The Windmills of Your Mind

Like a circle in a spiral Like a wheel within a wheel Never ending or beginning On an ever-spinning reel Like a snowball down a mountain Or a carnival balloon Like a carousel that's turning Running rings around the moon Like a clock whose hands are sweeping Past the minutes of its face And the world is like an apple Whirling silently in space Like the circles that you find In the windmills of your mind Like a tunnel that you follow To a tunnel of its own Down a hollow to a cavern Where the sun has never shone Like a door that keeps revolving In a half-forgotten dream Or the ripples from a pebble Someone tosses in a stream Like a clock whose hands are sweeping Past the minutes of its face And the world is like an apple Whirling silently in space Like the circles that you find In the windmills of your mind Keys that jingle in your pocket Words that jangle in your head Why did summer go so quickly? Was it something that you said? Lovers walk along a shore And leave their footprints in the sand Is the sound of distant drumming Just the fingers of your hand? Pictures hanging in a hallway And the fragment of a song Half-remembered names and faces But to whom do they belong? When you knew that it was over You were suddenly aware That the autumn leaves were turning To the colour of her hair Like a circle in a spiral Like a wheel within a wheel Never ending or beginning On an ever-spinning reel As the images unwind Like the circles that you find In the windmills of your mind A song by Noel Harrison from the movie "The Thomas Crown Affair" 1968, that won the Academy Award for Best Original Song in the same year

To Look Life in the Face

"To look life in the face... always... to look life in the face... and to know it for what it is... at last... to know it...to love it for what it is... and then... to put it away..." Virginia Woolf

Life in Venice/The Departure

For the first time he woke up without feeling that thrilling happiness that he has been feeling for the last week. Seven days… seven mornings… he used to wake up very early every day, greeted by the cold air that caresses his face as soon as it gets from under the pillow. Whenever he spends a winter night in Europe, he switches off the heating system and he leaves the windows open, he wants to have "cold" as the first thing to feel and the clean smell of fresh air as the first thing to breath as soon as he wakes up. He ran to the window, the city was still asleep and covered in fog, like a beautiful woman in a French painting from the Nineteenth century, lying elegantly on a love seat, dressed in a transparent veil of white silk that shows its beauty rather than hides it. He breathed the fresh air, carrying the cold of five degrees and the characteristic smell of freshness and cleanliness that he has been absorbing the last week, something he never finds where he comes from. He kept filling his lungs with the air, he wished he can keep the breath inside, he wished he had bigger lungs or his whole body becomes a lung to keep this fresh air inside. What a cruel life, he thought to himself, that makes you see clean air as a dream, even the act of breathing, the most natural and spontaneous right of all living things, is something he cannot enjoy where he lives. A long shower did not help to wash away the layers of sadness that were covering him the more the time flew. His lips that were smiling inevitably for a whole week could not smile now. He had no appetite for breakfast, although during the last seven days he used to eat with an enormous appetite that he gained 3 kilos in only one week. He had packed the night before; he did not want to lose any minute of his last hours in that lovely place. He did the bed and left the room as clean and organized as he once stepped in it