I took yet another wrong turn and looked around. It was 10am, but down here in the maze-like bowels of Venice it could’ve been 10pm. I’d been up since 4am and the caffeine from the cup of coffee on the plane was wearing thin. Breakfast would’ve been lovely and there was certainly the tantalising smell of food in the air, but following my usually-acute sense of smell had already led me into three dead ends.

A couple of geriatric Italians grinned at me toothlessly from a doorway. Even if I attempted to ask them for directions in Italian they would feign illiteracy.

I stared at them and grinned back, making the shape of a gun with my index finger and thumb. My over-sized canines had done most of the work, but I had to admit: the finger-gun was a nice touch. Pointing it at the pensioners I asked: ‘Dov’è Al Doge Beato?‘ They showed me, with a nervous succession of frail arm movements, where I might find my humble abode for the next two days: The Blessed Duke, the Happy Duke — something like that.  It sounded cheesy, but it was charming– everything in Venice is lovely.

Perhaps ‘lovely’ isn’t quite the right word; ‘quaint’ better describes the almost-complete dilapidation of the city. As I walked on, almost everything is in an awful state of repair. There’s something about floating in the middle of a warm and windy salt-water lagoon that really eats away at the paint and brickwork. A few bridges and labyrinthine turns later, I stood outside my hotel: a canal-side, turn-of-the-millennium building — and I’m not talking about a few years ago! My room looked out over a canal on one side, and had a floor-to-ceiling double-door leading out onto an ancient stone balcony on the other. It wasn’t cheap, but considering nothing in Venice is, I thought I’d splash out.

‘You can’t miss Piazza San Marco, just head towards…’ I zoned out as he begun gesturing wildly with his hands. It was obviously an Italian thing, pointing and gesticulating; some kind of sign language that I wasn’t privy to. He noticed the blank look on my face. ‘I’ll get you a map.’ Armed with my map and camera and finger-gun I looked around and then at the map, trying to catch my bearings. Picking one of the three paths that headed south at random I felt like one of my other namesakes, Sebastian Cabot. He’d been a major player in Venice back in the day and he’d probably had less difficulty navigating Venice than me — he ended up exploring Brazil for the King of Spain! — but I gave it my best shot. I’d already decided ahead of time that ‘getting lost in Venice’ would be one of the primary objectives of my trip. Losing myself as I cut between two buildings that were no more than half a meter apart; disappearing amongst the endless serpentine alleys, lost to the world. Venice isn’t big, but you only need walk 50 meters off the beaten path, turn a few corners, and you’ll find yourself alone, standing beneath the imposing facade of a  Gothic church or Renaissance house.

First up was a trip to to the Piazza — the only real open space in central Venice and the home of most major landmarks in Venice. There’s also a huge clock tower in the middle which, as you’d expect, grants a spectacular view of the ancient core of Venice.

There are museums and churches aplenty in Venice, much like every major city in Italy, but they pale in comparison to the ones in Florence and Rome. I could easily spend hours writing about the 50 churches that I visited during my trip, but that’d be boring! (Unless you like churches a lot… like me!) Perhaps you can now understand where my recent interest in dissecting religion has come from — you can only spend so long basking in the shadow of such an ancient, powerful institution — Roman Catholicism — before something goes ‘pop’.

Venice was home to the very first Jewish Ghetto, a Venetian word that probably derives from ‘iron foundry’, or a corruption of ‘Judaca’, the name given to the streets in which the Jews were confined to in Venice. This is where Jewish segregation all began, though this ghetto didn’t enforce labour like later incarnations around the world — it was merely separation from the aggressive and violent Christians. Set up by the incumbent Duke to protect rather than enslave, the Jews probably sought refuge there — they definitely weren’t free to leave however! It was also around this time that Jews became, um, Jewish: Catholic law prevented money-lending, but Jewish law did not. Jews also became the best doctors because most medical texts at the time were in Arabic, a language that Italians and Venetians struggled to understand.

The Venetian Ghetto existed until Napoleon came along in 1797 and removed all of the gates that had penned them in for 250 years, though some early documents could put it over 700 years! All that remain are the hinges that held those gates, but the Jewish love of money lives on! (Remember, it’s not our fault though — blame the Pope!)

