Free The Mandolin Lesson by Frances Taylor

overnight train to Venice is tolerable since I have some company.

    *
    The journey to Venice passes without incident. I wake as before at Verona, which means that the last part of the journey is a little longer. It is about forty minutes after Padua, and just before nine o’clock, when we arrive at
Venezia Santa Lucia
.
    Our first priority is to check our luggage into the left-luggage office. I feel liberated with nothing but a small handbag to carry as we walk out of the station and down the big steps that lead to the Grand Canal.
    The second priority is breakfast. We turn into a street to the left of the station and find a bar. We order
brioche
and cappuccino, and stand with the locals eating our breakfast. We could be in deepest Italy, except that we are only a few minutes from an international railway station. There are no foreigners, other than ourselves, and we are hoping to be undetected. My husband has dark hair and is Mediterranean in appearance. I speak sufficient Italian to get by. We are passable Italians, as we nibble at our
brioche
. I take care to hold the white paper serviette around the pastry. It is a delicate business. I don’t want to get my fingers sticky with the apricot jam and I don’t want to be smothered in crumbs. There are other women dressed in elegant trouser suits who are managing the same operation with great aplomb. I think I am doing well. No one seems to have noticed that we are tourists yet.
    We walk out into the chill November air. I have postcards from previous trips of Venice enshrouded in mist and I have always wanted to visit it in the dead of winter. November is not quite winter, but it is certainly the approach.
    Our plan is to walk towards St. Mark’s Square through the streets and myriad alleyways. We begin to make our nostalgic pilgrimage to the basilica, pointing out to each other the places we remember from our earlier holidays. It is difficult to explain the allure of Venice. I have visited it on three other occasions, but I am always ready to return and hungry to experience it again.
    Some people say that its enchantment is a result of it being a city on water. They quote the fact that it is a city whose transport system relies entirely on boats. The buses and cars all have to stop in the
Piazzale Roma
at the entrance of the city where it is joined to the mainland by a bridge. The same bridge carries trains to the terminal nearby. Aircraft land at the airport, which is just across the lagoon, on the mainland. It is a peaceful city, people say, without the stress of modern transportation.
    The Venice that I am visiting is charged, as if with electricity. At certain times, when shops are open for business, it is particularly energetic and lively. It always seems to hum and throb. Its pulse, its vibrations, its movement is constant. Even when it appears quiet, it is never still. There is always water lapping against the stones or bricks somewhere. I listen to the rise and fall of the engine noise of the
vaporetti
. I hear these water-buses knocking against the landing-stages as they unload their passengers and refill with new ones. I am reminded of a time when I stayed in an inexpensive hotel near the station that backed onto the Grand Canal. All through the night, I was woken each hour by the thud and resultant vibrations of the
Accelerato
water-bus as it stopped and started near my window.
    Walking through the
calli
, or alleys, is like being in a maze. High up between the buildings of the narrow streets and alleys are strips of blue sky. Down here, I find it impossible to have any sense of direction. I am distracted at frequent intervals: a window, a balcony, some pots with late flowering plants, a cat. I see a linen shop and stop to admire some embroidered pillowcases and duvet covers. I never imagined that I could be so domestically inclined. I am rushed on. My husband is always confident of the route and always pressing ahead relentlessly. I am always ready