Venice in Spring

It is warm and sunny in Venice. You can smell some salt on the air, but the breeze is still fresh and the air still cool. Midday brings sunshine that will warm up your evening enough to allow you to leave your coat at home, but not enough to parade around in a vest. Unless you are northern European, of course.

I left late because Meep offered to mind Kaptain Kat and give me a lift, and arrived late. Spideog had stayed the night and we had a pleasant morning where he informed me that up until the night we got horribly drunk together, he had been seeing a Polish girl, one he was intent on marrying. The problem? She is only 18, and then on top of that he suddenly met me. I told him he was being silly and what the hell was he doing messing around with me if he intended on marrying her? Age is largely irrelevant. I informed him unequivocally that I do not share.

But he is a rare breed of man that approaches a relationship with some intention of commitment. Himself and the Polish girl are no longer seeing each other it seems. I stressed I did not want to feel obliged. He stressed that he did not really look forward to me escaping to Venice as he has been usurped by Italians before. We laughed and agreed to be honest with each other as we could, and that we have not to make any decisions just yet either way. After all, we barely know each other. Spideog remarked, upon kissing me goodbye, that he is fractionally taller than me in barefeet. I gently commented I'd already noticed.

Our first full day in Venice took in the Doge's palace, a labarynth of gold and oil rooms, and claustrophobic dungeons. Everywhere there are French and Spanish students, and the seafront is crawling with them. The stone of much of the buildings here is a faint pink, with streetlamps in green and pink on the corners. Bridges encompassing many shallow steps up and down adorn the streets to every side. Venice used to once balance glass craft with fishing and trade. It seems now to be tourist only, but beautiful nonetheless.

My favourite bridge is rapidly becoming the wooden bridge over Accademia. It is running up this with my brother in high spirits, that I meet a gentleman with a gentleman's overcoat hanging upon his shoulders. He compliments us as "the happy couple" and I know for once I look half-way elegent in a puffy black skirt and my pea-green soldier's jacket. I am a sucker for a gentleman that is not pushy. He invites me to join him, and I don't. He invites me to a party on Saturday regardless, but i will forget the name of the place where. After I refuse to give him my phone number, he merely chats to me, and then before taking his leave, compliments me again. No "why not"s or "go on"s or anything - a civilised chat and a "nice to have met you", the sincerity of which leaves me realising I have been an idiot. People will tell me all Italians are charming, but this man was one apart. Later this week I will regret my usual impetuous side had not more control over me.

In Venice all the trees are the dirty brown green that I used to associate with old paintings in the National Gallery. The lack of cars will not hit me til I return home, as I do not like them at the best of times, and it seems natural to me that they should be gone. The islands and boats keep me content as though I were on a cruise through the Antartic. The food is pretty much exactly what I eat at home, and not for the first time do I wonder where I got my cooking habits from. My father's family are Spanish but that is not quite the same thing.

We pass a hotel with a ship outside it several times before I realise what it is that bothers me about it. I had a dream about six months back, which I had completely forgotten, in which I get lost on this hotel. I am to move to Madrid, but I am engaged in a tour around this hotel which eventually goes on fire. Or something to that effect. I remember the place, and the sense of urgency in my bones that I have to move to Madrid. I remember looking for a loved one. All this rushes back as I walk past and turn to stare...

The man in the Hotel Art Deco is from Sicily. He sounds rather like a guy I used to work with, and is equally forthcoming with his opinions and information. Antonio never cared if you agreed or not because he was always right, and knew more about women than anyone. Well this young man is not so contentious, but he is very friendly and I think a little sorry not to be returning with us. It seems living and working in Venice is both a holiday and a job, but that real life and real friendships are made in colder less hospitable climates. I am not sure if I agree or not, but I will let you know when I move to Spain.

Meanwhile my sister has caught the eye of the young man in the cafe on the square, who has pronounced her Gentle. In a predictable move of commiseration, my mother announces I am only getting attention because my sister wears a ring. She is missing her boyfriend hugely, though she keeps to herself. Nothing highlights the gap between us more than her nightly conversation with him which consists on ".... not much..... yeah.... wha'?...... mmm.... mmm.... hehe... hah? wha'?... nah..." I couldn't deal with that level of conversation, and I am reminded that I am an intellectual snob most likely (or unlikely depending on how it is perceived), and I am single.

You can tell the churches apart easily, not least because they are huge and decorated by flying angels and statues of every virtue, but also because they are grey and the focal point of every square. One of my brothers traipses around translating the inscriptions in Latin, not bad for a 14-year-old. The other, who is getting given out to more than his due, comments negatively on all that we see. I think he is a bit bored. He is the type of kid that if you told him blue was a girl's colour he would never wear it again. He is the most sensitive and often most sensible of the lot of us, but his extreme carefulness makes him stumble and irritate where it is not intended. I suspect that we are harder on him than we realise, and he is a sweety. But even still, it is the other twin whom I choose to keep company with. Being culture vultures, and of indomitable expression, we are more similar.

I am so paranoid, that upon returning and texting Spideog, I want to see him immediately. I get worried when he does not text back, when really I should remember not only does he not owe me, but I don't owe him. Afterall, I know in my heart that despite a great affection for him, that I am unwilling to lay down a commitment with him. He knows that, for Chriat's sake. So after reaching home and thinking about it, I let it go, and resolve to not pull one way or another. Tomorrow is another day.

I am currently reading a book by a brilliant cryptographer called Leo Marks. Entitled "Between Silk and Cyanide" it is a facinating and extremely readble account of his experience as a code-breaker during the forties in Britain. It is, in a strange way, reminding me of what is important for me, and that my freedom is not an issue. Staying true to myself is not synonimous with staying true to others. And often what I consider a normal level of loyalty is unrealistic.

Tonight will be Monday night, which I know from experience, is a Free Night. In other words, I am bound by no-one and can do anything I like because I owe no-one. Although the fact that my face is slightly red due to mild sunburn is an irony that hasn't escaped me.