Venice in the morning is lovely. Best time of the day. Not too hot. Not too busy. Allows for a wonderfully Italian look of jacket but with sunglasses. I think I look Italian. People tell me that. Shame I can’t speak it really. I feel like this is where I’m meant to be. Sat on the side of the grand canal. Having coffee. Just watching. Wonderful. Maybe I don’t look so Italian. Maybe I only look Italian to those who have never known anyone who is actually Italian. The fact I have sugar in a Cappuccino doesn’t help. Rialto is warming up. More and more people pass me. Maybe heading to church. I’d like to visit a church. Pop in for a bit. Not to pray. I like churches. I hate “The Church.” Love the buildings, hate the institution. Another sip. My croissant is looking at me. I’m still trying to project some kind of class. I dabbed my mouth. I never dab my mouth. Could I be a gondolier? I think I’d rock the outfit. Maybe not the actual activity. There’d be a lot of wet customers. Not for the first time. Wahey. Another sip of coffee. Lovely. I fucking hate birds. Honestly, I’d kill them all. Well maybe not all. Pigeons and Seagulls. I’d shoot every last one of them. Shame that I can’t shoot. The thought of dead birds is also just as bad. Is that a phobia? I’m not scared, more repulsed. It’s the thought of touching one. Eurgh. I need to get a boat when I’m rich. I’ll buy a boat. Pip can teach me how to sail. Or I can just get one that’s like a car. Harder to crash a boat. I’d give it a go. Pulling into Venice on your own boat. That’s the dream.
Maybe I’ll move to Italy. When I’m rich. Can’t see it being fun if you’re poor. Last sip. “Unsaturated.” She said it as she passed. The most American sound I’ve ever heard. The way she said it physically pained me. Nails on a chalkboard. God its easy to hate Americans. Some Americans. Americans abroad. I should probably pay. I’m happy here. But I do want to go to a church. Not paying to go in though. Thieving bastards. Check time. Quarter past ten. Bells ringing. Does that mean mass? I don’t want to go to mass. What is it with men taking pictures of their girlfriends? Take a photo together! Or not at all. I’d prefer that. If it was me, I’d throw the fucking phone in the Canal. Maybe why I don’t have a girlfriend… Pigeon gets close to my table again. Just puts me on edge. Horrible creatures. Too many pigeons in Venice. See, now I want to leave. Girl sitting with her boyfriend looked at me. And again. Or am I looking at her? They seem an odd couple. If I ask for the bill, I can do the imaginary pen symbol. Like Dad does. Is that where my table manners come from? He tows the line between charming and over-bearing. These fucking pigeons. This is why I don’t like outside eating. I wonder where the phobia comes from. Or what it’s called. Should I look up a church? Or just wander? I think just wander. Another fucking Instagram boyfriend! What the fuck is that pose she’s doing?! Fall in the water. Please. Yeah, I’ll go for a wander. Keep checking under the table for pigeons. Do I look mad? Certainly not making me look Italian. I did the sign. Dad would be proud.
This isn’t a good restaurant. But I’m poor. I’ll come back to Venice when I can afford the best. And not even think about it. Spend money without worrying. What must that be like? The waiter hates me. It’s because I only ordered a coke to start. I will have a pizza. But its too early. They have pictures of their food on the menu. Bad sign. Am I a snob? Probably a bit. Nice to sit down. Bag’s heavy and uncomfortable. Plus, I’m inside. No pigeons. Right, think about Venice. Sum it up. In short, beautiful. The kind of place that is blemished by other people being there. You want Venice to yourself. Every alley is a story. It really does feel like the walls speak to you. It’s the windows that I like. They look like how windows should be. The eyes on a building’s face. Sip coke. Glad they put ice in it. That’s one mark up. Venice is totally unique. It’s like they put a city in a maze and it’s amazing but you’re also never quite sure where you are and where you’re going and it also doesn’t seem to matter one bit. Everyone else has a similar lost but happy look on their face. Pizza arrives. It’s good. Maybe this isn’t a bad restaurant. Maybe I am a snob.
From café to restaurant to church. It’s beautiful. Marble columns. Dome above the altar. I like churches. They give me a feeling I can’t explain. They have a kind of presence. I’m not religious. Maybe I’m spiritual. I know I’m not religious because every time I’m in one I think what a waste of money it is. A woman smiles at me. That’s one good thing about churches. As soon as you enter, you become part of a community. Welcomed. People treat each other better. The altar is stunning. Flanked by statues either side. The centerpiece looks like the top of the Taj Mahal. Can’t imagine that was by design. My favorite part is the artwork. It is a touch of the sublime. Perhaps because they thought they were representing the divine, the painters elevated themselves to complete works of genius. If there is a heaven, it wouldn’t do justice to some of the paintings that depict it. An adorable little girl runs after her father. She’s not overwhelmed. Good. I miss not being cynical. Part of why I visit churches is because I’m daring God to appear to me. I want that to happen. I’m not writing him off. I actually want a divine light to come through that central window and illuminate my soul. I think I’m tired. That dreary yet kind of reflective state of mind. Check phone. I need to get going. Glad I came. Last chance God. Nope. Better keep sinning then. Imagine being in here if it was burning. That would be sublime. Right, I better go.
George F Brown 