Shoving, pushing, tripping through the myriad of masked faces filling constricted streets and arched canal bridges. Human bodies stacked and pilled forming chokepoint damns in a city bursting at the seams, ready to implode from the inner pressure of so many people filling such little room. Such is Venice, Italy in March and such is Carnivale, the word’s most renowned masquerade party. I spent two days in this city turned circus drinking, eating, soaking up ‘La Dolce Vita’ in age old Italian fashion. For me it was impossible to separate the city from the party because they appeared to me as one. The costume adorning, street perfuming masses lived aloud Carnivale every moment I witnessed, and I lived with them. The very streets, buildings and canals brimmed with party delight and seemed to wear the colorful people that covered them as their own festive costumes. I have never seen anything to compare it to. There is for me no city to match.
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