That Room in Venice

That Room in Venice

         There were nine days I spent in Venice which I remember as though they were a movie. It feels like it wasn't me there, it was me looking down on myself, watching this strange girl live and act. It's beautiful that way. That's what makes it interesting. I had made it my goal to go to Europe by myself and see what happened, so that's what I did. I was free willed eighteen-year-old, and stupid and didn't care. For a while I wandered the twisty streets, and fell in love with the canals. It felt like a set for a play, or some storybook creation. There were windows and doors stuck in all angles of the walls, and wharfs that I felt compelled to walk down. Everything was stone, and old, and the waters sparkled.

         The police in Venice are surprisingly strict about young girls sleeping under bridges. It was warm, and interesting so the second time I was caught, I pretended my wallet had been stolen. It hadn't, of course. I had very little money to last me four weeks in Europe. I didn't speak Italian, and they didn't speak English, but they showed me to a somewhat rundown but beautiful hostel on the open harbour that I remember as "the Elephant" because there was a purple elephant in the sign.

         The quick foreign words amazed me and the woman at the desk said "You stay for night," with a nod. The room I was in had concrete-looking walls that were white, with one painted a bright turqouise. In the room were six bunkbeds, four of which were taken by a group of tourists who looked very much like myself. Their hair was messy, and their clothes a bit worn. They had backpacks and bracelets and uneven tans. They were from Australia, and friendly. The girl I remember most had short wavy blonde hair and big, pink cheeks.

         This room was small, and they were laying all over the room, with one slightly intoxicated boy hanging his legs out the window. It was a beautiful window, floor to ceiling with no glass and only big creaky shutters. It was just a big hole in the wall looking onto the little street/sidewalk below. It seemed dangerous, but fun. There are funny little things I remember about each of the friends in that room. I remember their names, and wrote things about them down in my trusty notebook. Black-haired Felix had a pointy nose and wore a leather bracelet. He liked to draw all over everything. Blonde Cassy always wore brown shorts, and her wavy hair was beautiful. The brown-haired Liz had a beautiful smile and very tanned skin, and seemed to have more 'stuff' with her than everybody else. The final boy, Zack had long light brown hair and was gangly. He was easy-going and always seemed a bit stoned. I liked them all very much.

         The morning light was wonderful, as mornings always are. I found myself on a top bunk with no sheets. These four tourists became fast friends, and that room is stuck in my memory as backpacks and white sheets and lazy bodies. Their accents enchanted me, and apparently mine enchanted them. We wandered around aimlessly, stopping to take photos, and look around shops. The brown-haired girl had a guidebook. She was a prepared traveller, and it showed us the best nightlife in Venice. Of course, we didn't look first-class enough to get into the best clubs, and that was fine.

         The clubs were bright lights, loud music, strong drinks and glow sticks. Mystical nights where I don't remember details particularly.  I remember the free and fun feeling of dancing with strangers. There were druken nights where the black-haired boy and I walked the streets trying not to laugh. He paid for gondola's and I remember we waved a couple to join us on the boat. When they were getting on, he and I took off and hid in a big doorway. I believe it was to a church, thinking back. But then it was a safe, dark refuge where we slept and woke up the next morning with a bit of back pain.

         Venice is a strange little city that doesn't seem little at all. It smelled clean, and of the ocean. My bag stayed at The Elephant, and my body went wherever the Australians went. It seems the whole city is a fast, whooshing blur that I remember through photos and obscure details.  However, I remember vividly an evening where I sat with my legs out the window, and a notebook. The sunset was beautiful, and that room ... that room is a constant, beautiful memory and when I think of Venice, I remember that room. I miss it very much. It was a little dirty, like that building in general, and had only beds and one small side table, but it has stuck with me.

         The different bags scattered along with different people at various times brings me comfort. It was bright and breezy but also sticky and dull. The atmosphere of being there gives me chills, and those pictures of the five of us smiling make me smile. What is it about that room that I treasure so dearly? I don't know. Maybe it's everything. My state of mind, the adventure is gave me, the pick-up-and-go aspect it made me love.

         I don't even know what that hostel was really called, and though I do remember the Australians' names, we never kept in touch. I don't think I wanted to.