a week ago, he knew it's a big hotel where they have a staff whose only job is to do rooms, but he just could not leave anything behind him that does not match with beauty. This room has seen him in happiness for whole week, it deserves to be left as beautiful as it should be, and everything in this city has to carry the word beautiful, strongly and proudly. He dragged his suitcase to leave it in the reception, he was greeted by the beautiful lovely lady that he befriended from the moment he entered for check in. His sadness was obvious and when she told him that she hoped he enjoyed his stay in their hotel, he had a problem speaking, with a gulp in his throat, he said that he enjoyed every minute…that he regretted sleeping for this was a waste of time. And when she apologized because the weather was not good, he interrupted her telling her that it could have never been better, what could be better than a cold cloudy week with showers of rains and blasts of cold air, and all of this contained in a city where the past comes back to life, beautiful and charming, genuine and absorbing. He told her it was his favorite weather, for he comes from a desert, where rain is a rare visitor that visits him few minutes every year, where summer is the most triumphant of the four seasons and where an annoying egotist sun is powerful enough not to allow a single morning to be there without its own presence. He had two hours to spend in the city before his departure, only two hours…how little is that when we are happy. What can be better than walking in a city where walking, the normal and trivial of all acts, can be an enjoyment, where all the streets are cobbled and very clean, the way he likes streets, where all the buildings he comes across are old and clean, the way he likes buildings, where he is surrounded by clean and fresh air that smells of nothing and when it dares carry a smell it is either the smell of the sea, coffee, freshly bakery, frankincense or plants. He kept walking, without his camera, his only companion that did not leave his hand the last week, his final walk was dedicated to his eyes only. He did not take his i-pod as well, who needs music in such walk? He wanted all his senses to absorb as much as possible of this city, even its silence, for he treasures silence as much as he treasures beauty and cleanliness. He wanted to kiss the buildings, to hug them; he wished he could be transformed instantly into a giant, big enough to embrace the whole city with its buildings, canals, islands, bridges. Yes he loves dead things as his closest friend once said, but she did not know that he never saw them as dead, for every building was alive telling him a story, its own story where happiness mingles with grief, creating life the way the wind shapes the sand dunes of the desert where he comes from… Why does everything has to end, why are we lacking the ability to freeze time, to stop life when it should be stopped and where can his life be stopped except in that place? His boat was there, taking him back to the city with its real life, soon he will see cars again, hear their noises and smell the air polluted by their exhaust, soon he will be in an airport, one of the places he hates the most, and soon he will be back to where he came from… The boat was there, he looked back wishing to run away and hide in the city forever, but he did not, he boarded the boat and it started moving triumphantly. The beautiful coast of "Fondamenta Nuova" was getting gradually invisible to his eyes. His vision was blurred, not from the fog that was still covering the city, not from the rain drops that fell on his eye lashes, but from the tears coming from the heart of a man destined to see beauty only where he does not live and feels nostalgic to where he does not belong…

