62. WATCH OUT FOR FALLING ANGELS

WATCH OUT FOR FALLING ANGELS :   a sign posted outside the Santa Maria della Salute Church in Venice, in the early 1970’s before the restoration of its marble angels.

I was about to write that in the week I’ve been here, I haven’t been into an art gallery, or a church, or heard a music recital.  That I haven’t done a passeggiata - evening walks with a loved one, dressed to the nines in killer shoes.  That I haven’t eaten enough Venetian food or walked enough bridges although I have walked here until my feet have cried and become depressed and melancholy.  I haven’t spent enough time in St Marks Square or fed a pigeon in a piazza, and I haven’t had time to smell the roses or pick jasmine. That my days here are coming to an end and I haven’t had a gondola ride - or an Italian kiss! I’m a bit panicky that Venice hasn’t even touched my skin as lightly as a zanzare, (mosquito) or a floating mist.   

But Venice is an art gallery. It is a church.  There is music everywhere, in every stone, at every corner, in the rapture on everyone’s face.  It’s a city to be loved, passionately. I can never, ever have enough of Venice, no matter how much time I spend here.

Something wonderful has happened.  I am going to return.  Soon.

Giorgio and Sylvia

Giorgio, introduced in the previous blog as the owner of a shop selling Venetian beads,  and his gorgeous French wife Sylvia,  arranged to meet Dawn at I at Ponte Nuovo for a lunch trip to Murano. We’d walked for miles and miles through the labyrinths of Venice, past the usual spots to the less popular, almost deserted, crumbling parts where the Chinese hadn’t yet invaded with their knock off Venetian masks and handbags, where locals clustered around tables criticizing the government and everyone’s shoes. We’d asked directions, over and over, and everyone told the same vague story - it’s only cinque minute away. It took almost an hour to reach the port, going down several blind alleys heralded by bells, but Giorgio and Sylvia were there on time, in their mustard and white linen suits and scarves and cravats. We were greeted with hearty double kisses and hugs, as if we’d known them forever, and boarded the vaporetto for Murano, the island where all Venice’s glass is made.  

Waiting for vaporetto after new life door opens, Murano

The factories used to be on Venice, but the furnaces caused so many fires, the factories were moved to the island of Murano. They’ve been the source of all the Venetian beads across the trade routes, from the mid 1800’s, and the old ones are highly collectible, expensive and becoming less available.  The modern beads are also exquisite miniature works of art, sought the world over.

The sea was choppy, the vaporetto bursting with people facing into the breezes, being stung by salt. Murano was sunny, warm, welcoming. We walked through the back streets, past magnificent churches,  and waterfalls of bougainvillea, to lunch at our hosts’ favourite restaurant under a canopy of blossoming trees. 

Giorgio, moi and Sylvia in Murano

We talked beads. We talked lives, and intersections and pathways and religious experiences. What led me here?  How did I get involved with beads? Why trade beads? What lay ahead for me?   They asked me if I’d like to live in Venice. Si!  Would I like to do some work for them? Si!  Would I like to have an apartment where I can work at a big table, to sell my creations here in Venice?  Si. Si!  They think I should have a shop.  MMHmmm..  Non cuerto.  But they say that with my personality I can sell anything. I would make a lot of money.  Hmmhnmn.  Still non cuerto.  (Vendere grande fumare, grande miserere, troppo matrimoniale) (shop very big drama last time many cryings)  

Mirella and moi looking Italian

Okay, how about if they give me access to an apartment for however long I want, starting September, and I learn all about Murano glass, and the factories and the history of Venetian beads, and spend my time creating my masterpieces?  SI!!  There are no other shops in Venice, that good quality pieces with antique beads.   Allore!  Would I like to come tomorrow and see the apartment so that I can decide for sure? Si!  Si!  SI!

But I don’t need to decide. I have decided. Si. Si. Si.  I think my face is going to burst with excitement and the sun and the blossoms, and bells, and the campari, and fried sardines an al dente spaghetti vongole and the handsome man at a neighbouring table who can’t take his eyes off my heaving cleavage clearly visible within my new Chinese/Italian linen dress, and my fake leopard skin ray ban sunglasses in 1950’s style, and my huge straw hat in a fashionable mushroom colour and the glittering stars in my eyes which are really tears of euphoria. 

