Reflections Through the Glass

Nowhere in the world appreciates colors like Venice. Colors flooded the streets and canals, accompanied by the sunlight’s glow. The only mode of transportation in the city on the sea was by boat, and the water’s reflection glistened on the stone and marble buildings. The city felt like it was straight out of a fantasy book, granted a fantasy book with a brutal sun and killer mosquitoes. Crowds clumped together and flocked into the bus boats to cross the turquoise waves. Horner gathered us up and explained that we were heading to our Airbnb’s. After dropping off the girls, we meandered through the claustrophobic alleyways. The city was like a brick labyrinth, and we kept hitting dead ends from the water canals. After what felt like an hour, we staggered to the apartment room on the third floor. The apartment only had the bare essentials; a small kitchen and dining room, a mini living room, and one bathroom to share between the nine of us. Two real bedrooms were reserved for the adults, while wooden planks imitated a staircase to a cramped makeshift room. Wooden beams shot from side to side, forcing us to climb around them to our beds. After counting, we realized that we were one bed short for the guys. I decided to take one for the team and sleep on the couch, but Mrs. Horner had the idea of combining the two couches together to make a sort of box bed. Although it doesn’t sound like a dream apartment, a small window kept me company all night and I watched the water flow down the canal below.

However, I did not get much sleep since I woke up in the middle of the night. The landline in the house started ringing and blinking. I tried to ignore it, but once I realized no one else was going to answer it, I decided to pick it up. “Hello?” I mumbled. There was no answer but the crackling static on the other line. “Hello?” I repeated. Still no answer. Now I had seen enough horror movies to know that something like this doesn’t end well, but I was too tired to care, and I staggered back to my box bed. I situated myself in a comfortable position and tried to fall asleep again until I started hearing whispers. It was my name. The voice started as a barely audible whisper, but it grew louder and more incessant. Then a thought came into my head. I ran barefoot out of the apartment room. The family staying on the lower floor peeked out at me, muttering about the commotion. I creaked the front door open and stood face to face with two of the guys in my group, who, for their sake, will go unnamed. They had stayed out later than everyone else and were unable to get a hold of anyone. One’s face could only be described as pure terror at the thought being locked outside, while the other seemed to have accepted his fate and was propped up against the wall. Nobody said anything; we all just tumbled back upstairs and passed out.

A little groggy from the night before, we woke up early to visit the two islands Murano and Burano. I couldn’t stay tired for too long with so much excitement around me. Murano, most famous for being the origin place of mirrors, was teeming with light and colors. Every shop advertised their unique glass blowing skills. There was no limit to the creativity of glass figures that could be found; a family of pink hippos and a polka dot dolphin decorated the shelves, as spiral chandeliers illuminated the stores in shades of yellow and green. We strolled down the streets, inspecting every window’s exciting glass displays. The shops were not the only places celebrating the island’s glass blowing talent. Each restaurant sported their own unique glass dishes and cups, and even houses placed glass daisies and sunflowers on their windowsills to brighten the streets. Above the clanking of dishes and the voices of tourists, I could hear a muffled tune.  I turned the corner to see a young woman playing a song on a set of glasses. Her fingers fluttered over the glass rims to produce different sounds. My classmates froze in place observing the sounds and colors that encircled them. I could have stayed here all day. I then checked my phone and nearly gasped. We only had a few minutes left before we had to meet back up with Dr. Horner. We grabbed a quick lunch and dashed back to the bus boat.

I was able to explore Burano completely on my own because of its smaller size. I thought Murano was colorful, but Burano blew me away. Dr. Horner had described the town as “an explosion in the Crayola factory”, and I did not understand what he meant until I looked for myself. Every house was painted with the brightest pinks and yellows, almost as if trying to outdo one another. Everything had its own unique design, taking advantage of all the colors. A few motorboats pushed through the canals and traveled underneath the low hanging bridges. A light breeze caressed the water’s surface and cooled the sun’s rays. Clotheslines were draped from window to window, with laundry as colorful as the houses. I spotted children peep their heads out of doorways to watch me. I must have looked so foreign, staring in awe at what was nothing out of the ordinary to them. How funny it must be to grow up in such a brightly colored place. Then it dawned on me how boring the rest of the world must feel to them. I would never want to live in a place like this where the colorful beauty would grow dull to me.

As the sunset flicked its last rays of light onto the choppy sea, we began to make our way back to the mainland. We split up for our last dinner in Venice, and I knew that, of all people, Dr. Horner would know how to get us into the best place, so I stuck with his group. Sure enough, he knew the owner at a nice restaurant on the dock, and we were seated almost immediately. An elderly man playing the accordion and a woman who had gotten a little too friendly with her wine were the only things that could be heard. After a few minutes of waiting, piles of seafood were stacked in front of us. I was never the biggest fan of seafood, but after the first night’s dinner of squid risotto with squid ink sauce, I knew I should broaden my horizons. No seafood in California compares to the meal I had that night. Calamari, shrimp, baby lobster, clams, and mussels had been steamed and fried to perfection. A tangy lemon and butter sauce was drizzled over the dishes. The flavors melted in my mouth and left me yearning for more. The juicy shrimp and the crispy calamari were a perfect way to end my dining experience in Venice. The meal was not heavy, and it left me content and happy with my choice of food.

Afterwards, we wandered back to our apartments. The city had become a graveyard, with the even the water standing deathly still. Everything was so peaceful that I had to stop and think. In many ways, Venice was a place of reflection. The quiet of the town left me space to hear my own thoughts. Something about the city was almost nostalgic. I thought of the beaches and the city late nights back home, although they were nothing like here. After the high-paced action of Florence, I kept imagining how much my friends and family back home would enjoy the city. I am thrilled for the few weeks I have left in Italy, but Venice reminded me to reflect on the life I have back home.