Not Getting Us Down : 30 second read by Farriz Mashudi 01/04/21
This sun burns wherever you look.
Piercing past hotel curtains tentatively drawn, seeping through eyes still shut tight. Outside, tinted sunnies and Polaroid-aviators wannabe helpful, but don’t do much.
Sun hats, baseball caps—too hot to bear, are quickly discarded. It suns everywhere: on tourists’ backs, bald heads, reddened necks, bare arms.
Sun-baked piazzas and waterways; Sun-dried tomatoes; waiters, with only their shirts and bosses White, beckon inside. Boatloads of tourists their pointless parasols inflating St. Marco’s overspill into shady lanes. On incoming trains, sleepers doze in seats and on the ground their rails gleaming in the heat.
No sunblock please; its oozing creaminess too sticky. Not that it helps, only runs off with August’s wild sweat.
At night the strains of Vivaldi’s Summer evoking sunshine, heralds a light drizzle— the apres sun that could only be, Heaven-sent.
Beyond weather, Venice, steaming in the sun is uncovered, regardless.