Some famous building in St. Mark’s Square, Venice, Italy; PC - author
Happy Sunday, friends. It’s 9:30 pm on Saturday as I write this to you because tomorrow is gardening day. I drove a mobile greenhouse home today(at least that’s what it looked like) from the annual Fall Plant Sale at a nearby garden.
Tomorrow, Reid and I will attack the yard with renewed vigor as we attempt to introduce some of our favorite native plants. So, no time for newsletter writing tomorrow. Instead, it happens tonight, in the silence of my house with the waning moon watching.
I’ve compiled for you two poems and one short story I’ve worked on throughout the week. They aren’t complete if any writing is ever really complete by the author’s standards, but they’re raw. (To be completely honest, I don’t even know if this story is good - I wrote it based on a prompt today from a creative writing book I’m working with).
However, they’re mine and they’re my attempt to capture my life through words, if anyone can truly do such a thing.
Pick what you want, leave the rest. I hope you enjoy.
xx
Camille
P.S. - the audio recording is just for the story!
A(Fairly Secular, Non-Denominational)Prayer for the Day Ahead
I worship the sky with my eyes in the morning
The miracle of life with my breath and attention
Oranges mellow into yellows as the chatter of my mind quiets
to reveal what truly matters
May I live this day with clarity of thought
kindness of heart
ease as life ever changes
and abiding in boundless love
The Guest House: Poem
Inspired by Rumi
This being human is a guest house
every morning a new arrival
I never know who will be at the door
although every night I try and predict who my next visitor is anyways
This has not been the most tried and true technique
This being human is a guest house
at the crossroads between death and life
a holy chance to love what will die
to receive unique gifts from every departing visitor
I cannot choose who will stay in my guest house
or for how long
So I build my house on a foundation of joy and love
Carefully grown in the garden
I fortify my guest house with grace and peace for all who enter
and sleep my guests on the nicest sheets and feed them the finest foods
hoping that when the day comes for my guest house to be demolished
all eventually are
the beauty I tended to so carefully in my guest house is scattered to the breeze for all to enjoy
Meet Me in St. Mark’s Square at Midnight: Story
An alleyway?Road? So small I had to take a picture. Venice.
Because I am here, the night of three men just got a little more interesting. It all started hours earlier when I met Hunter, a Swiss guy traveling alone in the lobby of the hostel/bar I’m staying at. I was sitting in a plush armchair that would have looked very nice in someone’s grandmother’s house, but was situated across from a leather couch and a squat chair.
The entire room was laid out in this manner, as if someone had gone into a furniture store with no clear aesthetic, declared they would take everything, and thrown it all into one dark room with bright lighting and called it “eclectic, funky, and hip”.
I, in the plush armchair, looked like none of these adjectives. I was curled up in joggers and a tshirt, already braless at 7 pm with my slightly crooked glasses on. Early for 25-year-olds in general, and particularly for 25-year-olds in Venice.
Reading a romantic turned erotic book I’d picked up in Cortina d’Ampezzo a few days earlier, a cute touristy town nestled in the Dolomites, I tried not to blush as I was drawn into the turbulent marriage of my two main characters and their many lovers.
Inevitably, my bubble was burst by an Australian sitting across from me. I remember nothing about this man except for that I thought he was predictable for approaching me and striking up a conversation, and he was young and shockingly blond.
It had been a hazard I was aware of when I descended the stuffy stairs to the only air-conditioned part of the building to find a seat amongst Venice’s most eligible bachelors and bachelorettes staying in a hostel - someone would approach me.
That’s how it goes as a woman.
Men always walk up.
Our conversation was truly unremarkable until Hunter walked over, a mop of black curls on top of an olive-skinned, slightly pimpled face punctuated with round, brown eyes. Tentative at first, asking if he could join, we quickly agreed, likely both thinking that anything would enliven our milk toast conversation.
Past the traditional, “where are you from? What brings you here?” questions that all hostel-goers ask one another (Hunter was from Switzerland and he was backpacking around Europe for at least a month), Hunter had lots of questions. Questions about why American universities became so invested in their sports. Questions about if it got any easier traveling alone. Hunter had opinions. These European cities were kind of all the same, he remarked.
