army of one intent

Venice the morning after is sad, and reminiscent. Empty bottles and used plates line the streets like flower petals after a wedding, a sullen reminder of what once was. There are no more couples waltzing to live orchestras, no more drinking and eating in the alleys, no more laughter and cheer.

Instead, a dense fog has settled on the city – and from this fog rise the Tourists. Slowly. Eerily, like an army of the undead. And I – wielding my camera in hand like a sharpened blade, ready to strike – am one of the many, many footmen.

We storm the Basilica de San Marco, march with heavy foot through the square, swarm around the Palazzo Ducale, stampede over the Ponte Rialto. We are unstoppable, unconquerable and known the world over. What did Xerxes' army have that made it so feared? We have our Cannons – and Nikons, too; we have purse upon purse full of euro, we have an unquenchable thirst and legendary disregard for culture and etiquette. We have our folding maps. And our fanny packs.

Know us by our chatter – recognize our shrieks and fear our coming!

In the end, as with all things in our path, Venice is vanquished – just as Rome is ravished and Paris is plundered; as Barcelona burns. And we march on – as surely as the sun rises, as surely as the wide world turns.