It was a little sad, walking around the dirty, tired streets of Venice, a city that had once been the most affluent city state the world has ever seen. The Queen of the Adriatic was one of its many names, a name that makes you wonder just how opulent and vibrant the city had been 600 years ago. For centuries, Venice was ruled by merchants – a republic, led by aristocratic merchants, their sole purpose being to make more money (something they did very well. What most people don’t know is that Venice actually held an empire — a small one, mainly consisting of the Aegean islands Crete and Cyprus, but an empire nonetheless. They had a sizable military force, and their navy of 3,000 ships were almost invulnerable in their stronghold of a lagoon. Most were merchant ships but often converted into warships when piracy flared up in the East, or when they played a large part in the Forth Crusade — the crusade often viewed as the final schism between Catholic and East Orthodox religions — a role in a war that would ultimately spell the end of the Byzantine empire. Not bad for an unnavigable flyspeck of an island!

And the scary bit? It was all made possible with money; a leader with almost unlimited resources and support from a loyal, trusting republic:  that’s capitalism.

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Alternatively, if you're new here, you might want to find out more about me, the author. Or perhaps you want to hear a posh Brit rant on about anything and everything (podcasts), or you want to read something more serious?

In an attempt to spice things up a little, I’m going to be podcasting a few blog entries — they’ll simply be an unabridged reading of the entry, possibly with a variety of retarded localised accents to make things interesting. I have no idea if it’ll work well or at all but I may as well give it a try — perhaps continue surfing the web while I read to you in the background? Forgive the vanity to your right… but I have to get my kicks somehow.

I can’t do a very good Italian accent, so don’t laugh! Fast forward to 3:40 if you want to just hear the ‘exciting’ bit with the shitty Italian accent, and a hint of Dan Brown-esque American storytelling…

Photographers have it easy compared to our painter comrades. We both deal in luminance and colour, tone, texture and saturation, but at the end of the day painters start with a blank canvas and nothing but the camera of their mind’s eye. Some painters will probably tell you that it makes their life easier, being able to create anything their imagination conjures up. Surely though, controlling the minuscule movements of mixing pigment and the brush itself is infinitely more difficult than raising the shutter on a camera. Then there are those that claim photography is harder — you can only work with what you’ve been given. There is some leeway of course: trickery of the eye and your ability to move props and pose models, but at the end of the day, that’s all you have: you can’t magic a dragon out of thin air.

Photography is all about working with what you’ve got. There is a small amount of knowledge that you need to know before you can operate a camera but we’re talking 3 or 4 simple equations — and the ability to push down a button. Point, and shoot. You can affect how much light enters the camera and that’s it. It’s because of this simplicity and the switch-over to digital cameras that we’re now swamped with thousands of photographers; you, your mother and her mother can be a photographer. It’s no surprise then that selling photos has also become a lot harder: there are more photos in circulation and thus it’s harder to be seen. You can still get lucky, but more than likely your only chance to make money today is as a stock or paparazzi photographer. Like almost every art form it’s one big labour of love: you pray that one day you’ll become the next Monet or Ansel Adams but chances are you won’t.  There are so few rich artists, it’s depressing.Whether it’s due to a lack of talent or saturation of the market I don’t know. What I do know is the one thought that courses through the mind of every person that’s made art their life-long dream: will I only be famous after I die?

To separate themselves from the pack, to stand out, artists try to be different. ‘Yet another photo of some daffodils’ isn’t quite as appealing as ‘Exploding daffodils in the bedroom of the woman that broke my heart’. Almost every photographer you’ve heard of or seen today will have been unique — that’s what it takes to not sink into the mire of boring, formulaic photographers, your voice forever unheard, your view of the world unseen.

It’s all about chasing the perfect photo. Like storm-chasers, train-spotters or groupies chasing the perfect tornado, rare train or celebrity photographers must try so, so hard to get the perfect photo.  Place yourself one centimeter to the left and you might ruin the entire photo. You might have to wait for a cloud to cover the sun to get the perfect light conditions, or even wait for the sun to be in the perfect position before you take the photo. A landscape could be completely average and nondescript at midday, but the most beautiful sight you’ve ever seen at 5pm as the sun begins to set.

Photographing people is another beast entirely: the merest flick at the corner of a girl’s lips might make or break a photo. A glint of sun refracting off her eye could change the meaning and the impact. Is she breathing in or out; are her muscles tensed or relaxed? Even the greatest photographers of all time might take thousands of photos of the same  setup — as the years go by, the ratio of good-to-bad photos will improve but you’re still searching for perfection, and sometimes that’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Fortunately I’m a landscape photographer. I’m quite good at portrait work, I just don’t have the experience — and being a good photographer takes a lot of experience. Landscapes don’t go anywhere: the sun continues to rise, the clouds roll on by — you can keep practicing and practicing, with landscapes. With people… it’s a little trickier. One day I’ll put in the hours and chain down one of my photogenic female friends, get the lights out and go to town! One day.

