Eating a Fig in Venice

The texture of the fruit was surprising. It was soft; delicate to the touch. It weighed more heavily than I expected as I shifted it from one finger to the next, examining its contours. The summer sunlight had made the fig soothingly warm. It had also tanned the exposed side of the already deep purple encasing. Now one side was a more vibrant shade of violet than the other. I felt the urge to raise it up closer to my face, to take a better look, to smell it, to taste it. The fig was not a showpiece; it had too many imperfections. I could relate to it in this way. I remember hardly noticing a trickle of its juice flowing down my middle finger. The heat of the Italian summer dried the liquid quickly and left a sticky, sweet residue on my hand which I refused to rub away. I quite appreciated it there. It made me feel more connected to the fruit which I so proudly cradled.

I was so mezmerized by the beauty of the fig that I had forgotten to look up for more than a few heartbeats as I walked along the cobblestone pathway . Venice is more beautiful at night, but the daytime reveals its character. Aside from the odd paddle rippling through the fluid streets and the buzzing of anxious and excited tourists, only an abnoxious boat motor threatened my paradise intermittently. More often than not, however, it was peaceful, calm, and comfortable. I felt like I was taking a walk through my state of mind when I am just waking up in the morning after the most satisfying sleep.

The colour. The colour was what captivated me most. Set on a backdrop of golden rays of sun, which played happily with the dancing currents of salty Venetian streetwater, the blueness of the sky was inpenetrable until I ripped open the simple skin of the fig in front of it. A red.. no... a deep and powerful golden-speckled magenta exploded out of the fruit. My eyes had a private disagreement with my tastebuds over which sensation was more pleasing: the appearance or the taste of this fantastic fig. I calculated how many bites I had left before the fig would fully become a part of me.

My attention was now split between the fig and the serenity of my surroundings. I had not fully considered the effect of the fruit on my feelings until after I had so carelessly taken the first bite. More sweet, warm, juice splattered down the back of my hand; down my chin. I felt a slight bit of regret, having torn open the helpless fruit... but it passed when I reaped the rewards of my conquest. The fragrant smell intensified; the taste was so sublime that I now consciously avoid describing it, for fear of failing.

As I walked and I marvelled at the magnificence of this fig and the beauty of my surroundings, I listened for the first time in a long time. I listened to the silence of my thoughts, which could just as easily have been described as euphoric or ecstatic noise. Perhaps this very same fruit would not have tasted quite as good if I had not been walking through the peaceful streets of an engineless city. The pigeons around me pecked about indifferently.