We hit it off quickly. I gave him my number as he and the Australian headed to the bar to get a beer. I was invited, but I didn’t want a drink or any further conversation. I had enjoyed a rich meal and an amazing glass of wine in my own company at a fantastic restaurant down the street earlier. I would finish my borderline erotica novel and tuck in early, thank you.
Here, I said, to Hunter. Here’s my number if you want to hang out while we’re both still in Venice. I know this gets lonely.
As I prepared to head upstairs for the night a bit later, I waved to him, stopping by the high top he was sitting at to say how lovely it had been to meet him. A pasty, shorter man was sitting next to him.
“This is Jamie!” Hunter said genially, completely enthused to have made new friends. I hoisted myself onto a barstool reluctantly.
“Hello, Jamie,” I said.
“Jamie and I were just talking about how fucking busy this city is,” Hunter said.
“Yeah, I was at St. Mark’s Square today,” Jamie chimed in, “and it was fucking packed! Completely insane.”
Jamie was from Scotland, and didn’t really want to be here - his flight home to Aberdeen, which I would quickly learn was a place I did not want to go (“It rains a lot, and it’s gray all the time” “Kind of a shithole”) was out of Venice after his week of travel around Europe.
“I’d love to just go to St. Mark’s Square at midnight,” he said. “Quiet, completely tourist-free.”
This was a good idea, I conceded, but midnight sounded … late. Quite late.
A chicken family I found wandering in Venice
George Harrison reincarnated at 25 sans round glasses sauntered up to our little group. Will wonders never cease, I asked myself, not wanting to admit that social interaction was really lovely after traveling alone.
“Hi,” George Harrison said. “I’m Liam.”
“Holy shit, man! Another Scot!” Jamie exclaimed. “Are you Scottish?” George Harrison/Liam asked.
“Does the pasty skin not give it away?” Jamie asked. “Well, I am Scottish, from Aberdeen, but my dad’s Irish, so sometimes people don’t catch the accent right away.”
“I caught an Irish sound first, “ I said nonchalantly, unsure how valuable my input on the matter was as an American whose exposure to British accents was limited to Derry Girls and Outlander.
“Aberdeen!” George Harrison/Liam exclaimed. “No fucking way! I’m from Aberdeen!”
At this point, Hunter and I made eye contact and abruptly struck up a side conversation about how long we would be in Venice, or something similarly inconsequential while our two newfound Scottish friends commiserated about the woes of being from Aberdeen in the first place.
“Well,” Jamie said, bringing the attention back to our slightly bigger but still cozy group,”we were just chatting about going to St. Mark’s Square at midnight. Would you want to join?”
“Yeah!” Liam said. “Fuck the tourists. I mean, I know we’re tourists, but this place is overrun.”
“Let me go upstairs and change, “ I said, giving in to a budding feeling of gratitude for my fellow solo travelers who also hated how crowded Venice was. This, I thought, was enough to have in common with anyone. None of these men seemed like serial killers, either, or overt misogynists. This attempt at social connection seemed worth a go.
“Oh, are you coming?” Jamie asked, clearly surprised. “ I thought you were headed to bed.”
I shrugged. “ I changed my mind. I’d love to avoid the crowds with y’all.”
“Cool,” he said. “Meet back down here.”
I scurried upstairs as if on some kind of time crunch. It was fast approaching 930, so I threw my contacts in, put my hair up in a bun, and put on my favorite cropped hoodie, going for a “I didn’t try at all” aesthetic - because I wasn’t really making any effort with makeup, hair, or a cute outfit.
Just because I was going out with new friends into one of the most popular cities in the world did not mean I was abandoning my pseudo-motto for this trip of trying less. Doing less. Being more myself. Traveling for me.
I ran back downstairs, trying to look cool, casual, and confident - not like I was harboring a small fear that these men were douchebags who would leave without me. My tiny fear was unfounded, and all 3 of them, George Harrison, Hunter, and Jamie waited as I bought my 48-hour ferry pass because it is impossible to get anywhere in Venice by foot unless you’re staying on the mainland - a small mercy, we all agreed, that our hostel was not on the mainland.