So there I was in Venice, up a clock tower. It was 3pm and sunny, not a cloud in the sky. Being the geek that I am, I phoned my dad and asked him what time the sun would set — 6pm, 3 hours away. Fine, I can wait 3 hours. I’ve got a book and a bottle of water. There are all sorts of pretty tourist girls swanning around that I can chat to, and take photos of (with their own cameras, of course!) Two hours pass, it starts to get dark, my pulse quickens. I dart around the tower, surveying how different Venice looks in the fading light, looking for the perfect angle for the perfect photo.

‘The tower will be closing in 10 minutes, please take the elevator back down.’

Shit. I smile and nod at the Italian, my mind quickly working through the available solutions: I wasn’t about to head back down the tower after waiting for two hours! It wasn’t a big tower, and there weren’t any obvious dark corners. I looked up and wondered if I could wedge myself inside the bell itself. Maybe in films… but not here in real life. I was out of time and only one option remained: climb out one of the windows and cling to the wall. They do it in films… they inch themselves along a thin ledge…

The Italian usher was slowly walking around the tower, shooing people into the elevator. I only had 30 seconds to decide — wuss out and waste two hours of my life, or… chase the photo. I jumped onto the windowsill and looked down — Shit — I turned around and inched backwards until my toes were on the ledge — Crap — I reach to the left and grab the edge of the next portal — Phew — I’m safe for now, but the pounding of my heart against the ancient brick wall would suggest I’m still in in a wee spot of bother. Finally, the sound of the descending elevator! I slide myself along the ledge, my feet now splayed like a ballet dancer’s and pull myself back inside.

There I am, all alone and king of the hill! I camped out for another hour, constantly assessing the landscape, sizing up the prey, waiting to strike. An hour later, I struck gold — a full moon! A total fluke, but completely deserved. I pulled out the camera, struck a pose not unlike a war-time sniper and… wait! A big ship too! Click. Bang!

That’s how I chased my perfect photo of Venice. It’s not a stereotypical view of Venice but I challenge you to find another like it.

It was getting cold and I had no food; I was out of water and thirsty. I packed up quickly and pushed the call button on the elevator. Nothing. I pushed it again. Still nothing. I looked out through a window and grinned in the darkness, wondering if it was possible.

To be continued…

This follows on from my tale of how I captured the perfect photo of Venice. Though it left me with an awesome view of the ancient city and a fantastic photo, it also left me cold and lonely atop a tall bell tower (the 14th century clock tower was actually across the square from me). The sun had set and the power cut to the elevator. I was stuck. The Hunchback of NotreVenice in the making. I’ve thrown in a few photos that have nothing to do with the story, I just want to force you to look at my photography, sorry.

I looked out of the window again: it was a long way down to the dark piazza below. There were still lots of people milling around, enjoying the ambience of Venice and the music wafting out from the exclusive restaurants and hotels that lined the square. But none of them were looking up at the tower. Noone could see me frantically waving my arms, trying to attract attention. I hadn’t started screaming yet but it was only a matter of time. If I resorted to screaming, would my voice actually carry far enough to be heard?

(That’s not my photo, but you get the idea of just how tall the tower is.)

Before heading to Italy I’d actually just watched through the first three seasons of MacGyver, which goes some way to explaining why I found myself in such a retarded predicament. I wasn’t afraid, damnit, but in chasing the perfect photo I’d found myself alone at the top of a tower with nothing but a camera bag, an empty bottle of water and a mobile phone that I’d forgotten to charge the night before.

With the temperature quickly dropping and the square below me starting to empty, my mind kicked into overdrive. I knew that a night at the top of a bell tower would hardly kill me but I had a lovely high-ceilinged bedroom to get back to. I was sure that I could smell the faintest essence of pizza in the air, but maybe I was hallucinating; either way, my stomach grumbled. This was Italy, apparently home to the best food in the world, and I was stuck up a tower and starving.

What would MacGyver do? I emptied my camera bag and looked at the contents. No paper clips, no bullets, just a map of Venice and my camera. There weren’t even any bird droppings on the ground that I could scrape together to make a rudimentary flare gun.