Life in Venice/ La Traviata

The nineteenth century witnessed a great upheaval of all kinds of art and literature in Europe. It was a century of creativity and thinking, producing works that marked a milestone in the history of humanity. In this time and specifically in France, there lived a famous writer whose father was another famous writer, both father and son gave the French literature masterpieces that cannot be forgotten, both had flamboyant lives that were considered scandalous at that age and both had exactly the same name "Alexander Dumas" The father (1802-1870) wrote The Three Musketeers and The Count of Monte Cristo and was involved with Hashish and other drugs as he was a prominent founder of the "Hashashins club" with other famous writers like the great poet Baudelaire. The son on the other hand was famous for his scandalous affair with Marie Duplessis, a famous courtesan (high class prostitute). This life long relationship inspired Dumas to write his masterpiece La Dame aux camélias, or The Lady of the Camellias, that was first published as a novel in 1848 and then he adapted it for the stage in 1852. The great Italian composer attended the play and got immediately inspired by the story that he made it into the famous opera La Traviata or The Fallen One which premiered in Venice in 1853. ******************** It was my last day in Venice, I dedicated the last evening to this multi level masterpiece, For La Traviata is a masterpiece of music and plot. The show was given in the Scuola Grande San Giovanni Evangelista, one of the many old schools in Venice. Like all the buildings in this enchanted city, the Scuola kept its original architecture, with the magnificently huge Roman facade, the show room that is literally covered by huge paintings all over the walls and the ceilings, and the carved statues in the walls and the ones scattered in every corner. It was a perfect place to see a world famous classical opera as great as La Traviata. Although the original story takes place in nineteenth century France, the opera was adapted to be set in Eighteenth century Italy. We see Violetta, the beautiful courtesan, throwing a party in her home, we get to know the noble Alfredo, a shy gentleman who has been madly but silently in love with Violetta, but he cannot hide his feelings any longer, he confesses his love for her but she rejects him telling him that she was not made to love or be loved by any man, she asks him to forget her and find another woman. But something about Alfredo and his feelings touched her and in a very romantic scene she gives him a red rose and asks him to return it when it has wilted, a symbol of not only the short life of his love for her but of her own life as well. Alone, Violetta cannot remove Alfredo and his voice from her mind, she keeps talking to herself and wondering if he is the man she has always been waiting for. Torn between her attraction to him and the impossibility of being with him, for she is a courtesan and he is a descendant of a noble family. But love wins; Violetta and Alfredo eventually escape and live together in Violetta's country house, enjoying the stolen happiness that they cannot have lawfully. After sometime Alfredo accidentally discovers that Violetta is selling her properties to finance the luxurious life they are both living and he goes back to Paris to claim some money. Waiting desperately for his return, Violetta is visited by the Baron, Alfredo's father who commands her to break her scandalous relationship with his son. Violetta refuses, the Baron offers her money and social protection but Violetta is deeply hurt, she cries while trying to make the father understand that she is not after his money and that she has already been selling her possessing to finance their love, she begs him to allow her some days of happiness in her short life that will end soon. The Baron is deeply touched by the true feelings of Violetta, he begs her to leave his son because their relationship is destroying the family and already preventing his daughter from getting married. Violetta agrees to sacrifice her love for the good of Alfredo and his family. The Baron gives her a fatherly kiss and calls her the noblest of all women. Violetta with unbearable remorse writes a farewell letter to Alfredo while singing of her eternal and unconditional love to him. She gives the letter to her maid to send it to Alfredo who gets devastated when he reads it. Then Violetta is seen in a party, for apparently she has gone back to her life, Alfredo is also there winning a huge sum of money from gambling, he makes a scene and throws the money at Violetta as a payment for her "services", Violetta is deeply humiliated and she faints. In the final scene we see Violtta in her death bed reading a letter from Alfredo's father who heard of her illness and felt so guilty from what he lead her too, he has already confessed to Alfredo the whole story, Alfredo enters and the two lovers sing together their final love song just before Violetta dies in his arms. ************************* Was it the beautiful music of Verdi playing live? Was it the amazing performance and singing of the actors? Was it the breathtaking setting of the ancient place? Was it the extremely beautiful and sad plot with all the emotions it triggered and all the values it resuscitated in my heart and mind? Was it the extremely attractive Soprano who was playing Violetta and exchanging eye contact with me (or so I imagined… hoped actually)? Was it the whole week of being immersed in pure beauty as if the world has forgotten me for whole week in a paradise like place? I wasn't able to identify the real reason for feeling as if I were flying, as if I suddenly left this world and went into a magical journey where everything around you is beautiful in an unearthly way… A dream, a dream that you can touch and live when you are fully wake! How can I explain this? How can a withering plant almost dying in a cracking dry soil explain its feelings when it gets some water carrying the secret of life? How can a weary bird explains how it feels when it finally lands on a solid ground after days and days of flying over the sea? If what I just mentioned got you closer to how it all felt then I have succeeded. I was the last one to leave the place, I didn't want to and it was one of those moments when I wished I could freeze time, I just needed nothing else. It was my last night in Venice, the place that has been treating me well for a whole week, and ended up with this gift. I had my last walk in the empty city, bathing in a sea of serenity, surrounded by the dim light of the street lanterns and a cold breeze of fresh and clean air carrying the smell of the sea and the freshness of winter rain, feeling a strange familiarity with every corner, with every building. Venice loves me, I could feel it, strange and crazy as it might sound but I felt it loved me. With every step I was taking I didn't feel like a foreigner, a tourist who is spending some days of vacation and leaving the next day back to his home, or the place that is supposed to be home… To be continued…

