Rem Malloy

The hallowed ground of Venice

As a professional guide my job is to show people a good time and introduce them to places they have only seen in their dreams or on the occasional TV show. Because I travel to these places on a regular basis they become almost invisible to me such as the Space Needle does to Seattleites. To stimulate my quest for the new, I venture beyond the tourist menus and clouded spaces seeing to find my next great discovery.

Venice is a wonderland of history and amazing winding canals that take you back in time. It takes different eyes to truly see Venice, eyes that see through the throngs of people, past the vendors selling masks made in China and people, so many people.

One hot day in July I had the day away from my group, they were off exploring the museums and shopping for the perfect piece of Murano glass. For me this was my time to explore. I thought I would venture out of mainland Venice on the number 42 heading toward Murano. The sun was hot beating down on my skin, making it feel warm to the touch as if I were in front of a winter fire.

Boats zipped, sloshed, and trudged their ay past our slow floating people mover known only as Vaperatto number 42.

I had been to Murano many times to stroll through its small winding streets whose storefronts glisten with fresh blown glass. I was hoping that Murano would show me something new this time, but I was not sure.

The old 42 stopped many times along the way. The ropes would be thrown and a painful creek would be herd as they stopped the boat for passengers to venture off and on. Stop name, stop name the boats gatekeeper would yell in the most routine of voices.

My destination was Murano but when the waves lapped, ropes moaned at the stop cemintario; I was pulled to disembark. I had never been to this strange walled island so I thought I would take a break from the known and examine the unknown for a while.

What is this place? I thought as I ventured from the dock bobbing in the surf. With my feet on solid ground I went forward toward the large wooden gate open and inviting in front of me.

A graveyard, oh wow a graveyard. This island that is just another stop for the many tourists heading to Murano was where Venice buried its people.

Well not the next happy day trip destination to show my group but I will check it out anyway.

The entrance was non descript, just a few rose bushes and buildings; its so hot, maybe I will just go back to the hotel and take a nap; no I will continue.

As I ventured past the arches gravel pathways I was suddenly surrounded by thousands of plots. This place is big, really big; I just start walking.

The first thing that hits me like the pungent flavor of fresh basil of my first place of caprasi each year is the silence. Where are the sounds of the tourists; the muffled roar of life is absent. The silence embraces me, relaxes me, slows me down; its wonderful.

I start to explore this hollowed ground surrounded by water just off the edge of Italy's most visited city. Unlike in the United States where we mark our dead with a marble headboard, I see hundreds of stone, marble and granite boxes about five feet by 3 feet, each with a matching billboard that displays the typical graveyard scribble.

But wait, something catches my eye, something that is different, yet all around me. Photographs, not one or two but thousands of photographs. Photos of the dead in their time of life. The face of Venice's past lives greeting me with smiles, happy eyes and proud stances; I am amazed.

It becomes obvious that Italy has a tradition of placing a photo of the deceased on the plot so the living may see them as they were. the experience is not morbid but joyous as I wind my way back and forth passing the markers. Mario, enzio, Maria, Gloria, Luigi all greet me with their best poses. Big smiles, bright eyes and serious gazes. This place is full of life, the life that each one of these people lived and their personalities shine through in the candid photos surrounding me. Enzo with his boat, marias proud smile, one you can imaging she had while serving her prized pasta sauce to her family on Sundays.

Every so often I pass the living with a pleasant smile or polite "hello" the wind passes through the Cyprus trees; I can't hear anything but the wind and the gravel crunching under my feet. I am drawn to see the next photograph; will they be laughing, look mean or content, the suspense of who these people were is electric. I try to imaging who they were, what they did, who whey loved and it becomes apparent with each photo that passes by. Gentle Italian faces, many black and white but some in color which bring to life the persons image even more.

As I continue on, deeper into this vast island of the dead I find myself among huge mausoleums. These structures contain the most privileged of families, each boasting gold leaf writings, glass ceilings and modern entrances you would now find in any fine home. These structures are grouped together in this vast metropolis. I have wondered into the uptown, the park place of the dead where its tenants surly adorned themselves with Gucci, Prada and Araimani's latest offerings. Despite their past lavish lives, they now share the same destiny as even the simplest of plots bearing only a faded photo and weathered stone.

Were they Venice's founders, businessmen, wives, husbands, thieves or lovers; yes they were all that and they gave me the opportunity to meet them in the most relaxing and inviting way.

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