Chapter 40 #2
We’re staying at the Gritti Palace, a hotel of such opulence and charm that I vow not to take my Canada Goose off at all in the public areas.
I’m quickly realising that, in Venice, more is more.
Colours, and brocades, and etched glass, and jewel-toned chandeliers that apparently all come from Murano.
Everywhere your eye catches, it’s an abundance of Renaissance beauty—indoors and out.
As Xav has promised, the view at lunch is spectacular.
Almost better than the food. We stare at the geometric beauty of La Salute as we gorge ourselves silly on pasta with freshly caught local razor clams on the (thankfully covered and heated) terrace of Gio’s, the super-posh restaurant at the St Regis, just a few doors down from our hotel.
The St Regis is a Tardis-like cavern of shiny marble, but I prefer the Gritti Palace, which feels older and more authentic.
You can really believe that a mega-important Venetian family lived there five hundred years ago.
‘Why are you so worried about the timings?’ I ask Xav as he wraps lunch up speedily and ushers me in the direction of Piazza San Marco. We walk down a wide, immaculate cobbled street where every single shop is posh: Gucci. Max Mara. Chanel.
‘Partly because we have timed tickets, and partly because I have a million things to show you and two days to do it,’ he says. ‘But I’m hoping you’ll understand the third reason in just a moment.’
We emerge out into a huge square, and oh my God.
Oh my God.
The square is so beautiful. There are covered walkways with big stone pillars the whole way around. But the real show is right in front of us, because there it is: Basilica San Marco, bathed in sunlight.
‘That’s the reason,’ Xav says. ‘The basilica faces due west, and I was damned if you weren’t going to see it in the sun. Pretty short days, at this time of the year.’
Stupefied by the dazzling beauty before us, I allow him to lead me across the square. It’s not even that busy: a perk of visiting in low season, I suppose, although I’ve noticed that absolutely everyone is a tourist.
‘Stop,’ he orders me, ‘and let me take a picture.’
I stop and stand in front of the beautiful building, drowning in my puffer coat and grinning like a maniac.
He lowers his phone. ‘I’ll treasure that forever.’
Up close, the basilica is even more astounding. There’s a lot of stone and aggressive marble, but what makes it magnificent are the gold-mosaicked arches that glitter and gleam and seem alive. We head inside, and the effect is only magnified.
Holy hell.
I can’t stop looking up. I’m going to sprain my neck, but I don’t care.
The entire top half of the church is made up of endless arches and domes, every single one covered in gold mosaics while celebrating angels and saints and goodness knows who else.
It’s so old, maybe the oldest place I’ve ever been.
I’m not religious in the slightest, but as the rays of sunshine shine through the stained glass windows and drench the entire place in light, it feels almost spiritual.
‘It can be a bit gloomy on dull days,’ Xav says. ‘I was desperate for you to see it like this. And it’s nice and quiet. It’s a bloody zoo in the summer.’
We wander around the church, taking in every beautiful detail and marvelling at how the hell the poor fuckers who built it a thousand years ago managed to pull it off.
My emotions are running so close to the surface.
It’s the sheer magnificence of this place, the surreal nature of it, and the fact that I’m here with Xavier. That he engineered all this for me.
‘There’s one more thing I want to show you,’ my handsome tour guide says.
We ascend a narrow, steep stone staircase and then we’re up on the stone balcony that runs along the front interior of the church, and it’s so incredible I can’t bear it.
We’re right up there with the golden domes and arches, the entire basilica laid out before us in all its perfectly symmetrical splendour, and I take a zillion more photos while trying not to look directly down, because we are up high.
But this isn’t even the best part, because Xav leads me through a little exhibition room, and then we’re outside on the main loggia looking over the whole of the piazza.
My jaw drops as I take it all in: the huge stone lions next to me; the sunlight streaming right at us as if Venice is putting on a show just for us; the hundred-metre-high campanile in front of us.
Xav steers me around to the left, where the Doge’s Palace stands in all its impossibly delicate, pink-and-white glory and, beyond it, hundreds of gondolas bob prettily on the water.
This place is impossible to process. Just impossible. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s too much: every single exquisite detail given over to visual pleasure. I mean, I’m sure every detail was also meant to underline the power, the might, of the Venetians, but I’m just here for the aesthetics.
‘You okay, sweetheart?’ Xav asks, slinging an arm around me, and I shake my head.
‘No. Not really.’
‘It’s a lot.’ His voice is soft as he pulls me closer against his side so we can look out at the vista together. ‘Especially for an aesthete like you.’
‘It’s so beautiful I can’t bear it.’
‘I know. And the history, too. It’s mind-blowing.
That space there’—he points between the two huge pillars that mark the entrance to Piazza San Marco from the sea—‘was where they carried out all the public executions. It wasn’t just a pretty face.
Venetian history—both political and maritime—is fascinating. ’
It’s impossible to square the loveliness of our current view with the brutality of its past, so I don’t even try. Instead, I stand here, my eyes stinging at the freezing bite of the December wind as well as the whirlwind of emotions that I’m not equipped to process.
I’m in the most magical city in the world with the man I love more than anything else.
There.
I said it.
But this is it. Two nights of this, and then we’re dust, pretty much. Maybe we’ll squeeze in a few more trysts before New Year’s Eve; maybe we won’t.
Maybe we shouldn’t.
Maybe we should ride this high and go out in a blaze of glory. Trust that no goodbye in London, no squeezed-in fucks, no teary farewells on a dark, damp Harrow Road could begin to be worthy of our brief romance in the way that Venice is.
Xav may have given me the gift of a weekend in my dream destination, but he also gave me the gift of a weekend with him.
A weekend where we can emerge into the light together, where we’re not secret or tawdry but just another tourist couple wandering about, holding hands and marvelling at every perfect corner of this city.
It’s the most fitting swan song he could have given us.