The Rialto, meaning exchange, or marketplace, conjures up golden sunsets and winding city streets that smell of carefully made espressos and car exhausts.
At first, it was located near the university; then close to the town hall; then it was next to the opera house; then near the home of a man who treated me very badly. Sometimes it changed locations multiple times a day. I started off some of my mornings with a long walk, around the docks, breathing in the dirty water and looking at the buildings. I would enter the foyer, tired and anxious, and I would shower and try to think only of the hot water, and being naked, and the soap suds.
And then I would leave through the front doors and find myself yards away from where I needed to be. It had been booked by the university finance team, who were funding my short archival research trip. They had picked it out, they said, because it was the closest to the university campus I was visiting. The first night I arrived in the city, the weather was terrible. It was late in the evening because my train had been delayed several times.
I watched helplessly as the crowds of people squeezed themselves into all of the taxis available. I had to walk.
I remembered from my internet searches that it was around twenty-five minutes away from the train station. I set off, only to find, to my pleasure, that The Rialto was right there, five minutes away. He asked me how I was and I told him I was soaked through but I was so happy that the walk had been short. Michael told me I must be a fast walker because we were near the university and that was quite a distance from the train station β I was here for the university, yes?
