Poem: Romantic (Video)

If you haven’t already guessed—from the globe of London in my cover photo to my poems and posts about various places—I like to travel. There are many things, though, that they don’t tell you about in all the pretty little brochures. Culture shock. Jet lag. The disillusionment of place. Just to name a few.

I’m not saying that people shouldn’t travel. I’m just saying that every time I go someplace new, it’s never quite what I expect, in good ways and bad. I didn’t expect Germany to have so many immigrants. I didn’t expect Italy to look so dumpy. Then again, I didn’t expect to enjoy visiting the German bakeries every morning any more than I expected to start drinking cappuccinos in Italy.

Travel changes people. It teaches us about the world and our own cultures and selves. Despite Italy’s run-down nature, it is one of the most recycle-enthusiast countries I’ve visited. Because Germans’ often stoic behavior and brutally-honest words, I have learned to appreciate honesty even more.

The following poem contains just a few of my thoughts on Venice. You may recognize glimpses of the city in a previous poem, “Shadows”.

Romantic

People romanticize the canals

and arching bridges of Venice,

but have you ever gotten yourself lost

in the sticky, humid heat

down an alley that stinks of urine?

Don’t get me wrong,

I enjoy the way I stumbled

across a bookstore with volume

after volume laid out in rows

within a bathtub, within a boat

for when the city floods.

I relished watching the glassblower

tug at the liquid fire and mold it

and pull until he set a little red horse, solid,

on the table.

But try finding a place to park

outside the city inside a garage

where your car is no longer a car

but a sardine packed among sardines.

I would rather take the train

and not have to worry about driving

with these maniacs who don’t signal—

I would rather be told to stand

at the wrong platform—

then rush back

down the tunnel, up to the right platform

and board a train with cracked windows

and humid air. Pounding hearts. Less stress.

Is it worth it all?

Taking the time to travel

to walk the trash-lined streets,

sail under the Bridge of Sighs

taste the bread topped with olive oil and rosemary

smell the salt of the Mediterranean,

feel the cool water lap at my feet

as we escaped the throngs of people and pigeons.

The towers are crooked here,

but even in leaning, there are blue skies.

***

Let’s chat! What are your thoughts on travel? What’s the last journey you took? What did you think of the poem?

Similar poems: Thoughts of Place (Audio), Still Life in Spring (Audio), and Shadows