.

This was only my first night in the city of lights. What a way to set the stage for the amazing adventures to come.

Strolling along the Champs Elysees

Starting the day, determined to act like a tourist, we leave our humble digs in Ménilmontant and head for the heart of Paris: the Seine. Daily, we've strolled along it, sat beside it, sat above it, watched the boats float by. Today, it is our guide to the Paris we've avoided: The Tourist Core.

We board the Metro at Père Lachaise. There is a lady deep in the tunnel singing loudly. It is bouncing off of ever tile, only interrupted by the occasional train. Although it's early in the day, the stagnant air in the Metro is stiffling and ripe; it's unpleasant, but it's the most memorable scent in all of Paris. We ride the rails until Réaumur - Sébastopol where we exit and stroll through the strange vestibule-labyrinth that is Les Halles. We make it out of the shrubbery and metalwork and exit into a sliver of neighborhood whose sole purpose, I believe, is to provide amazing croissants to those heading to the Louvre.

Seemingly, the street we've escaped to is all flats and art dealers...except for one cafe. Being Americans who naturally (or unnaturally but out of habit) wake up early, we are some of the first customers. The stools are still upside down on the bar. The pain au chocolat and pain au raisin are just being put out. In stark contrast to the Metro, the only smell in the air is now beurre...butter. The cafetier looks at us with the "Non-French speaking tourists..." look. "Bonjour, Je voudrais deux espressos, un pain au chocolat et un pain au raisin, s'il vous plaît." The odd look quickly turns to a smile and we are granted the best breakfast-on-the-go experience that Paris has to offer.

As we approach Rue de Rivoli, the bustling sounds of the day make their way down the alley. Tourist busses, taxis, stout little cars, velos, people on foot: they are all making their way. The busses are heading to the Louve, the taxis to the Bourse, the cars to their random, miniature parking spots and the bicycles, taking their riders to work all around the city. We join the crowd on foot and follow the flow. Some break off and head into the Louvre, some cross the Pont des Arts and we head down in the Jardin des Tuileries.

Walking through the Tuileries is like walking in another world. There is art; perfectly manicured gardens; people quietly strolling, both Parisians and tourists alike. There are sparrows everywhere, singing like Edith Piaf: it's the music of France. The birds are the singers, the boats are percussion and la Tour Eiffel is the conductor.

At the end of the Tuileries lies Place de la Concorde: a whirlwind of golden statues, cars, tourists, L'Obélisque and amazement. The Seine beside us, the Tower looming close by, the Champs Elysees takes us away. We stroll amidst the trees. There are cars on the Champs, but you don't hear them. Unknowingly, we veer onto Voie Georges Pompidou, a picturesque pathway above the river. Park benches every few meters, a stone wall to guide you, statues watching over you: it is an epic walk.

We enjoy a sit watching the boats float down the Seine. The houses across the water seem imaginary: "Who in the world would get to live there? Impossible." After giving our feet a rest, we continue on until we get to Pont de l'Alma. We cross the river; the sound of tourists growing; la Tour Eiffel has disappeared. We continue walking towards where the tower must be, wondering "How can it just disappear like this?" Just a few blocks further we arrive. The base is enormous. Thousands of people are standing, all with their heads back, fighting to see the top. More languages than I could imagine were whirling about.

I played tourist myself. I am now the proud owner of a photograph of me...with my finger touching the top of the Eiffel Tower.