A Travelling Sprout

A Sprout Samples the Sweet Life in Venice
By Shelley Banks

I’ve never seen the film La Dolce Vita, but I know it translates as “the sweet life.” It describes a way of life that is easy going, enjoying things to the fullest. After a few days in Venice, exploring the canals and palaces, the art, the architecture, and chatting to the locals, we concluded that Venetians enjoy “the sweet life”.

After stepping off the fourth and final train of our journey from Riomaggiore to Venice, we found ourselves outside the station, ready to begin the next adventure. Eager to avoid dragging our suitcases too far over the city’s iconic bridges and cobblestone streets, we set out to locate a vaporetto that would drop us as close as possible to our accommodation. Navigating the ticket machine proved a little tricky at first, but everything became much simpler once we discovered the “English” button. Although, once we boarded, no one bothered to check our tickets. In hindsight, perhaps we should have paid more attention to the locals, many of whom seemed to simply hop on without paying.

Our hotel was located on the far side of St Mark’s Square, which meant that after we disembarked, we not only had to weave our way through bustling crowds but also navigate our way past the hundreds of pigeons that call the square home. The square was alive with tourists and birds alike, creating a lively and somewhat chaotic introduction to this iconic part of Venice.

After a long day spent travelling, our priorities were simple: a hot shower, a hearty meal, and an early night. Once we’d unpacked the essentials for our stay and taken some time to freshen up, we ventured out in search of dinner. We soon discovered a charming little restaurant nestled beside a canal, where we enjoyed a delicious prawn risotto. As we dined, gondolas glided past, adding to the unmistakable Venetian atmosphere on our first evening in the city.

The next morning, feeling well-rested after a fantastic night’s sleep, we made our way to the breakfast buffet at our hotel. In keeping with our experiences elsewhere in Europe, the coffee left much to be desired. The mimosas on the other hand, were delicious.

The plan for the day was a trip to Burano and Murano islands.

Catching the vaporetto across to Burano was a treat in itself, allowing us to see Venice from a different perspective, until the island came into view. It felt almost surreal, with each building painted in vibrant hues, creating a patchwork of pinks, blues, greens and yellows. We wandered the narrow streets, snapping photos of the lace shops and conversing with locals who proudly shared stories about Burano’s long tradition of lacemaking. The atmosphere was laid-back and friendly, making it easy to lose track of time as we explored.

From Burano, we hopped back on the vaporetto and made our way to Murano, renowned for its centuries-old tradition of glassmaking. As soon as we arrived, the air seemed to shimmer with creativity – every shop window was filled with stunning glass sculptures, intricate vases, and colourful jewellery. We watched a demonstration at one of the glass factories, mesmerised as the artisans deftly shaped molten glass into delicate works of art. As beautiful as the pieces were, there was nothing we could carry in our suitcases that would arrive home in one piece.

That evening, we decided to splurge on a classic Venetian experience—a gondola ride. Gliding through the canals under the stars, the city took on a magical quality; golden light spilled from windows and the gentle lapping of water echoed between centuries-old buildings. Our gondolier pointed out tucked-away landmarks and sang softly, making the adventure feel both intimate and timeless. The quiet beauty of Venice at night, with its reflections and shadows, was unforgettable and left us feeling as if we were part of the city.

After breakfast, we set off towards St Mark’s Basilica for a morning tour. The queue outside was already forming, but stepping inside was well worth the wait—gold mosaics glittered overhead depicting Bible stories, and under our feet, intricate marble floors, both of which were breathtaking. We wandered through the basilica, marvelling at its opulent altars and centuries-old artefacts, feeling as though we’d been transported back in time. Construction of the present structure began around 1063, and the basilica is dedicated to, and holds the relics of, Saint Mark the Evangelist, the patron saint of the city.

After leaving St Mark’s Basilica, we made our way to the Doge’s Palace. The Doge was the oldest and highest political position in the Venetian Republic. The palace was originally built in 810, then rebuilt in 1340 and became a museum in 1923.

The grand façade and intricate stonework hinted at the wealth and power that once flowed through its halls. Inside, we wandered the lavish rooms, admiring gilded ceilings and sprawling frescoes, ornate chambers and impressive artwork, all of which offered a glimpse into the city’s history and the lives of its rulers. We paused at the Bridge of Sighs, which connects the New Prison (Prigioni Nuove) to the interrogation rooms in the Doge’s Palace. The view from the Bridge of Sighs was the last view of Venice that convicts saw before their imprisonment.

A late lunch in a quaint restaurant tucked away in a small alley, let us escape from the crowds and the heat. Even though it was only 28 °C, the lack of trees combined with cobblestones that reflected the heat made it feel like 38 °C. Bigoli con l’Anatra (pasta with duck ragu), a glass of red and a quiet corner table was the perfect antidote to the hordes of tourists outside.

With a few hours left until our departure time, we had to decide if we’d had enough of the crowds, or, because we had limited time in the city, maybe we should continue and see as much as we could. Option B won out and so we left the cool of the restaurant and ventured out into the blazing sunshine. Instead of heading to another “tourist site” we decided to wander through the labyrinth of alleyways and canals, finding charming squares and local shops, as well as fewer tourists. It was a lovely way to spend our remaining time in this city built on a group of 126 islands, separated by expanses of open water and canals.