Life in Venice/ The Colours of Murano

Murano is not just a type of glass, it is considered the most expensive and authentic glass, named after the island where glassmakers reside, adopting ancient methods of blowing and colouring that is living from the thirteenth century till this moment, inherited across families and turning this small island into one of the most frequently visited places in Europe. Not very far from the Venetian coast lies this small island like a beautifully drawn painting, and what is a painting without colors? Venice has always been famous for colored glass that was once called Venetian glass, then in the thirteenth century and due to the fact that most of the houses were made of wood, having those furnaces used for manufacturing the glass made the island at a risk of fire, so the government issued an order that all the glass manufacturers should move to the small island of Murano. Now Murano is a brand, world famous, expensive, luxurious that offers you a wide variety of beautiful products ranging from necklaces, vases, glasses, antiques, chandeliers and all kinds of shapes that can or cannot be made from glass. The island is really small, peaceful, clean, beautiful and elegant, a chip of the old block as they say, for Venice and beauty seem to be eternal companions. As soon as I stepped from the boat, a magnificent composition of blue glass placed in the main street greeted me with a warm welcome in spite of the cold weather. It took me some time to be able to identify exactly what that object was, a collection of narrow hollow tubes of different shades of blue, arranged around several axes and ending up in this conglomerate of gracefully bent tubes, a work of brilliant art, beautiful beyond explanation. I wandered in the empty streets, stopping at each shop, wondering how a human hand can be able of working with such care and producing such beauty from something as fragile and brittle as glass. I decided to enter one of the furnaces and see the process live. Most of the shops refused that, and even refused to allow me to take some photos of their products. Only a young beautiful lady invited me in and took me to the furnace where her father was working. He asked me what do I want, I asked him for a vase, a blue vase. And in front of my eyes, a miracle was happening… I watched the old man working with a speed that my eyes could not follow, I was told that he has to finish in 5 minutes other wise the glass will cool and solidify and cannot be shaped. In less than three minutes, the vase was there, not a plain one, but full of shapes, curves, very unsymmetrical and amazingly beautiful. I was speechless… Was I impressed by the whole atmosphere and how an ugly hot gloomy place like a furnace can be a home for such beauty? Was I impressed by the old man and his super natural speed? Was I impressed by the vase he made in no time, without a previous design, all spontaneous!!! I wanted to stay more and absorb the beauty of the shapes and colors. The lady was nice enough to allow me to take some photos. How did people live without cameras? I toured the island several times, stopping at other shapes placed casually in the streets. A combination of long thin segmented glass shapes that reminded me of sugar cane plantations, but they were colored in red, a graceful shape of curved pieces colored in bright red, orange and yellow, a similar figure with shades of blue and many other breath taking shapes scattered here and there that words cannot explain, I will let the photos show you everything, for some places no words can be able to explain their beauty… I went back to my hotel, with a beautiful vase for my mother, a load of photos in my camera and a lifetime experience that will keep me alive for some time. To be continued…

Life in Venice/ La Gondola

Walking into the narrow streets of Venice and getting close to its marvelous old building is a totally different experience than seeing it from the water, sailing on the famous gondola and watching as the scene changes slowly like a film, like a tray of pictures from a fairy tale book. It was slightly before sunset, the cloudy sky was having that faint orange tint that indicates the approach of sunset in the clear skies of Europe, and of all the European cities that I have visited, clean, organized, civilized as beautiful as they all were, Venice stands alone as a unique individual, around which time had stopped. Even the gondola, that small boat, the only means of transportation in Venice and a very romantic symbol is unique in many ways. The old Gondolier who invited me aboard his gondola or "Deborah" as he calls her, told me many interesting facts about this magical boat.First of all, it is handmade by the assembly of 280 different pieces that come from 8 types of wood. It operates by a single rowing movement and it has an elongated shape that is approximately 10 meters long, the final edges are turned gracefully upwards emphasizing the ancient fairy tale shape. Some years ago the government in Venice issued an order that all gondolas have to be in a specific shape and all coloured in black with beautiful delicate golden decoration. The government also has ordered that all gondoliers should wear a uniform, black trousers and black-stripped white T-shirt. Yes, some governments care about the beauty of their cities and I am certain that a government for a city like Venice should have beauty on top of its Agenda… Let me tell you this, watching a gondola standing in the still water of the canal, swinging gracefully and slowly on the water surface can be nothing but beautiful, I saw it as a princess in an elegant black dress and gold ornaments, waving to her people, inviting in the same time. I boarded the gondola with old "Massimo" the sweet gondolier, listening to his sad and touching story about his gondola and why he calls her "Debora" after his wife who passed away 10 years ago, and after whom he never thought of marrying or even touching another woman, he dedicated his life to take lovers and tour Venice with them, taking them across all the beauties and ending the romantic tour under the bridge of sighs where they kiss and turn their love eternal. When he knew I'm single he was surprised and he asked me I should not waste a single moment in my life without being in love because it is the best thing you can ever do… to be in love. When he asked me where I am from and I told him Egypt, he surprised me with many things he knows about Egypt, he even called me "habibi"! and when the trip ended he refused to take the agreed price and made me a huge discount just for the fact that I am an Egyptian single man who is brave enough to visit Venice alone and loving it non the less. Sometimes being Egyptian ends up in something good…Sometimes… To be continued…

