Venice, 1998

I was travelling with my son. Ever since listening to Vivaldi’s ‘Ring of Mystery’ as a child, he had always wanted to visit Venice. It had been a long train voyage with frequent stops.  We were both beat and it was late, closing in on midnight. Gathering up our packs, we headed out of the station, Venezia Santa Lucia and into La Serenissima.
Venice didn’t disappoint.  It shimmered with light and glistened with watery ripples, and the sounds of people in the summer were enveloping.  We were mesmerized.  Italian, English, Spanish, French and German; an absolute jamboree of languages square-danced around us.
The night had only begun as people gathered by the waters of the Grand Canal.  A joyful brouhaha of tourists, pigeons, hawkers, ancient buildings, bridges and watery reflections created an almost Monet atmosphere. Sleep dissipated and we found a spot where we dropped everything and sat.  I bought two cups of wine from a colourful, grizzled man and we toasted our first night in the City of Water.  A young man drifted by, fresh off the train and sat down a few metres in front of us near some steps.  Backpack, t-shirt, well-worn jeans and a battered guitar.
I nodded towards him, speaking in lowered tones to my son, “Wanna bet his parents met at Woodstock?”
Stephen smiled.  “He’s missing a bandana.  Maybe some beads.”
While we watched, he settled the guitar within his arms and began to play a vaguely familiar song.  People stopped, joined in, cigarettes were passed, drinks were enjoyed, and the summer warmth relaxed us all.
“I can’t quite make out the song.  Do you recognize it?”
Stephen shook his head in mock dismay.  “Now you see mom, this is what happens when you stay stuck in the ‘60s and don’t keep up with the times.”
“Why is it that I’m the mom, but you give out all the lectures?”
He grinned.  “It’s U2.  ‘I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For’.”
I raised my glass towards the young troubadour.  “You and me both, buddy.”
“Me, too.”  My son joined in, giving me a sympathetic pat on the back.
“You?  You’re in the city of your dreams, drinking wine past midnight.  What else are you looking for?”
He looked towards the canal waters; the lanterns reflected in his eyes.
“I’m not sure, but this comes pretty close.”  His hand swept a path along the canal.  Teasing squints sparked from his eyes.  “And maybe some gelato, three scoops, pistachio, non-negotiable.”
I smiled and nodded.  At 16, ice cream could still create euphoria.  But what was everybody else looking for?  How many desires and dreams were simmering along the canal, under the stars in the city of Vivaldi, gondolas and masquerade balls?
The old man was still there.  I bought another glass of wine and thanked him.  “Grazie mille.”
I walked past Stephen to the lone singer, now quiet and most likely tired at this hour, and handed him the wine.  I wondered what he was looking for.  Love?  Adventure?  Three scoops and a bed for the night?
“Welcome to La Serenissima.  My son and I have really enjoyed your singing.  I hope we all find what we’re looking for.  Enjoy.”
Coming back, we toasted our last sip of ruby red, slowly got geared up and headed through the cushiony shadows for our hotel, giving our wandering minstrel a last wave.
I still hear the song from time to time.  My recollections are sepia coloured, dreamy and reflective.  There are ripples and footfalls and someone is strumming.

 

Stereo Story 897

Violet writes from Alberta, Canada: memoir, travel, music, fiction for a variety of magazines and newspapers. Now that she has time, so many memories are linked to the epic music of the 1960s and 1970s.