One Winter Weekend

Chapter 10

Chapter 10

A s it turned out, the tours were every bit as amazing as promised online.

The Square was packed with tourists and flocks of pigeons; Max snapped a few shots of Naomi trying to coax one onto her outstretched hand, laughing as it flew away, disgruntled, because it realised she didn’t have a snack for it. They lined up with other tourists for the trip through the Basilica and were rewarded with hearty neck cramps from gawking at the mosaics and paintings inside.

“When we get back to the hotel, I’m wrapping a hot towel around my neck,” Naomi said with a laugh. Max wrapped an arm around her as they moved leisurely across the Square to the clock tower, where their next tour awaited. “Maybe the front desk could recommend a spa or something? You know, one of those places that do couples’ massages?”

“You’d be up for that?” Naomi looked at him in surprise. Normally any mention of a new activity would have him wrinkling his nose in suspicion. But he nodded. “You’d enjoy it. And I would…try to enjoy it!”

Naomi nestled closer to him as they joined the line for the Doge’s Palace. She couldn’t even remember the last time they’d been able to do something like this—well over a year ago, she supposed, before the late stages of pregnancy and then the baby left her essentially housebound. She was startled to realise she was truly enjoying herself, not worrying about Julia. She snuck a glance at Max, who only smiled. She smiled back a little. Was he thinking the same thing—that they were long overdue for this kind of date? As if to answer her question, he pulled her close and gave her a quick kiss.

Their guide was enthusiastic about her subject and gave them a richly detailed rundown of the history of the Palazzo Ducale. Even Max looked interested as she explained that the Palace was the hub of political power in Venice from the ninth century onwards, and its proximity to the Basilica was no accident, but rather a result of the intertwining of church and state in Italy at that time. Gothic arches and an impressive array of sculptures, paintings and frescoes covered the inside of the palace. The tour wound through multiple floors, through staterooms, criminal courts, cells, cramped administrative offices, and finally outside to the Bridge of Sighs.

“Why is it called that?” asked one of the tourists, and the guide explained that the bridge connected the interrogation rooms of the Palace to the outside world. Built-in 1600, the bridge earned its name from Lord Byron centuries later based on the somewhat romantic notion that it offered convicts their last view of Venice before entering their cells; prompted by the beauty of the city, they would sigh over their city.

“Of course,” she added, tapping on the stone bars on one of the bridge’s tiny windows, “there wasn’t a lot to back up that notion. By the time the bridge was built, there wasn’t a lot of criminal traffic going in and out of the palace. And with the small windows and the roof, there wasn’t much you could see of the outside city. But it makes for a very poetic name, in any case.”

Following the tour of the palace Max and Naomi joined the line leading into the Torre dell’Orologio clock tower. The stairs inside the clock tower were steep, and Naomi marvelled at the idea that for years someone had actually climbed the tower regularly to wind it up. Thank goodness for the modern marvel of electricity.

If she thought that tower was steep, however, the Campanile bell tower was even more staggering. The guide explained the story of the tower’s 1902 collapse and rebuilding and pointed out the view of the Dolomite mountains in the distance. Naomi sighed with delight as she leaned on the railing, surveying Venice below. It looked to her like one of those miniature Christmas towns that people assembled on their mantels in December, complete with tiny people, glowing shop windows, and snow-powdered rooftops. She could almost picture the spot where a tiny horse and carriage would travel, laden with packages to be delivered to homes in the city. Her mother loved to create such miniature cityscapes in her home every Christmas; she was probably setting one up now, or shopping for new pieces with baby Julia in tow.

The thought of her daughter made her start suddenly. She looked quickly at her phone. Time to call and check in!

She slipped the phone back into her bag and joined the crowd of tourists edging their way slowly down the steep stairs.