Life in Venice/ The Accademia

The Accademia as it is commonly called or L'Accademia di Belle Arti di Venezia as it is properly called in Italian is one of the world's most renowned art galleries that hosts one of the finest collections of Italian paintings dated to the pre-1800s. It was founded originally as a school for fine arts; painting, sculpture and architecture. It is a huge building located on the Grand Canal, the main canal crossing Venice and it was originally three separate buildings that were combined and turned into this magnificently huge art gallery in the eighteenth century. Among the great work of arts that the Accademia hosts, the most famous of all is Da Vinci's "Vetruvian Man" (attached) which is a masterpiece of art and science and contains many secrets of geometry. Entering the huge gate after a warm welcome by a typical Roman façade, I kept moving smoothly from one room to another, trying to absorb the immense paintings with all their details, starting with very early Christian art and ending with beautiful sceneries. After some time, I just had some difficulty trying to lift my lower jaw placing it back in its proper place. It was inevitable…I was wondering how can a single artist, a man, just another human being, how can he be able to work on such huge paintings and I mean huge, with all the details, the facial expressions, the background and its full assembly of things… It was just unbelievable…I am talking about Bellini, one of the great Italian painters, a Venetian who needs a post of his own (which will come later on among other Venetians, promise), a painter who was fascinated by the Virgin and Jesus, capturing the most emotionally intense moments in their lives with beauty that words cannot describe… Many questions were left unanswered in my poor mind that has been subjected to a brutal culture shock as soon as I landed in this magnificent city which is a work of art itself. I tried to pick one of the huge paintings randomly and I tried to imagine the painter standing in front of a plain wall. Did he have the whole scene in mind before starting or he just made it up as soon as he hit the wall with his brush? Where did he start with his brush? Which color did he use? How did he manage to complete such a huge work? How did he manage to take breaks and come back to work on the very same part? After some time, I was exhausted… drained, I just couldn't stay more in that place, I was really saturated from the huge works and this beauty that my eyes could not capture more and my heart had no place for more awe… I went out, breathing the cold air with its characteristic freshness… Just across the channel I was invited to a Gondola by a very cheerful old man who insisted that he will take me to a tour in Venice as seeing it from the water is different than seeing it from the land, I couldn't agree more… To be continued…

Life in Venice/The Bridge of Sighs

If you are in love and you want to make this love last forever, take your beloved and fly immediately to Venice. As soon as you land there, wait for sunset and go take a gondola with your beloved and ask the Gondolier to take you to the Ponte dei Sospiri, or The Bridge of Sighs, make sure you kiss right under the bridge before the sun sinks into the horizon… Now you can feel safe, for your love will last forever… Venice is a city for lovers, no wonder that it is in Venice and under one of its most famous bridges where you can make your love eternal, or so says the legend. This magical Bridge was built in the year 1600 to connect the local prison to the interrogating rooms in the Doge's palace. It is from this bridge that the convicts sentenced to imprisonment will see the last view of the beautiful city from a narrow stone window. When Lord Byron, the great English poet visited Venice in the 19th century, he watched the bridge and he imagined that the convicts would see Venice for the last time and sigh mourning their lost freedom, and since then it has been called the bridge of sighs or Ponte dei Sospiri in Italian. Walking around the magnificent Doge's palace, a real example of Baroque architecture with all its grotesque and exaggerated decorations, adorned with famous colossal Roman statues and roaming across its huge rooms, with their walls and ceilings crowded with Baroque paintings you suddenly enter a plain hall which is devoid of any decorations, and who would decorate the room where convicts are interrogated, judged and sentenced. Then you enter the stone bridge, you will see it is totally closed, more like a tunnel and you can only see the outer world from very narrow small window and then it leads you into the prison and its cold scary cells. The contrast between the exaggerated decorations that characterizes the Baroque palace and the plain ugly emptiness of the stone walled prison attracts all kinds of feelings, and being claustrophobic by nature, I was literally running to get out of this horrible place, to breathe some fresh air and see the sky again. It is true that we do not know the value of things until they are gone, just being able to walk in the streets, inhaling the air and seeing the sky is a blessing… To be continued...