When the time came to bid farewell to Venice, our transfer to the airport came in the form of a traditional Italian timber speedboat. As we boarded, I felt like a movie star from the 1950s and I should be wearing a scarf so it could billow out behind me. It was certainly a very stylish way to pull up to the airport terminal and the only time I’ve ever arrived like that.

Musings

Bueller, Bueller
By Shelley Banks

I can still remember the scene from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off where the teacher repeatedly calls out the main character’s last name. I was waiting to hear my last name called – Banks, Banks.

I wasn’t on a movie set. I was sitting in a room at the Supreme and District courts with 300 other people waiting to see if I got picked for jury duty.

I’d done jury duty before, so I was familiar with the process. What I didn’t know was if I’d be picked, and, if so, how time-consuming it would be.

It didn’t take long for things to move along—barely fifteen minutes had passed since the process began when my name was called. I joined a group of forty others, all of us following the bailiff as we were led through the building and into a courtroom. Once there, I took my seat, waiting to see if I’d make the final cut. With only twelve jurors needed out of our group of forty, I figured there was a good chance I’d be heading back to my seat, unchosen.

Contrary to my expectations, things didn’t go as I thought. My name was the seventh drawn from the barrel, prompting me to walk to the front of the courtroom. Even then, there was still the possibility that either the prosecution or the defence might object to me, meaning I would have been sent back to my seat. This had already happened to three people before me during the selection process. However, that wasn’t the case for me. Before I realised it, I found myself confirmed as juror number four, sitting on the panel and facing the judge and the judge’s associate—who, amusingly, bore a striking resemblance to a young John Cleese.

As I waited for the remaining jurors to be picked, I remembered a conversation with a friend who said they’d never been called for jury duty and how they were keen to do it. I would have happily swapped if I could. The first time I was a juror, it was for a murder case, so after that, once would have been enough.

But no, I was chosen again, proving that a jury summons is like lightning: it really can strike twice.

Short Stories

Letting Go
By Shelley Banks

It was a quiet Sunday afternoon when Lisa and Ben found themselves sitting on the back deck, the last rays of sunlight glinting off their wine glasses. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of eucalyptus and distant rain. For weeks, there had been a gentle tension between them, one that you would only notice if everything else was silent.

Lisa tugged her sleeves over her hands, staring out at the yard where their dog, Max, was chasing after the tennis ball she’d just thrown. She cleared her throat, searching for words.

‘Ben, do you remember when we first moved in here? We painted the spare room that ridiculous shade of yellow.’

Ben smiled, a little sadly. ‘I remember. We had to sleep with the windows open for days because of the fumes.’

The nostalgia was sweet but carried a weight. They both knew what sat unspoken between them. After nine years together, life had become a series of routines—morning coffees, Saturday trips to the markets, the occasional bickering over who would take the rubbish out. The spark that once ignited their connection had become a sense of distance they could no longer ignore.

Lisa turned to Ben, meeting his eyes. ‘I think we need to talk about… us.’

He nodded, setting his glass down with care. ‘I know. I’ve been thinking the same thing. I want us both to be happy and neither of us are, not really.’

There were no tears, only a quiet sadness, and a relief that honesty had finally prevailed. They talked late into the evening, the conversation weaving through memories, dreams, and the realisation that their paths had diverged. They spoke of gratitude, and the importance of not holding on simply because it was comfortable.

By the time the rain began to patter softly against the tin roof, Lisa and Ben had made their decision. They agreed to part ways, not out of anger, but with the hope each would find joy in new directions.

The next morning, the house felt different—not empty, but open. Lisa watched the sun rise through the kitchen window, breathing in the possibility of new beginnings. It hurt, but she knew, deep down, they’d both be all right.

Something Light

The Walking Wonders
By Shelley Banks

We met our guide, Marco, in the heart of Venice, near the Doge’s Palace. He was cheerful, enthusiastic, and ensured us we were in for a good day. Our destinations were the islands of Burano and Murano, a short boat ride away from our meeting place.

We’d come well-prepared for the day’s adventure, making sure to wear sturdy walking shoes, don our hats, and carry water bottles. Marco noticed straight away and commented approvingly on our readiness for the walking ahead.

‘You Aussies don’t mind walking,’ he declared. ‘I’ve never had an Australian in any of my tour groups who wasn’t happy to explore on foot.’

A lot of tourists, Marco continued, especially the Americans who arrive in Venice on cruise ships, start to wilt after the third cobblestone alley or start grumbling when faced with yet another set of ancient stairs.

Directly behind us, there was a family from California, and to our left, a couple from Arizona, all of whom had arrived on a cruise ship. They heard what Marco said and didn’t seem too pleased about it.

Upon arriving in Burano, we headed off with Marco, who pointed out some of the main sites, and then we had time to ourselves. Off we went, happy to explore more of the winding lanes lined with colourful buildings. Before we got too far, we came across the family from California. They’d stopped in a café and were sitting down, drinking Cokes. A bit further on, we came across the couple from Arizona. They too were sitting down in a café. We were there to see as much as we could, not sit in the shade and wait for the departure time so we kept walking.

On our way back to our meeting place, we walked by both cafes, and the Americans were still sitting in the same spots.

The same thing happened in Murano. After our tour of a glass factory, we continued to wander, taking in as much as we could. The Americans chose to sit in the shade outside the factory and wait there until it was time to leave.

As we boarded the boat back to Venice, Marco turned to us.

‘I told you so.’

Books

If you like my short stories, I’ve published twelve books.