"Then you've studied Arabic," says the nun convinced white octogenarian, the reception of the building transformed into a hospice, I have just discovered that ancient literature. I look puzzled and say that no, actually only Latin and greek (and I'm also forgetting them ...). The guide explains that helps me here, for centuries, and elsewhere were in the ancient East, and probably still are. Again, this is Venice grabbed the fly, uncertain until the last moment whether we would be able to leave or not, between various ailments and forecast on the edge of disaster. Looking back, I remember where I've seen the esoteric symbol, also Eastern Europe, which, he told the guide was visible until a few years ago on the facade of a building hovering over a river, with bows reinforced with cages Wood: a tale of Corto Maltese which has two titles, one in Arabic, which is the same as this post, and the other is his translation, "Fable of Venice." He, too, in fact, seemed to come straight from a story by Pratt: tall, thin, definitely in love with his city. Took us around three hours through the narrow streets and foundations incredibly semi-deserted, Pit paintings in secret gardens and hidden rooms in luxurious hotels, teaching us to recognize a disguised sandolo gondola and making us look at the details: the bas-relief with the camel and the camel, which we watch on the front of the house of a family of spices, the motto on the lintel of a door good wishes, the bowl dug into the base of the wellheads to water to dogs and cats and other things. Yes. This time we gave a tour and I must say it was worth it. Our staff Virgil, who is actually named Walter, has left the Ghetto: in a field surrounded by tall, colorful houses where children were playing soccer and there were even two observant Jews, complete with beard and black hat who had apparently put there to make the scene, and instead were simply talking to each other at home. Since we were in the mood, the other in the afternoon visit to the interior of the Venetian synagogues. And here, surprisingly, we heard the same story in two different ways. Where the guidance that we had just left exalted tolerance and liberality of the Venetian Republic, that of the Jewish Museum highlighted the limitations imposed on his co-religionists to the raid by the Nazis. Who was right? Probably a little both: the good (or bad) of historiography. Inevitably we ended
to loot the museum and bookshop here, from a window overlooking the water, we saw the rain start: it was time to go home. So we trooped we, reluctantly, in the paths beaten by tourists. For a while we had almost believed to belong to a race other than the most hated (and loved) by the inhabitants of this wonderful city. The illusion is gone and we were following a nose in the yellow "Station", but it was beautiful while it lasted. " There are three places in Venice and magic concealed in a street of the love of friends and a second near the Ponte delle Maravegie; third in Calle dei Marranos, St. Jeremiah in the Ghetto. When the Venetians (and sometimes the Maltese ...) are tired of the powers that be going to these three secret places, opening doors that are in the bottom of those courts, they go forever in beautiful places and other stories ". We'll find them next time?
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