IT WAS ALMOST TIME TO GO. Michelle, Rachel, and I packed our weekend bags and placed them in the hallway of the hotel Palazzo Rosa. We had a couple of hours in Venice before catching the train to rejoin our writing group in Spannocchia.
With little time to take in the last morning of our stay, we returned to a few favorite spots, bending around corners in twists and turns. We said hello and goodbye to the wonderful Venetians we met at the Ristorante Al Vagon, took more pictures, shook hands, and expressed our gratitude for last night's splendid dinner and service.
We visited the juice bar, where Rachel envisioned one day of opening her own poetry cafe (naming it after one of her poems and a desire to bring together all that she loved in life). We stopped by the Silvietta, an accessories and clothing boutique, where we met Alessia with her delightful smile and couldn't help but buy a few dresses to take home. We went to one of the gelato shops for one memorable taste of the sweet, cold cream. We strolled in and out of stores we missed the first, second, and third time around.
With little time to take in the last morning of our stay, we returned to a few favorite spots, bending around corners in twists and turns. We said hello and goodbye to the wonderful Venetians we met at the Ristorante Al Vagon, took more pictures, shook hands, and expressed our gratitude for last night's splendid dinner and service.
We visited the juice bar, where Rachel envisioned one day of opening her own poetry cafe (naming it after one of her poems and a desire to bring together all that she loved in life). We stopped by the Silvietta, an accessories and clothing boutique, where we met Alessia with her delightful smile and couldn't help but buy a few dresses to take home. We went to one of the gelato shops for one memorable taste of the sweet, cold cream. We strolled in and out of stores we missed the first, second, and third time around.
THIS TIME I WAS DRAWN TO AN OPEN DOOR ON MY LEFT—to the old-world interior, the leather-bound journals on the shelf, the whispers of something special inside. La Carta.
I raised my hand to Michelle and Rachel, who were steps and shops ahead of me. They hadn't realized I was wandering again. I said, pointing to the door, "I'm going inside. I'll be just a few minutes."
I ENTERED LA CARTA. The owner wearing a green smock smiled as he helped two customers with their purchases. I browsed through the tiny store filled with all kinds of treasures: a red airplane hanging from the ceilings, miniature library desks and gondolas on the shelves, a pair of scuba diving shoes in the corner, a craftsman's tools behind the cash register, photo albums and pens with the markings of having been made by hand.
I touched the shelf lined with the leather-bound journals, resting my fingers on a cover. I dared to open the book, telling myself I can admire but not buy (I had already exceeded my spending budget). I was in trouble from the very first page, falling in love with the grain, the long, leather string, and the blank pages inviting me to write inside. Imagine the stories. Imagine your ideas coming to life and within reach of your fingertips.
I raised my hand to Michelle and Rachel, who were steps and shops ahead of me. They hadn't realized I was wandering again. I said, pointing to the door, "I'm going inside. I'll be just a few minutes."
I ENTERED LA CARTA. The owner wearing a green smock smiled as he helped two customers with their purchases. I browsed through the tiny store filled with all kinds of treasures: a red airplane hanging from the ceilings, miniature library desks and gondolas on the shelves, a pair of scuba diving shoes in the corner, a craftsman's tools behind the cash register, photo albums and pens with the markings of having been made by hand.
I touched the shelf lined with the leather-bound journals, resting my fingers on a cover. I dared to open the book, telling myself I can admire but not buy (I had already exceeded my spending budget). I was in trouble from the very first page, falling in love with the grain, the long, leather string, and the blank pages inviting me to write inside. Imagine the stories. Imagine your ideas coming to life and within reach of your fingertips.
Vianello Elio.
"His work is beautiful," the woman said, ready to pay for her journal. She smiled at me.
I agreed and surrendered to the moment, wanting to meet the man wearing the green smock, the owner, who made these treasures. I stayed, listening and learning, spending more than a few minutes with the man full of charm and passion.
Rachel came inside, wondering what was keeping me. Did I get lost? Fifteen minutes passed, maybe a half hour or more. Michelle followed in, checked to see. Soon we were all at risk of missing our train.
HIS NAME WAS VIANELLO ELIO, born and raised in Venice. He spoke English and told us his family had been in Italy since 950 A.D. He nodded when we raised our eyes in disbelief. He said, "It's true. Four hundred generations."
