The Dream on the Enchanting Lagoon

In a field surrounded by wildflowers and butterflies, is a charming, picturesque cottage that is big enough for two. Old stone bricks make up the structure, with vibrant vines caressing its exterior. Smoke is always gently flowing from the chimney and a soft glow of golden light shines through the windows at night, while the crickets sing and the bullfrogs chirp in a nearby creek. Inside, a warm fire is crackling within the fireplace and the smell of cinnamon wafts through the intimate space as the kettle begins its loud whistle. A round, distressed, white, table with matching chairs occupies most of the space, with knitted, turquoise placemats in front of the chairs; a yellow, porcelain vase holds fresh flowers from the garden in the back yard. Beside the fire is a worn, but entirely too comfortable, wing chair, with a stack of books resting on the side table to its left. Beautiful paintings of meadows and willow trees decorate the walls. Up the wooded stairs is a...Wait. I’m describing Miss Honey’s cottage from Matilda, aren’t I? Sorry! Let me start again.

On the outskirts of a charming, European Village, deep within a dark wood, is a stone bridge, providing safe passage over a large, angry stream. The bridge connects to a long walkway that is shadowed by a gothic mansion that doesn’t have the most welcoming demeanour. The door of the mansion is solid oak and large, and the golden-lion door knocker echoes in the dark, loud enough to awaken the dead; Perhaps it has. The door creaks open to reveal a large entranceway, before revealing two sets of stairs that meet in the middle before continuing their journeys to the second level. A reflection of light beneath your sneakers catches your eye and, looking up, you discover the source: a crystal chandelier that could easily crush you if it were to fall without a moment’s notice. Cobwebs are everywhere, and a chill breeze passes through you while you take in the house with an enormous presence, as if the house is alive. In the room to the right, is a study. A large, brown leather armchair sits before a large fireplace with flames higher than a tall man. On the far side of the room is a grand bookcase that would make any book lover swoon. One of the books, when pulled, reveals a secret passageway that-Sorry! Sorry! I am describing Dracula’s house now…. This is so embarrassing. Let’s try this one more time.

In the magical streets of Venice, Italy is a long-forgotten movie theatre, collecting dust and broken dreams. The name of the theatre is La Stella, but I call it home. Through heavy, red curtains, is a single-room with a large screen and rows of red, velvet chairs. Red carpet cushions each step beneath my sneakers. On the second level, all of the chairs have been removed; in their place is a comfortable, double bed, with a warm, wool blanket, a writing desk, and a growing collection of books that will happily keep me occupied for hours. The projector still works and, especially on stormy nights, I start it up and watch from my bed as an old, Hollywood movie starring Clark Gable plays only for me. Wait. Again?!…. This is from The Thief Lord by Cornelia Funke. It was one of my favourite books as a child.

Apparently, I can not write about the house of my dreams without taking inspiration from my favourite literary experiences. Growing up, I had a wonderful, modest home that was filled with love and warmth. I also was lucky to have a second home at my Grandfather’s Italian Ice Cream Parlour, where the bus would drop me off after school, my family and I would have dinners, and celebrations would take place. But, I also had many more homes that I found in the books that sunk their claws in me. These imaginary homes remained in my heart beyond childhood, creating a fascination that pulled me into a world of research and intrigue. I learned a lot about Venice, for example, believing that a magical place existed in the real world. The pull to that city lead me to travel there three times within five years. It is now my favourite city in the world and was, indeed, magical, even if it wasn’t in the way that I had expected as a child. Sadly, upon my visits, I have yet to find an old, abandoned, movie theatre to call my own...but the thought of living in such a cozy place still stays with me, and will no doubt have an effect on my future home.

My dream home is a combination of places that have inspired me, both in real life and in the imaginative world. I fell in love with Miss Honey’s little cottage, never quite understanding why she would want to leave it. I was also fascinated by the dark mansion within the mystic, enclosing woods, and mysterious secret passageways. The potential to befriend a friendly ghost, meet an old Vampire (who, hopefully, didn’t enjoy my blood type), or solve a who-done-it mystery thrilled me. In the story Beastly by Alex Finn, I was inspired to build a small, greenhouse that kept the outside elements at bay so that I could have a rose garden all year round.

So, without further ado, this is (one version) of the home of my dreams.

First and foremost, I strongly believe that home is where the heart is. It wouldn’t matter if I lived in the dreamiest dream house in the world, if I was too far from my loved ones, I know that I would be miserable. For this reason, my dream home would have to be driving distance from my family. That aside, I would love to live on a private island of Venice, at least one or two acres in size. Upon arriving on the dock, through a tall, wall of shrubbery, a stone path would lead to a garden of wildflowers. Dogs and cats would frolic freely on the property and greet guests as they arrive. In the centre of the island would be my home. A stone-brick cottage immersed in vines would welcome me. The door would be a jolly yellow and the window shutters a complimenting pastel blue. Attached to the building would be my greenhouse filled with every rose imaginable. Inside was also a hammock, where I would go to read and nap.

Inside the cottage, the floors are a light, grey laminate, the walls a soft blue. Pictures from family gatherings hang in mismatched frames. The living room and kitchen sit side-by-side in one rectangular room. The living room has a cozy, yellow, wing-chair by the fireplace, a beige, sectional couch, and an antique coffee table. Under that table is a shaggy, yellow, area rug that accents the wing chair and sunflowers within a vase in the centre of the table. Next to the living room is a small, modest kitchen, similar to Miss Honey’s except for an Island in the centre. A white, distressed table and chairs rest a few feet away. Beyond this are a set of french doors with frosted glass. This opens into a library with bookcases covering every inch of the walls, and a ladder that rolls along the shelves. It also serves as a creative space with musical instruments, art supplies, and a writing desk.

Only known to the most intimate of guests, a particular book on the bookshelf reveals a secret passageway that leads down a few stairs and into a home movie theatre. Giant, reclining chairs, a popcorn machine, a candy station, and an unlimited supply of the most comfortable pillows and blankets, as well as streamed lights hanging above like stars, complete the comfiest room in the house.

Back up through the secret passage, in the library, is a tightly wound, black, impossibly loud, staircase that leads to the upper level. The entire upstairs floor is my bedroom. Warm, cream-coloured carpet feel like slippers beneath my feet, the walls are painted a soft yellow. Fresh flowers sit in a vase on the end tables, sandwiching the king-sized bed dressed in a plain, white duvet. Above the bed is a beautiful painting depicting a field of sunflowers. On the wall to the right is an accordion door that leads to a walk-in closet. Realistically, it is very messy, so I will avoid describing it in detail. To the left is another set of french doors, leading out to a small balcony. On the balcony is an outdoor-furniture set that is made out of wicker and pastel green cushions. From the view on the balcony, the entire property looks like a forest of flowers and bright colours. The smell is delicious. In the distance, especially visible on clear days, is the silhouette of the bell tower and surrounding structures of St. Mark’s Square. Every morning, I sit on the balcony and list all of the things that I am grateful for, including my beautiful oasis.

Even though it is very unlikely that I will own such a place in my lifetime, I know that I can always find new, interesting places to call home within the pages of the books that I read. And, maybe one day, I might be pleasantly surprised and find myself living on that island, with the sun setting over the flowers around me; In the meantime, it is always nice to dream.