Life in Venice/Basilica di San Marco

Walking across the narrow streets of Venice, you will know that you are approaching San Marco square, the biggest and most important in Venice, when you find yourself overwhelmed by the smell of Frankincense*, a typical smell of catholic churches. Then the Basilica of san Marco greets you with its huge domes, grotesque architecture that characterizes Byzantine churches. But the Basilica of San Marco is not like any other Byzantine Church and its magic does not only lie in its architecture… Before you enter the church and across the flocks of pigeons that fill the square, you will find in front of the main gates of the church three thin and very tall pillars each one ending with a golden lion, and where do these pillars come from? Alexandria, our own Alexandria! Ok for those who do not know San Marco or Saint Mark the Evangelist as we know him, here is s little bit of info that I believe every single Egyptian should know, for Christianity, I believe, is not just another religion whose believers are fellow Egyptians, Christianity is an integral part of our history that we hardly know anything about, although our Egypt has played a major role in Christianity that cannot be ignored. And although I'm not the best one to talk about that, I will try to give you some basic info about Saint Marc and his relationship with Alexandria and Venice… Saint Mark is one of the four Evangelists (the four writers of the Gospels, the other three are Mathew, Luke and John), and although he was not one of the twelve Apostles (the followers and companions of Jesus) he was called apostolic because he was a follower of Saint Peter, one of the Apostles and the pillar of the Roman Catholic Christianity. Saint Mark was born to a devoted Christian mother who was a member of the earliest believers of Jesus. He is believed to be one of the men who poured water during the marriage at Cana, when Jesus turned this water to wine. It is also believed that he hosted the apostles in his house after Jesus' death and into this very house Jesus visited his companions after his resurrection. Later on, Saint Mark left Jerusalem and went to Egypt, specifically Alexandria, to carry on his holly task and spread the word of Jesus into its lands. A job that would cost him his life, as he was resented by the Egyptians who have been worshipping their traditional Gods for thousands of years and would not give them away that easily. In the year 68 AD Saint Mark faced his martyrdom bravely when he was tied to several horses and dragged through the streets of Alexandria, a common and very famous killing method for heretics at that time. His remains were buried there for almost 8 centuries. During that time, Alexandria being the harbor of Saint Marc, became a centre of Christianity and it was there that Christianity spread to the whole of Egypt which was under the Roman reign that is famous for its fierce torture of the Christians, and it was also in Egypt that monasteries originated as a means of escape and keeping one's religion from the fierce and un-human attacks of the Romans who saw Christians as traitors, having their absolute faith in an unseen God rather than the Emperor and the Roman estate. In the year 828, two devoted Christian merchants from Venice, seeing how Egypt was being transformed into a Muslim country after the Arabic conquest, they stole the remains of Saint Mark and hid them under layers of pork, knowing that Muslims do not touch it, and that was the best way of smuggling the relics of Saint Mark safely to Italy. When they reached Venice, they were met with a ceremony and the Doge (Italian word for Duke) of Venice ordered that a huge cathedral would be built for the honor of San Marco as he came to be called in Italian. ************************ Venice is not like any other city in the world, and since everything it hosts is different, its main cathedral is also different from any other church you can visit. Before entering the cathedral, you can easily tell that it was built across an extremely prolonged periods of time, it is very obvious from the building style and the decorating fashions that work has been on and off in the cathedral through ages. Each of the three gates has a style of its own, and while going in, each single corner can be taken off its settings and serve as a work of art that does not match the rest of the church. And unlike any other church I have visited in Europe, where your neck aches after some time from carrying your inevitably up-lifted head, amazed by the fine details, the integration of colours, the huge walls carrying the domes and their decorations, the coloured glass allowing the shimmering day light to enter gracefully adding a delicate spiritual atmosphere, combined with the characteristic smell of Frankincense, the serene calmness that characterizes Catholic cathedrals and the sad faces of the virgin carrying her only son, sometimes as a beautiful baby and sometimes as a dead body of a crucified man, his hands and feet still bleeding from the huge nails that fixed him on his cross. In the basilica of San Marco (Basilica is an ancient Greek word for royal, now given to Big churches where religious ceremonies take place) you have to look down, because unlike other cathedrals where the floor is a layer of plain marble, this Cathedral has a full exhibition of mosaic and intricate colored pieces in its floor that every inch is a masterpiece of its own. But again, you can easily tell that it has been built across ages, for every square carries a different style, and in spite of the amazing details and the magical combination of colors, the whole scene can sometimes be annoying. I attended the Sunday mass which was of course in Italian so I didn't get a single word, but I wasn't there to understand the preaching priest, nor was I there to ask questions, I was there because there is something magical about churches and specifically Catholic churches and their masses that enchants me and attracts me like a spell, that I cannot visit any city in Europe without visiting its cathedral and attending the mass. I spent another hour in the cathedral absorbing the beauty of its art, the huge marble figures, the beautiful paintings, the breath taking tiny pieces of mosaic combining together in an unearthly harmonious way that tells you how a human hand can work wonders, how a human heart can create beauty from dead things, how human eyes can absorb what they see and how a human mind can capture all this and wonder about his very own nature and how he can be capable of miracles. I left the church overwhelmed by its art, and in my mind I was hearing one word that makes sense behind all what I saw inside, inspiration… To be continued * Frankincense is the resin taken from the trees of Boswellia serrata, also known as Olibanum or locally known as Liban Dakar, a historic incense with deep roots in Christianity as it was one of the gifts given to baby Jesus by the three wise men.

