09 - End of the Road

Before lunch even had a chance to settle in everyone’s bellies, Signora Angelino made an announcement.

“I’d love to enjoy the warm sea breezes all afternoon. Unfortunately, I didn’t come to Venice to sunbathe. I have work to do.”

“Where are you going, Aunt Frannie?”

“I’m going to visit a dressmaker in San Marco.”

“I could take you,” said Uncle Gio.

“Thank you, dear brother, but I can walk.”

“Nonsense, Fran,” spouted Uncle Gio, “The bridges and walkways of Venice form a complicated maze. Let me take you.”

“How do you suppose you’ll take me?”

Uncle Gio pointed to his motorboat.

“I can’t take a boat. This is a very important client and my hair will get mussed if I ride in that thing.”

“You know this is the best way to travel in Venice. I promise to be careful.”

“Alright, Gio.”

“Can we go, too?” asked Sofia.

Her mother agreed, so Uncle Gio took everyone for a slow cruise around the island. Warehouses sat along the outer rim, decorated with cargo ships and dockworkers. The familiar tower or San Marco, Saint Mark’s Campanile, and the dome of the basilica rose over the skyline. Once the boat turned the corner, the work-a-day warehouses disappeared, only to be replaced by the stately palatial manors that lined the interior canals.

“I can’t imagine living here,” said Sofia.

“I can’t imagine living any place else,” said cousin Val.

“Each one of these palaces was once home to a wealthy merchant,” said Frannie.

Sofia wondered at the decorative building façades.

“It’s so different from home,” she said.

“Venice is a wonderful blend of many cultures,” explained Signora Angelino.

“See the windows with their onion-shaped arches? That’s part of the influence from North Africa, like the mosques of Morocco and Tunisia. Do you see the intricate lace patterns in the woodwork separating each window? That’s from Byzantium and the east. And you know the Roman columns that separate each arch and the plain square terraces separating each floor. That’s just like Rome.”

“It must’ve been an easy life,” said Sofia.

“It wasn’t easy at all,” said her mother.

“I know, but…”

“No buts about it. As merchants accumulated wealth, they had to protect it. They developed a great naval fleet. Venetian shipbuilders had to follow very strict guidelines. Every ship built for trade was constructed so it could be changed into a warship at a moment’s notice. It was a matter of survival for the Venetians.”

“If there was so much trouble, how were they able to keep palaces as beautiful as this?”

“The Venetian Navy protected the trade routes throughout the Mediterranean. Venetians also built fortresses all along the Adriatic coast. And these expanded the territory of the Venetian Republic.”

“There were still problems,” said Aunt Christa, “back then, merchants sometimes had to travel halfway around the world, just to get the things they wanted.

They traveled in large groups called caravans to protect themselves from pirates and thieves. They also found rest stops along the way called caravanserais. That’s where they could get rest and nourishment. As the caravanserais developed, they also provided gear for the caravans. ”

“Like Marco Polo,” said Aunt Frannie, “he traveled along the Silk Road from Italy to China.”

“What’s the Silk Road?”

“Merchants use the Silk Road to travel between Europe and Asia during the Age of Exploration. Ever since the days of the Roman Empire, European merchants brought exotic spices and fine silks from eastern Asia. The Silk Road was the best because most of the merchants relied upon it.”

“But the Silk Road wasn’t just one road,” added Aunt Christa.

“I was getting to that,” said Aunt Frannie, “The Silk Road was a complex set of routes, traveling across the steppe, through the deserts, and over the mountain passes. It also ran along the coasts of Arabia, India and China.”

“The merchants were looking for any way to get silk from one part of the world to the other,” said Uncle Gio.

“When Marco Polo traveled with his father and uncle, he encountered new worlds many Europeans could never imagine. Up to that time, they envisioned all people from the Orient just like Attila and the Huns. They were very wrong. In fact, the whole world was very different what they had imagined.

First, they sailed through the Mediterranean, arriving in Israel. They went north into Anatolia (today’s Turkey) and crossed the land bridge into Asia. Scaling the rugged mountainsides and crossing rocky terrain, they found themselves in Persia. It’s now called Iran.

They traveled through the Zagros Mountains. It was cold and dark and lonely in the middle of the night. A small caravan of five – the Polos and the two friars who accompanied them – traveled alone through the mountain wilderness. Marco described it as so desolate that he imagined conversations with the spirits of the night.

When they escaped the harshness of the Zagros, the desert lay before them. They purchased camels from the caravanserai and made their way east and north through the desert. By day, the desert was as hot as a torch. By night, it was colder than our coldest days. They crossed the valleys of Uzbekistan, Afghanistan, Mongolia and China. When they reached the eastern end of the Silk Road, they ran into the leader of Mongol hordes of the great Emperor Kublai Khan.”

“That’s all storytelling,” said Uncle Gio.

“Pish-tosh,” scoffed Aunt Frannie.

“What do you mean, Uncle Gio?”

“People don’t even know if the stories of Marco Polo were fact or fiction. The books were called “Il Milione”, but many think it means ‘the million lies’.