Rachel wrote it down on paper, words committed and etched as proof. She took down the name of the BBC documentary, Francesco's Venice: The Dramatic History of the World's Most Beautiful City, that also featured Elio and his La Carta in an interview.
I listened, wondering if something was lost in translation, stuck on the possibility (or impossibility) of four hundred generations in a man in front of me.
I agreed and surrendered to the moment, wanting to meet the man wearing the green smock, the owner, who made these treasures. I stayed, listening and learning, spending more than a few minutes with the man full of charm and passion.
Rachel came inside, wondering what was keeping me. Did I get lost? Fifteen minutes passed, maybe a half hour or more. Michelle followed in, checked to see. Soon we were all at risk of missing our train.
HIS NAME WAS VIANELLO ELIO, born and raised in Venice. He spoke English and told us his family had been in Italy since 950 A.D. He nodded when we raised our eyes in disbelief. He said, "It's true. Four hundred generations."
Rachel wrote it down on paper, words committed and etched as proof. She took down the name of the BBC documentary, Francesco's Venice: The Dramatic History of the World's Most Beautiful City, that also featured Elio and his La Carta in an interview.
I listened, wondering if something was lost in translation, stuck on the possibility (or impossibility) of four hundred generations in a man in front of me.
Elio showing us the documentary.
Elio showed us an old copy of the documentary, passion and pride in his eyes when he talked about his city, his love of designing and crafting by hand his leather-bound journals and photo albums, all things created with paper and shaped in books to hold and cherish forever.
WE LEARNED HE WAS ALSO A COLLECTOR of great arts, rare finds, and books. His face lighted up when he spoke about the special journal he won at an auction. His smile twinkled. We asked to see. He bent behind the counter and pulled out the aged-old yellow journal, showed us the handwritten, Italian notes filling the pages, passed from priest to priest through Italy.
It was a rare treasure in our hands. Enchanted, we asked him to read a few passages. He did with happiness.
I DID NOT UNDERSTAND A WORD, but I heard the joy in his voice. Then and there my heart skipped, taking a leap. It no longer mattered whether Elio came from a line of Vianellos dating back to 950 A.D., if it was 4, 40, 400, or 4,000 generations of history in the making.
WE LEARNED HE WAS ALSO A COLLECTOR of great arts, rare finds, and books. His face lighted up when he spoke about the special journal he won at an auction. His smile twinkled. We asked to see. He bent behind the counter and pulled out the aged-old yellow journal, showed us the handwritten, Italian notes filling the pages, passed from priest to priest through Italy.
It was a rare treasure in our hands. Enchanted, we asked him to read a few passages. He did with happiness.
I DID NOT UNDERSTAND A WORD, but I heard the joy in his voice. Then and there my heart skipped, taking a leap. It no longer mattered whether Elio came from a line of Vianellos dating back to 950 A.D., if it was 4, 40, 400, or 4,000 generations of history in the making.
Elio's treasured journal.
Standing before me was a man who loved his treasures, his books, his handmade leather journals, his store (where he also met his wife), his city, his life. It did not cost me anything to believe in him and share in his joy.
It was almost time to go. We made our purchases, buying Elio's journals and photo albums bound with love and passion. I asked him if he would sign my two journals. He asked for my name.
"Mia," I said. "Mia Starr."
"Mia," he said and smiled. He signed my journals and drew the meaning of his name: A window, stairs made of four steps, and stars above. "It's the way to the sky, the way to the stars."
"Elio," I said. "The way to the sky."
-Mia
It was almost time to go. We made our purchases, buying Elio's journals and photo albums bound with love and passion. I asked him if he would sign my two journals. He asked for my name.
"Mia," I said. "Mia Starr."
"Mia," he said and smiled. He signed my journals and drew the meaning of his name: A window, stairs made of four steps, and stars above. "It's the way to the sky, the way to the stars."
"Elio," I said. "The way to the sky."
-Mia
✶It was July 3, 2011 when we met Vianello Elio. For more photos and treasures from our travels in Venice, follow us here.✶
VIANELLO ELIO, the way to the sky, the way to the stars. La Carta, S. Marco, 5547/A (S. Bartolomeo), 30124 Venezia. Italy. TEL 041 52 02 325.
BOUND WITH LOVE AND PASSION. Vianello Elio's handmade leather journals inside La Carta. Venice, Italy. Following our bliss.
✶A top story in Anita's Finding Inspiration Daily, The cgbalu Daily, and The PermeativeTech Followers Daily. October and November 2011.✶
