When I first went to Venice, I spent only one day in the city. I woke up and took an early train from Milan, which is where I was stationed, and took a late train back to Milan at the end of the day. This was a hot summer day in July 2013. It feels like so long ago, and I suppose in many ways it is, but I can remember everything about that day in Venice.
My first encounter with Venice was through Shakespeare’s play “The Merchant of Venice” which I studied in high school. Mr. Cunningham was a good teacher, and he was passionate about English, but also seemed to be absent-minded at times. I was in a public school, so an absent-minded teacher was probably not the most harmful occurrence at school. I digress.
Venice is impossible to imagine until you visit the city. You can conjure up imagines of what it possibly looks like and feels like, but being there makes you realise just how you can’t imagine the city. Arriving at the train station I was super excited, but my excitement was quelled a bit by what felt like thousands of Americans everywhere.
I immediately went on a sightseeing adventure of the city. I didn’t have much of a guide, so I just walked the narrow streets and crossed the many beautiful bridges looking for something that might interest me.
The city is basically built on water, and the “roads” are canals and you are constantly crossing bridges to make your way through the city. The architecture is old and beautiful. I remember being mesmerised by the powder blue, dusty pink, faded yellow, and powdery orange of the colour of the buildings.
The city was hot. It felt over-populated with tourists, and I was one of them so I couldn’t complain too much. I remember thinking that July is probably the worst time to go to Venice, too many people.
After walking the whole morning and taking selfies all over the place, I decide to go seat at a park and rest before missioning again and then heading home. While heading to the park, I walked passed a restaurant and one of the waiters, an older gentleman was flirting with me. He was Italian, and he spoke broken English, and his audacity to just flirt intrigued me. I was basically a stranger walking pass. I gathered I must have been different enough, visibly foreign, and visibly gay that he felt safe to flirt. I smiled at him and proceeded to the park. The park was a much-needed sanctuary from the sun and the tourists.
I walked a bit more after that around the city but also making my way back to the train station. Before going to the train station, I decided to take one last selfie, and then a nice couple offered to help me take a picture as they could see I was all alone. I appreciated their assistance otherwise all the pictures of me would be selfies.
I went back to Milan thinking that I had done something wonderful with my time in Italy, and I started writing about my day in my diary on the train. Hopefully one day I can turn my diaries into wonderful manuscripts about the adventures of a little queer kid from Kwazakhele.