I thought about phoning my mother but I knew how the conversation would go:

‘Hey mum. I need your help.’

‘Dad told me you hung out at the top of a tower to get some nice photos.’

‘Yeah… I did… but… now I’m stuck and I can’t get down.’

‘Sebby, what did I tell you about doing dangerous and stupid things? Your primary purpose in life is to produce grandchildren for me.’

‘But… I’m cold and tired and hungry and –’

‘A son of mine that gets himself stuck up a tower is no son of mine!’

Click goes the phone.

So outside help was out of the question… Plus, what help would my mother be able to provide anyway? Tips on how best to tenderise my shoe leather into something edible? A suitable prayer to Moses? I shook my head and looked down at the pile again. The map… paper!

What if…

I could use my pen to write a note! Help, I’m up in the tower. Send aid. Don’t ask me to let down my hair, it’s not long enough. But what if an Italian person found it, one that couldn’t read English? I started to draw a crappy illustration of a man up a tower. It would have to do. But how to get the paper down to the square and get it noticed? I thought about a paper plane, but they’re notoriously hard to aim, and someone would be unlikely to spot it.

I looked down at the pile again. An empty water bottle…

What if…

I could put some coins in the bottle! Wouldn’t that make one hell of a noise if it hit the ground at terminal velocity? I worked quickly, the plan now complete, strapping the note to the bottle with one of my shoelaces. I screwed the cap on tightly and shook the completed franken-bottle, admiring my handiwork. Moving over to the window I sighted up a couple that were enjoying a romantic, candle-lit dinner about 100 meters away. I stepped back and took a run up, delivering the best pitch of my life.

It sailed through the air, landing about 20 meters from the couple. It made one hell of a bang-and-rattle, startling not only that couple but most of the people currently eating dinner in the Piazza San Marco. MacGyver would’ve been proud! Sebastian however, after the elation subsided, was just plain embarrassed.

I quickly whipped out my phone and used the dregs of its battery to turn on the bright light used by the built-in camera. I shone it down in their direction; they looked up!  Success! But perhaps I’d been a little too successful — a lot of people were now looking up at the tower, wondering where the vicious coin-filled explosive projectile had come from. There was in fact an arc of people forming about 50 meters from the tower — close enough to look at me, but not too close that I could surprise them with another weaponised water bottle.

Now I started to wave frantically and scream like a girl. Someone finally got the hint and rushed off into one of the restaurants, raising the alarm. My only concern was that they had mistaken me for a lunatic sniper and instead of the tower staff arriving, armed police would arrive and shoot me out of the tower. Eventually, after another half hour or so — nothing happens quickly in Italy –  some official-looking types approached the tower, unlocked the front door and switched the power back on.

I quickly packed up my stuff and limped over to the elevator, only to find it was already on its way up. I was a little nervous now, knowing I’d probably overstepped quite a few ‘oh, he’s just a silly tourist’ boundaries. Would I emerge from the tower a victorious hero, brandishing my camera above my head and revelling in my artistic prowess? Would the crowd boo and hiss, or applaud? The elevator sure was taking its time. Would I be in all the newspapers by tomorrow evening? Surely, Italians have a sense of humour, right?

At last, the elevator doors opened. A couple of very stern, short and balding Italians looked up at me, wondering if I would come easily or if they’d have to kick me in the ankle first. One of them reached behind their back and instinctively I thought this was it: I was going to be shot dead in Venice, on the first day of my holiday. At least I would die a martyr to the Bohemian movement… and my photos would probably go up in value… my mum would be grateful for that, I guess… But it wasn’t a gun, it was some handcuffs.

The other guard grunted something unintelligible in Italian and shoved me, suggesting I turn around to be cuffed.

When I finally emerged into the square there were a lot of people grinning at me –tourists, I guess — and a lot of peeved-looking Italians, probably all thinking that I’d just defiled their beautiful bell tower. Fortunately, none of them spat at me as I was frog-marched across the square but there were definitely a few boos and lots of noisy tutting. Maybe, just maybe, there were a few cheers from fellow photographers standing at the back of the crowd.

But where were they taking me? Surely not to the Venezia police station…

To be continued.

