There were, it is fair to say, few upsides to the pandemic. I lived alone, did not discover yoga, did not discover myself, and instead chose to lose my mind gradually from lack of company. Still, it allowed me to work like a horse and, somehow, end up with a tidy and unexpected sum of money in my account. There is no need to go into the specifics, but let’s just say it was four figures; not enough for a puny millennial like me even to begin thinking about a deposit, but a pleasing amount nonetheless.
I did not know what to do with it until I did; I’d toyed with the idea of saving it, keeping it for bigger and better things, but in the end I decided to be very unreasonable. In November I booked flights and an Airbnb, and set out to spend two months in Venice, to do nothing in particular. I knew I loved the city and had a handful of friends there, and that was the full extent of my planning; I was going to spend the largest chunk of money I have ever had on the single most frivolous thing I could think of.
It was stupid and it was glorious; having asked myself to choose between security and joy — from the anticipation, from the trip itself, and from the memories I would make on the trip — I chose careless joy. The economy can go up and down and careers can peak and trough; the knowledge that you once had a tremendous time will stay with you regardless.
Still, a few days before leaving, I started having doubts; there is no great wealth in my family, I do not have a stable career, was I about to regret doing something usually reserved for the rich and idle? I am writing this a few days after returning to London and can say with absolute certainty that, no, I have no regrets.
For two months I lived in a flat where, if the window was open, I could hear boats gliding past from my bed. For two months I drank dainty little glasses of prosecco that cost €2 and sat with my legs dangling over the canals. For two months I bought my vegetables from a vegetable boat and crossed the Rialto Bridge to run my errands.
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For two months it was my life and it wasn’t; nothing in Venice is entirely real, even if you spend enough time there. I’d wanted to go partly because I had been there before, for short holidays, and had found it enchantingly absurd. There are no cars and no adverts on the walls, you must walk or get a boat to get anywhere, and little has changed for hundreds of years. I’d wanted to get under the city’s skin and find out what it was like day to day.
What I found was a surprise and it wasn’t. Sure, Venice has supermarkets that look like the supermarkets everywhere else and, sure, if you stick around you will end up having your local bar and local café and all the haunts one usually has at home. Still, nothing is really built for the people in the middle; the people who were not born in the lagoon but who are not entirely tourists either.
There is a cinema, but the only way to find out what’s on is to turn up there in person and pick up the weekly leaflet. There are bistros with large terraces that only open when the owner deems the weather to be good enough, and close whenever they feel they are done for the day. There was a charity shop I liked near my flat, but it closed down three weeks in; I asked a friend about it and she said, “Ah yes, that shop often disappears for months at a time. It’ll be back eventually.”
Restaurants have websites that have not been updated since 2018; exhibitions have Instagram pages that do not tell you when they open, or how much one pays to get in. It is charming and infuriating; it is not quite real life, at least not in 2022. The people I met also felt like characters in a novel; there was the nose who once made a scent for the Queen and the artist who blew me off because he had to have dinner with a European monarch.
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No one really has a job in Venice; people exist and they float from exhibitions to bartending jobs, from organising dinners to working the door at a theatre. It was a delight to be surrounded by them, though it shook my sense of self. I usually behave like the token bohemian in my group of successful, career-minded British friends — there I was often made to feel like the reincarnation of Margaret Thatcher.
It felt ironic as I spent most of my time feeling largely penniless; it may be cheap to walk and drink bargain fizz, but everything else is expensive. It is a city that knows how attractive it is and how much it can get away with; a diet of restaurants and museums may work financially if you are there for one week, but not for eight.
That is the contradiction at the heart of Venice: everyone you meet there will whinge and moan about the tourists, about the day-trippers and the tedious Americans, but no one would know what to do without them. Half-hearted measures keep being put into place to discourage them — like the ticketed barriers charging visitors up to €10 a day — but no one takes them seriously. As a matter of fact, news of those came out while I was there and, though it made headlines internationally, people in Venice barely talked about it, as no one believes they will make much of a difference.
If the tourists were to stop coming tomorrow Venice would drown. It is like the relationship between teenagers and their parents; there may be loathing and resentment but, ultimately, they know that it is nice to be clothed and housed and fed, so they scowl but keep going. Venetians also know, deep down, that their city isn’t real, and that is the beauty of it. They would move elsewhere otherwise; to a place with reliable jobs, cheaper housing and proper public transport.
In the end I knew I had to go back to a place like that; I couldn’t handle the whimsy of Venice life for ever. Still, I do not intend to be gone for long; I doubt I’ll ever return for months at a time, but a piece of my soul will for ever be lodged in the lagoon. Once a year, hopefully, I’ll be able to pop back, for a week, just to catch my breath before returning to real life.
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Follow Marie on Twitter at @youngvulgarian