Life in Venice/Dawn

The only thing that annoys me in Venice is the people. Being sociophobic by nature and a loner who worships solitude this should be very much expected. But I have to admit that things get somehow different in Europe , either the people there are too civilized to annoy anyone, or I am more consumed with the beauty that I don't even see the people or feel annoyed by their presence. But people in Venice make you feel as if you opened an old fairy tale book, and across the breathtaking pictures of the city you find that some child has drawn those matchstick human figures with colored pencils… How annoying! In an attempt to see the city without people and based on a good friend's advice that the dawn over the Grand Canal is a scene not to be missed, I followed the advice and woke up very early to see what Venice is having for me. I left the hotel around 4 am. Getting out of the warm hotel, I was struck by two things; the terribly cold weather and the fog… It was cold, really cold, and although I was well equipped –or so I thought- with my thick coat, ice cap and gloves, the cold air was powerful enough to penetrate right to the bones… But who cares, I love winter, I miss it in Cairo which offers me all what I dislike, so some cold winter would be a treat in itself, so off I went. Being totally immersed in the sea, fog was literally covering the whole city, I couldn't see a meter away, and again that was a treat, how many times does it get foggy in Cairo's winter? Walking in the fog and having the objects appearing very slowly under the dark sky and the dim light of the street lanterns, combined by the cold air, the empty streets and the complete silence, I thought I must be feeling scared or at least afraid. But no, nothing related to fear was there, I was happy, smiling, inhaling the cold wet air and wishing my lungs could expand 10 times to absorb as much of the clean air as possible. Air that smells of nothing, like we used to study at school in science lessons that air and water are colorless and odorless. It was air as air should be, clean, cold, wet and fresh... I kept walking randomly across the empty streets, my breath sending this warm white vapours into the air, childish as it sounds but again this is something I really love and miss. The streets were empty, now I can see city as it should be seen. Not a single person out there, the beautiful ancient buildings standing mightily in a foggy scene barely illuminated by the street lamps and sinking in the bluish light of dawn… Why are words so insufficient when I need them to tell you what I saw, how it looked like and how it made me feel? As if I suddenly became a part of one of Monet's paintings, where everything is portrayed behind the veil of fog and the buildings silhouette all around you. The sky was dark and with the very slow fading of the fog, it started to acquire a deep dark translucent blue color that lightened very slowly. I sat on one of the docks watching the beautiful surroundings and wishing that time would stop. I would keep on walking every now and then, staying as close as possible to the water and going over every single bridge to have a high view of the sleeping city. It was Sunday, no people were expected to be seen at this time of the day and for the next couple of hours as well, and that in itself was more tempting to absorb as much as possible of the authentic fairy tale look of this legendary place. A very shy sun was trying to prove its presence from behind the cloudy sky and the foggy air, its helpless trials only ended in a very faint yellowish circle that kept showing weakly but persistently, it was a typical winter morning. Why does time fly when we want it to stop? The enchanting church bells rang filling the air with their deep harmonious echoing sounds, waking me up from this dreamlike walk and bringing me back to earth, but gently... very gently. It was 8 am, time for the Sunday mass in the Basilica of San Marco. I walked towards the cathedral that I have seen the day before and decided that my week in Venice would never have a better start. To be continued...

