Wading Through Acqua Alta

by Molly Hillis (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find Italy

Sweeping strands of soaked hair from my face, I squinted, trying to get my bearings in the empty Venetian square. Through the veil of the downpour, I could make out brickwork from the shops that lined the alley I needed to take. No people were visible through their darkened windows, but I got quick impressions of the life that should have existed beyond the locked doors: a coffee shop, a tourist stop, a booth for a water taxi service. What I couldn’t see, unfortunately, was the road itself. Every alley leading away from the square where I stood was filled with saltwater, as were countless other streets throughout Venice. In a matter of minutes, puddles had become lakes, springing into existence after high tide met unrelenting rain and created acqua alta – water levels higher than high tide. I looked back at my map of the area, tracing every route I could think of. Turning back would require navigation over six terraced bridges, now slick with rain. No boat could sail on the swollen canals; they would not fit beneath the bridges, even if operators were willing to challenge the second-worst flood in the city’s history. I turned to face the flooded alley again, sizing up my rival. I wouldn’t be walking to my lodging. I would be wading. Hitching up my backpack, I rushed into the water before I could talk myself out of it. Water from the faux canal lapped my legs and enveloped my hips in a chilled clutch. I jerked forward impulsively, like an animal trying to claw its way out of quicksand. In no time, I was wildly kicking forward, using as much force as I could to forge a path through the tide. The rain continued to fall, making droplets from the flood dance up in infinite jetés, but my exaggerated movements created ripples that would temporarily break their rhythm. Though I only had a few streets to wade through, my progress was slow. Everything became burdened by the weight of the water. My bag, which had been floating unsteadily by my side, began to sink rapidly, a capsizing vessel that only underscored my status as a tourist. A new wave of panic arose as I realized that my passport, travel documents, and medicine might all be destroyed. Foolishly, I stopped where I was, unsure of what to do. I looked around, trying to find another person and knowing I wouldn’t. Scanning the narrow streets, I saw a Venice that I had never seen expressed in a guidebook. Bits of cardboard and newspaper floated lazily along the edge of the street, while pieces of unrecognizable trash flitted by my side, carried by the current at the center of the street. Abandoned boot covers bobbed along every few feet, having been tossed aside by travelers who quickly learned that a thin wrap of plastic was no match for a flood. Murky, brown-green water took the place of the promised aquamarine canals, and the smell of salt water became sickening, simply from being so grossly out of place. I remembered how travelers had always spoken to me about the city with such reverence. "Venice," they would say with wistful smiles, "is a must-see. But you have to see it before it sinks!" I started walking again, more timidly this time. Shivering in a canal that hadn’t existed the night before, all I could think about was the impact of humanity on the global landscape. I was surrounded by proof that Venice was drowning in rising sea levels faster than it was sinking, and the evidence was overwhelming my senses. Pieces of debris continued to float by, and in each I found our collective complicity. When I finally reached the intersection, clumsily pivoting on cobblestone I could not see, I was relieved that I had started walking again. I had not yet reached my destination, and the rain continued to fall, but I still found some hope through my progress. Like the floodwater, the answers to global issues are murky, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t take a step forward.