I have a parcel to fetch from the post office at the Rialto, and at 9 o’clock I set off. The Accademia bridge is deserted as I drag my trolley behind me, up the snow-muffled steps. A bitter wind blows along the Grand Canal from the Adriatic. Once on the other side of the bridge, I meet an American friend, steadfastly crunching across Campo Santo Stefano in wellies and a sheepskin hat with ear flaps, determined to open her gallery on time. A little further on, I come to one of the lowest points of the city and find the calle flooded with rank-smelling, icy water surging around my ankles. I gather the skirts of my overcoat in both hands and wade, very gingerly, on. After the bitter, monochrome of the streets, the sorting office spills yellow light and warmth out of the door. It is full of postmen in sweaters and a holiday mood, who have been reprieved from their long morning trudge from door to door by the extreme weather conditions. These are just about the only Venetians I encounter during the whole morning.
What do You think about The Politics Of Washing (2013)?
