(Sometimes writing does not go chronologically. It leaps across time to a memory that is suddenly new and fresh, one that evokes laughter, a sigh, even a feeling of wanting that time back…)
Venice was almost like a whole new city. We had been there before, but it felt like a different life, a different dream. This time, I was near-adult, almost grown up but still needing that reassuring presence of parents and a frame of reference that they provided. My friend was with us and we were in Venice, city of canals, city of dark romance, city of strange smells, gorgeous people, bloody history and environmental disaster.
But for us, still teenagers with moods more whimsical than the Italian weather, Venice was fascinating. We pretended to be expert photographers, our small box cameras taking sweetly silly instant pictures that we all found worthy of comment, if not outright praise. And it was that self-professed talent that got us into a bit of deep water…though not especially of the hot kind.
We had driven into Venice fairly late in the day and checked into our hotel, all piled into one large room because of a severe lack of alternate space in the city. It was, after all, New Year’s eve and everyone was set to party. You could see the buntings all over the narrow cobble-stoned streets and people dashed hither and yon carrying mysterious cartons on their shoulders. Stores were open well after sundown, their windows blaring announcements of sales and their mannequins wearing the most vivid conformations of sequins I had ever seen. Gondolas and small motorboats slid over the canals, carrying loads of party-goers and musicians – one boat even had an entire rock band, long hair, leather, silver studs and all.
But we were rather less adventurous. All of us wanted not much more than to sleep and, after a quick dinner, we decided to retire…and then my friend and I found that the door of our hotel opened almost into the foyer of the movie house across the alley. In we ran, watched – I think – three shows back-to-back of The Aristocats – and then wandered sleepily to fall asleep with unwashed faces and our socks still half on our feet.
The photography started the next morning. It was very cold in Venice, the wind whistling sharply down the alleyways and straight into our ears. But we had to take our pictures from the middle of St Mark’s Square, so it was there that we headed. There was, however, one small problem, it was high tide and the square was thigh-deep in water. VERY cold water, we discovered, when we waded in, shoes and socks and purses left in the custody of my parents.
On the tips of frozen toes, our jeans rolled up as high as they possible could get, we edged out shivering way to a flagpole in the middle of the square. There we clambered atop the small platform and balanced, precariously, on the concrete block, our fingers shaking, our hair blowing madly, our sunglasses doing nothing to stop tears pouring out of our eyes from the sheer cold. But we were there, we had the sun glinting off the gold of the frescoes on the cathedral full-focus in our lenses and nothing could stop the enchantment of moment, not even blue feet and the prospect of going back into the water to find our way to warmth.
It all worked perfectly. The photographs still have that magic, all these years later, and the thought of that morning still makes my toes curl gently in the search for heat, never mind that it is summer-hot and sweaty in Mumbai these days.
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