People
Who Live on Glass Islands (cont'd)
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Those who stay even longer can begin to get under the skin of La Serenissima and see the city for what it truly is, in all its gorgeous, chaotic, cut-gem splendor, a true wonder of the world and marvel of engineering over nature and yet at the same time a thoroughly shameless self-caricature of opera-warbling gondoliers and merchants earnestly hawking Carneval masks and glass trinkets, all hand-made in Taiwan. A most serene decaying beauty.
Marie-France
Bailey has lived here for 30 years. But now, even having achieved the
prestigious post of PR director at the Londra Palace Hotel (one of those
sought-after addresses on Riva degli Schiavoni overlooking the bay into
which the Grand Canal empties, and where I spent my first night in Venice
sampling the lap of luxury), she has become disillusioned with Venice
and is currently plotting her departure back to Montreal, or perhaps
to her father's homeland of Paris, or just anywhere else.
"This
is not the same city I fell in love with," she sighed resignedly toward
the end of a fine meal we shared in the hotel's recommendable restaurant.
"Venice has changed; Venice is different. I don't enjoy it anymore." She
looked downright glum at the sentiment.
But
if you catch her at the right moment, Marie-France still betrays a trace
romantic view of the city however tarnished by time and jaded by
constant close contact. When we talked about hopping on the vaporetto
to visit the outlying islands of Murano, Burano, Torcello, her eyes sparkled
as she agreed that was a fine way to spend a day.
Then
she took me up to the tiny roof terrace, the highest point on the whole
Riva. Here, she confided, she once had a special dinner prepared and served
to Sting and his guest ("A simply lovely, wonderful man," she nodded decisively).
"And what a beautiful view, all before you at your feet..." her hand swept
vaguely over the Venetian panorama. I could tell by the tone of her voice
that she was clearly not speaking in brochure-speak for the benefit of
the travel writer now. She was merely expressing her opinion.
She
sighed as she tucked her elbows against her body in the cold breeze and
swiveled to take in the 360-degree vista of the swooping Grand Canal,
the helter-skelter terracotta rooftops and tipsy marble belltowers of
the city, the expanse of the bay before us, its tiny wavelets shopping
the sunlight into so many glittering yellow diamonds. "You can see all
of Venice..." She trailed off with a faraway look in her eyes, and after
a few moments of gazing unfocusedly, her breath trailing out of her mouth
in a frosty wisp drawn away from the bay on the stiff breeze, she excused
herself to return inside out of the cold while I remained to snap a few
pictures.
Sandra,
on the other hand, who did a commendable job over the past year of renovating
the one-star Casa Verardo Hotel at Ponte Storto (in the oddly little-touristed
tangle of streets just east of San Marco), sat me down in the private
room off the pensione's frescoed main hall with a glass of white Veneto
wine to explain, in between dashing downstairs to check in guests, why
she's getting out of the hotel business and selling her little hotel next
year.
"Everybody
wants to try and get into the game in 2000, for the Giubileo," she told
me. "And they all want to charge ridiculous rates," she went on, explaining
that her soon to be ex-colleagues have been trying to excuse the usurious
prices by 'modernizing' the hotels, which means adding minibars and satellite
TVs in the rooms but little else. But modernization isn't always the best
thing, Sandra argues, and in fact is in many ways contrary to what Venice
(and her loyal visitors) wants, needs, or, indeed, should have to put
up with. Venice, and the people who love it, needs the antique, the old-fashioned,
the pensione. Sandra summed up Venice and its contemporary conundrum:
"Venice
is not a modern city. Venice is decadent. It doesn't understand the modern
and doesn't accept change. You can't make too many changes here because
you're not standing on solid ground; you're walking on water. And yet
these profiteers would change it to try and make money. People, yes, can
adapt and can become modern, but the city, it is too delicate. It's like
fine blown glass which is so very beautiful and refined. But it's
so thin you could shatter it with just one shout. And around here, lately,
everyone is screaming."
Copyright
© 1999 by Reid Bramblett
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