“It can’t be lies,” interrupted cousin Val, “we learn about it in history class.”

“Not all of it,” said Frannie, “but some wonder if he ever met Kublai Khan. In his book, he claims not to just met him, but to be a member of his royal court.”

“What do you think, Aunt Frannie?”

“I’m not sure. When Marco Polo returned from his travels, Venice was involved in the Italian Wars with neighboring Genoa. Marco was imprisoned. He told his stories to another prisoner, who also happened to be a writer. The collection of stories is often fanciful, but there is no proof one way or another. Still, historians debate the truth of it. Those who relive the journey find all his claims, no matter how bold, as pure truth.”

“It must be marvelous to travel the world,” said Val.

“Marco Polo’s stories were marvelous,” said Frannie, “Imagine telling the tales of mountain sherpas and far-off caravanserai peddling exotic wares from Indonesia and China and Turkey. Back then, they did not have televisions or radios. Even the newspaper wasn’t a daily event. People told tales by campfires or during small gatherings, like the local pub, after church services, or while taking a walk with a friend.”

“It was a different time,” agreed Aunt Christa.

Uncle Gio pulled up to the sidewalk next to the dressmaker’s shop. Cousin Val jumped out onto the sidewalk. Her father threw her the boat line and she hitched it to the mooring post.

“We’ll take Sofia on a gondola ride,” said Uncle Gio.

“I won’t be long at all. Couldn’t you wait for me?”

“Sure thing, sis. We’ll go see the basilica.”

While Aunt Frannie disappeared into the dressmaker’s shop, Uncle Gio led the way into St. Mark’s Square. They crossed through a walkway that led beneath the building

It was a large, open-air plaza with large buildings facing inward from all four sides. The Doges’ Palace guarded three sides. The Basilica stood at the opposite end. Sofia wondered at its opulence.

“Is this basilica from the east, too?”

“It was originally based on a church in Constantinople, but it’s gone through many changes. Now, it looks like the intricately designed mosques of the Middle East.”

“It’s based on Arabian mosques,” interrupted Aunt Frannie, “but it also includes elements of architecture styles from the Gothic Age and Late Antiquity.”

“That was quick,” said Uncle Gio.

“I told you it wouldn’t be long, now let’s find a gondola and take that boat ride I promised my dear Sofia.”

Uncle Gio gave a whistle to a gondolier and in short order the entire group boarded the vessel. It’s long prow curled like an ancient Viking ship. The gondolier helped everyone in, one-by-one and stood on the oarsman’s deck at the rear of the gondola.

He rowed with a single paddle, singing Italian songs and pointing out the sights along the way.

“This is where Marco Polo once lived,” he said.

“And this is the part of the Grand Canal where I won the Regatta two years running with my friend Luigi.”

“What’s the Regatta?” asked Sofia.

“What’s the Regatta?” said the oarsman, “Why, it’s only the most important race in Venice. Every September; teams of two or four or eight race through the canal. Me and Luigi – we are the best.”

Sofia wondered at the thought of tens of gondoliers standing shoulder-to-shoulder, paddling fiercely as they raced through the Grand Canal, which was Grand, but still very narrow, especially for boat racing.

“It must be quite a sight,” she said.

“It is the most marvelous sight in the world.”

Sofia looked down at the oar as the gondolier as he feathered it through the water. He swept it to one side with a long J-stroke. The boat turned gently, edging its way to the place where they started their trip. Waves lapped at the side of the little boat as he steered it toward the sidewalk. Sofia looked up at the gondolier. A long shadow fell over his face. In fact, the shadows had crept up the walls of the palaces, tinting everything in a gentle yellow glow.

“That is all for now,” he said.

“Oh,” said Sofia.

“Maybe you can come back and see me win this year’s race.”

“Mama?”

“We’ll see…”

The gondolier placed a foot on firm ground as he assisted everyone off the gondola. As they returned to Uncle Gio’s house, Sofia stared dreamily at the palaces looming overhead.

“I think you’re both right and wrong, cousin.”

“About?”

“I see how you wouldn’t want to live anywhere else, but didn’t you like Rome last time you visited?”

“I guess, but I was only there for two days.”

“Maybe you should visit again.”

“Maybe,” said Valentina.

As the sun disappeared over the horizon, Sofia and her mother retrieved their bags. Unfortunately, it was time to return home.

“Ciao, mio caro,” said Uncle Gio as he planted a small kiss upon her forehead. Sofia smiled. She thought of her baptism, when the priests said a blessing in Latin and pressed their hands to her head.

On the way home, Sofia leaned her head in the crevice between the cushion of her headrest and the window. One was warm and one was cool.

Her head swam in thoughts of gondola races and boat rides to places far from home. Still, she was anxious to be back home to Rome.

The buildings appeared in the distance as the train neared Roma Terminal. The duomo popped out over the skyline, its head cast in shadows of the brilliant sunset. Sofia smiled again.

Rome.

Sweet Rome.

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