The general area that I live in is threaded with bodies of water, large and small, all of which ultimately flow toward the Pacific. It is not unusual in the span of a day to either cross over water or to follow along it's shore. Both dwelling place and industry are built to take maximum advantage of what a section of waterfront has to offer. Sailboats, fishing vessels, canoes, houseboats, ferries, cruise ships, cargo ships and seaplanes are common sights. Streams tumble down westward slopes, merge into rivers and flow toward large lakes and the Puget Sound. Beyond the mainland waterfront, the sound is dotted with islands that harbor life for different reasons and at a different pace than in the city. We are all interconnected and influenced by our proximity to this tangled flow of water.
Even though bodies of water are a daily norm for me, I was still surprised and unprepared for the short time that we spent in Venice this fall. Its 117 islands, 400 bridges and 177 canals. Its age and color and beauty. Its richly woven tapestry of history. Its waterways that serve the same purpose as the roadways I am used to: Moving people in taxis and buses. Moving groceries and goods.
We packed whatever we could into the day and a half we were there, making our way to the island of Murano to look at glass via a water bus. Pasta and a glass of wine for lunch. An evening gondola ride. It was warm and bright and sunny during the day and glowed with reflected light in the evening. The most impressive part of our visit, I think, was our arrival. We stood on an upper deck to watch the city grow large during our ship's approach from the Adriatic to the Grand Canal. It was colorful and thrilling...... and as I sift through my photographs, I remember what I felt: This is new to me. I am in a place I have never been before. I will get as much as I can out of it while I'm here.
The photos below are a set (in order) taken as a tugboat lead our ship toward Venice .
Where ever your travels take you today......I hope you enjoy them.
Growing up I had no doubt where I came from and where I belonged. It was in this home with this family. This history. I knew it was mine and that I owned it. I still have a sense of being rooted in something larger than myself. It travels with me, influences the world as I see it and integrates itself into my decision making. It is tangible and real and a part of my DNA. The collective past of many people, their possibilities and lessons, is where I’ve been and where I can go. This is a history of those who were transported by ship or wagon, looking for something different but familiar, and then settling in. Those who navigated unfamiliar languages in a backdrop that was ocean, prairie, plain and mountain. With each heave and pitch, ebb and flow, their lives shaped mine.
Both sides of my family at some point picked themselves up and moved, then planted themselves and stayed. The fact that their choices are simply interesting to me, somehow doesn’t seem like enough. They were difficult, hard working and risk filled ones made by real human beings and based on hope, possibility and survival. Choices that I have to take time and effort to truly understand. In the place I'm so fortunate to call home, it takes thought and imagination to process events that took place generations ago that allow me to be right here, right now.
A few months ago we were planning a trip from Barcelona to Venice. As it turns out, the distance from Venice to the town Marc's great-grandparents emigrated from is a few hours away via car. If we extended our trip by a couple of days we could visit. His great-grandparents were a big part of his life and their influence is still present. The town that they left was something they spoke of often.
So we stayed longer and traveled to Cimego to check out that part of his history. In the space of this blog entry I couldn’t possibly describe all the emotion that bounced around the interior of the car as we traveled northwest from Venice. We passed farmland and vineyard, making our way from sea level toward the Dolomites. The drive around Lake Garda was a sort of harrowing one with skinny and winding roads, but on it there were stunning views of lakes, rivers, small villages and mountain peaks. We had to pull over several times to figure out what one road sign or another meant and finally decided to turn the GPS off after realizing it was probably easier just to look at a map.
The trip took quite a bit longer than we thought it would. There were a few times that Marc questioned our decision, but finally we ended up in the quiet village of about 500. We walked the same stone streets and paths his great grandparents had past homes that have hay barns on their top floors. We visited the beautiful church of San Martino where they celebrated baptism, first communion, mass and marriage. Noticed the surnames of Zulberti (his great-grandmother’s) and Bertini (his great-grandfather’s) everywhere from gravestones to war memorials to businesses. The stories told by those who shaped his life about hard work, tough choices, food and connection to their country of origin fell so thoroughly into place during those couple of days that I could almost hear the click.
I’ve added a few photos that I took and will add more next week in another post.
I would love to hear the stories that shaped your life.