Sylvia looks at me, touches my hands, and asks if I am religious. Non! But I believe in pathways.   But you have a religious expression on your face, she smiles. I try to explain about sliding doors and slamming doors and opening doors and doorless doors. And she says, you must come to Venice.  I will show you the apartment tomorrow.  She kisses me on both cheeks, and takes the next vaporetto Venice as the sun deepens and the colours of this Turner pallette intensify. 

Snr Morelli,  and moi looking happiest in years

1800's Venetian trade beads - Chevrons

Lunch finishes around 4.30. We go to the most famous glass factory of Murano, Encolo Morelli, established in the mid 1800’s, whose beads have gone world wide, who made the first of the millifiori that are now highly coveted Venetian collectibles. We’re introduced to his descendent, who shows us his private collection of antique beads; his sample cards, and he tells us about them. He inscribes a book of the biography of his family “a Savanna” .. and signs it. I Morelli.  I buy some of his special collection - really unique contemporary glass beads that Giorgio wants me to incorporate with the old beads.

We kiss and hug farewell on the vaporetto - Giorgio returns to Venice and Dawn and I swing on to Burano, home of the lace makers, where once upon a time I spent a delirious day amongst the coloured houses, bordering the canals and painted vividly so that when the fishermen returned from their travels, they could recognise their homes before they landed. 

Moi, in transition!

 Burano

We’re quite exhausted by this time and practically drag ourselves around, after getting some religious sustenance at the church with the dangerously leaning spire, and find the most famous restaurant on Burano so that I can treat Dawn to my long promised meal as celebration, but they’re closed.  Several large noisy Italian men, owners or co-owners or friends of owners, dressed in the Burano equivalent of thongs and singlets, do a mock kangaroo impersonation when, in answer to their question, realise we’re Australian.  Inside, those who run the restaurant were having a meal, so we weren’t even able to be served water. I walked around catching the changing light on the walls and being highly emotional at the change in direction of my journey, not yet set in stone.

Mirella and moi, celebrating in Venice

Mirella came with us the next morning into Venice because she didn’t believe our story about chance meetings and serendipity and path followings. I showed Giorgio and Sylvia some of the antique Turkoman pieces I’d bought on my last Istanbul day and they loved them, convinced that Venice has nothing like this, that I should incorporate them with Venetian beads, that I had a very good eye, and would I like to see the apartment subito? Si!

This close to canal

I loved it immediately. It’s not even a hundred metres from Giorgio’s shop. Dead centre near Piazza san Paulo, with a pasticceria on the corner, a canal at the end, the lane so narrow that you can touch both sides of the ancient stones at once. A heavy green door opens to a small entry hall, to the left of which is an ancient marble staircase with a black wrought iron rail; then there’s a landing off which is “my” apartment. There’s a huge bedroom with two beds and a giant cupboard for all my new shoes and handbags.  A  large work room with diffused light and many shelves, and views onto a fig tree, which I am sure will deliver its figs onto the windowsill when they’re ready. The cucina is modern and equipped, I’ll be within cooee of the church bells. The bagna has a bidet, toilet, bath and shower, marble floor and new taps.  

Entrada with Dawn, Sylvia and Mirella

Do I like it?  Si, in seventeen languages.  I am almost levitating. Will I return to Venice? Si!  When?  First week of September!  I am feeling dizzy and light headed.  My head is reeling with how to get Venetian beads from Morocco back to Venice as Venice seems to have run out of the old collectibles.  I’ll be able to cook. I’ll go to Italian school. Maybe I can run workshops there while I’m there.  But wait a minute!  I won the cruise in October!  I’ll have to return to do the cruise!  Then it will be November and getting chilly.  That’s okay, I can return when I want to.

The via where I will live

I feel short of breath. I see stars.  I am having a Stendahl moment.  I am at the fulcrum of my life doing an enormous change.  I will not worry about how, or how long, or what if, or being alone, or not loved.  Ever again. 

I am returning to Venice, to work under the guidance of a master.  And adopted by his beautiful French wife. 

In less than three months.

To live in an apartment.   

To create at the source, surrounded by everything I wasn’t ready to leave here.  I feel a deep sense of awe and amazement.  

Can't open a brolly in my lane!

View of fig tree from window