Life in Venice/The Landing

Why would anyone write a full post about Landing in a city? But Venice is not like any other city and landing in Venice is not like any landing! In my trips I always leave the airport and either take a taxi or the underground to my destination, but leaving an aeroplane and jumping on a boat was something I have never experienced before. The airport Marco Polo is 40 minutes away from the city and the only way to get there is by boat… I have always associated Europe with old beautiful buildings, huge cathedrals, clean streets, greenery and clean air but never with the sea…. Even when I went to Barcelona that is a Mediterranean port, I did not feel that what I saw there was a sea, it was rather some watery space that has no waves nor does it give the characteristic smell of the sea that we I am used to. But Venice is something else, for all those things that I associate with Europe were combined with the sea, deep, blue, vast and with this characteristic smell that I love. Venice is built totally inside the sea, the city itself is an archipelago (a group of small islands connected together) of 118 islands, connected by about 150 narrow canals and about 400 bridges that serve as roads. The buildings are literally immersed in the water and many of them have their staircases going down into the canals, so that you can only reach them by boats. The only means of transportation is boats (this will be in a separate post)and walking… can you imagine how clean, clear and calm the atmosphere could be? The buildings are very short, not a single building is higher than three stories including a ground floor, a middle one and a roof. The only high buildings that you can see are the church towers. But venetian Churches will need a post of their own. The streets are extremely narrow and the buildings –accordingly- are very close to each other. All through the city you will never see a "modern" building, actually the word modern does not exist apart from the way people are dressed. So with no cars nor any traces of them, narrow cobbled streets, historical buildings and ancient architecture, classical music playing everywhere, even in the boat stations…what else do you need to feel as if you had a magical journey into the past? As if suddenly you jumped into a fairy tale and all you can do is look around in amazement wondering how the word beautiful would really underestimate what you see? Walking in Venice is an experience that I cannot describe. But what amazed me and kept me thinking till now is something that I cannot really find a logical explanation for… those who know me well know how I have bad memory with streets, I really need to visit a place at least ten times (and here I literally mean ten times, not just metaphorically) to be able to visit it again without a map. Now as soon as the boat dropped me in the small port "Fondamenta Nove" and I was told that my hotel is 10 minutes away, I sank into that feeling of "Ok… this is trouble". The narrow streets and the similarity of the buildings should –logically- conspire to make things worse! But…and to my extreme amazement, I didn't have to look at my map even once, and before your mind jumps into conclusions, there were no signs leading to my hotel, I just walked and walked and with a strange sense of direction I found myself at the hotel door. And for the next days I have been roaming the city, visiting all kinds of places and going back to my hotel several times a day without needing a single look at my map…Now I really cannot find an explanation of this, nor do I care to find one, who can speak about logic in a city as enchanting and legendary as Venice ? So that was just about landing in Venice , what about being there? This will come slowly, as a nice walk by the canals and into the friendly streets of legendary Venice , so follow me

Of Life in Venice

Have you ever been to a place and felt as if the REW button of your life has been pressed for hours, for everything around you suddenly turned old, ancient, full of all the magic of the past.... This is exactly how I felt when I landed in Venice, and landing in venice is different from any landing anywhere on earth (check my next post) I am writing to you now from a city where the word "beautiful" underestimates what you see, a city where the sea embraces you wherever you go, where you hear classical music around every corner, where food is nothing but an enjoyment, and walking is an endless pleasure, where every single building is a work of genius art, a city where there are nomeans of transportations except boats... Venice... La Belissima, that legendary place where Shylok the jew chased the good Antonio to cut a pound of flesh out of his body in Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice, where the unhappy wife Anna stole some weeks of life and spent some happy days with her lover Vronsky in Tolstoy's Anna Carenina, where professor Aschenbach came for a summer holiday and ended up with a disastrous experience in Thomas Mann's Death in Venice... Venice, a legendary icon with 34 museums, the home city of Vivaldi, Marco Polo, Bellini,Albinoni and many great artists of all time... Follow me in this legendary journey in one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen in my whole life To be continued...