“Can you imagine?” one of us asked.
None of us could imagine.
The ferry pulled up outside of our hostel, a sound that reminded me of a boat intentionally running aground as if rocks are being ground up by your garbage disposal.
The ferry pulling up outside of my hostel
Through the waterways of Venice, up and down bridges, and at the restaurant we picked for dinner(although I had only espresso) we chatted about everything. Hunter and I talked about what he wanted to study in university and the differences between Swiss and American university.
Our ferry ride over to St. Mark’s Plaza saw me explaining that I wished I had studied something I truly loved, instead of a degree that was meant to be a means to an end I never saw through.
He listened along with the dark waves and sparkling lights. We pushed our way through slightly thinner throngs of people as George Harrison/Liam told me about his job and life in London( “so grateful I moved away from Aberdeen” “Is it really so bad?”)
“Alright, crew,” Jamie said. “Where are we eating?”
“Let’s just find a place that looks good,” I said. “ It’s Italy, anything will be good. Also, I don’t want dinner, so you all choose.”
“This street looks cute!” Jamie said, gesturing. We all hmmmd our agreement. “This restaurant looks cute,” our de facto decision-maker said.
“Buona notte,” I said, wincing at my lackluster Italian, “do you have a table?”
The tiny tealight in the middle of the table beheld lots of laughter as we shared travel tales from the past weeks and months over delicious food and for me, a cup of espresso and a biscotti.
There’s something holy about the camaraderie that comes from tying your soul to other’s souls, even if only for a night. You’re all adrift, and then you find safe harbor in one another. You acknowledge that being alone is what you wanted, and certainly is better than being with people you hate. (“Traveling with high-maintenance friends is the worst!” George Harrison said. “Is it always this lonely?” Hunter asked wistfully)
Yet, being only human, you yearn to share an experience only you understand with others who will understand it. Other solo travelers understand the unique loneliness of knowing no one and having no friends in a sea of people.
So you tie your adrift boat to the same port for a night and share about your lives, your worries, your hopes, your dreams, and sometimes your darkest secrets, liberated knowing that you may never see each other again, and grateful that someone opened their heart to what you’ve been dying for - kinship. Companionship. Friendship.
A slight miscommunication occurred between us and the waiter, who was “trying to get us out of here,” Jamie chuckled. “It’s closing time and it’s raining.”
I paid for the whole thing. Everyone’s dinner. I opened the bill that I thought was solely mine and looked at the waiter and said, “you mean I just paid for this whole dinner?” and the five of us just started laughing.
“Okay, guys!” I said. “It’s your lucky night!”
I got cash tossed at me for the next few minutes as everyone chipped in their portion of dinner. “Thank you,” I said to a 10 euro note. “Thank you!” I said to a 20 euro note. “It’s too much,” I said to two 20 euro notes, still giggling.
Off to St. Mark’s Square we went, the goal of our night still not complete. As my new friends took pictures of what was famous - the Basilica, the Ducale - I soaked in the night. The privilege to meet people from all over the world, to have the means to travel, and to connect with souls who I may have never met otherwise.
A saxophone playing in front of the only open restaurant caught all of our attention, and for the last 5 minutes of his performance, it felt like this music was what we had come for - not the Basilica or the Ducale.
St. Mark’s Square at midnight. What a brilliant idea, I thought, as my heart swelled with gratitude. I giggled as I took a picture of George Harrison/Liam dancing with himself in one of the most famous Piazzas in the world.
Jamie, more contemplative than his Aberdeen counterpart, stood next to me soaking it in. Hunter couldn’t seem to get enough of the night either. To shouts of “Encore!Encore!” which apparently does not always prompt an encore, my friends and I walked back to the ferry under a starry night sky, not to meet again after we parted ways that night.
When someone opens their heart to you in the span of 5 hours and you do the same, you are never the same. You never can be. Because I was there, I was changed.
I smiled from ear to ear when I finally checked Instagram days later. Jamie had posted a picture of the four of us at the dimly lit restaurant captioned with something like, “thanks to these guys for giving me a wonderful last night!”
The privilege was all mine.