This entry picks up from the end of my ‘stuck up a bell tower‘ story, one of the more foolish situations I’ve ever found myself in. I’d been rescued from the tallest point in Venice by some stumpy uniformed types that turned out to be the local police… It may not sound like it yet, but this is yet another too-much-information (TMI) story, so stick with it until the end, it delivers. If you want more, check out Lilu’s blog. And now on with the embarrassment…

The bald policemen, both with faces like a smacked bottom, frog-marched me all the way to the nearest canal where a boat with Polizei stencilled on the hull awaited my arrival. The boat’s captain gave a quick flash of the boat’s blue lights and a toot of the siren in greeting. If the boat had had a low roof, or if either of the officers could actually reach my head, they would have no doubt pushed me under it. Instead, they grunted and waited for me to climb on.

I held my head high in a manner that best befits a noble British naval officer as we puttered along the squalid, soupy canals. I become intensely reflective in times of danger or duress: I begun to wonder if the locals realise that tourists overlook how dirty and smelly their city is just because it’s so damn charming. I pondered where they were taking me and what they might do with me when we got there. I even thought about diving over the edge of the boat, but that would’ve meant leaving my camera behind.

So I’m heading to an Italian police station with nothing more than a rudimentary understanding of the language and primitive stick-men-drawing abilities. In other words, I’m stuck up an effluent-topped canal without a paddle — shit.

We pulled up alongside a nondescript brick building; it had bars across the windows, but no other hints that it might be a police station… or worse… jail…

While being lead inside I took one last look at my surroundings in case I had to describe my location over the phone to the British embassy or Jack Bauer while negotiating an escape plan. They pushed me through a dilapidated swing door that was once navy blue and into some kind of reception. My camera and phone were quickly placed in a locker and a form was placed on the table for me to sign. I reached for the pen slowly but one of the men behind me coughed and shook his head, yanking my handcuffs and pulling backwards towards a small room — surely they’re not going to question me… I don’t speak Italian! — and as if reading my thoughts, the other officer promptly appeared with an Italian-English dictionary.

Flopping the tome open at the centrefold I had a feeling these poor guys had done this before. Brits don’t have a fantastic reputation for being great tourists, mainly because of our yobbish football fans. I was about to receive the same treatment reserved for proper troublemakers — is getting stuck at the top of a major landmark really that anti-social?

“You… make… distress.” I nodded slowly and smiled inanely, hoping I came across as some kind of simple-minded pacifist. It’s at times like these I wish I didn’t have a beard, or really big eyes that have the tendency to make eye-contact for extended periods of time — ‘eyeballing’ they call it, in macho-man and law enforcement circles. The police officer tried again:

“You… inebriated?” I stopped nodding and started shaking my head very quickly. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the other policeman pulling some latex gloves out of his pocket. Oh, not drunk… drugged… The one with the dictionary nodded as his face lit up with a a tight-lipped, grim smile. “We check.” He shut the book and signalled to the other officer to lift me out of the chair, which he did, roughly.

The begloved officer pulls the chair away and pushes it into a corner. He snaps the cuff of the gloves with a thwack while the other man takes my still-cuffed hands and pulls them to the far side of the table, forcing me to lean over. I can feel but cannot see the other officer as he reaches around my waist to undo my trousers. I can feel them falling to my ankles, followed moments later by my underwear.

Looking up at the man that’s pinning my wrists to the edge of the cold metal table I try out my best pitiful whimper, a task made all the more simple by the warm, plasticky hands now groping around my buttocks. I let forth a cry as his stumpy fingers enter me with no ceremony, foreplay or lubrication. Prod, wiggle, grunt. Mamma mia! Che macello! (Don’t look that one up)

And then it’s over and he’s pulling out, I’m being uncuffed and he’s pulling his gloves off into a bin. I lay limply on the table for a few minutes until the one with the dictionary breaks the silence: ‘You… free… go, prego, prego.’ He points to the exit and looks irritably at my half-naked form. Smiling bravely and nodding, I reach down with aching arms to pull up my underwear. Thank God I’d already lost that particular virginity a few years ago, I thought to myself, my senses slowly reclaiming ownership of my body. That would’ve been a fun story to tell the kids: how I lost my anal virginity to a bald fat man — and I didn’t even know his name…

Stumbling out into street I knew I’d got off lightly. It could’ve been a lot worse. I could’ve been thrown into a jail cell with a fat, big-bossomed man called Martha that insists I call him ‘mummy’. I could’ve been deported after just 24 hours in Italy.

Most importantly: the policeman could’ve had cold hands.