**Note: I am writing now with a few days of perspective behind me, so as not to be quite so melodramatic and maudlin. While getting all the feelings, interactions and goings-on down in writing, I realize it has got to be a giant ol' bummer to read. Don't get me wrong, there's lots to be maudlin about but I'll try to keep it to a minimum from here on out.**
After cleaning up my breakfast dishes (yogurt, toast, jam, an egg and tea) I headed out to catch the vaporetto to go around to the north side of the city, to where the florists are. There are a number of them strategically located on the Fondamenta Nova that people going to the cemetery island of San Michele can bring them to their loved-ones gravesites on the vap.
I ordered a spray of chrysanthemums and roses to be delivered to the Redentore church for Monday morning. I asked if other orders had come in for the funeral and she showed me their tickets. I wanted to make sure I wasn't getting anything ostentacious in comparison. I'm not, so whew!
I walked back by way of the Strada Nova (or the bossanova if you're Mark Strange) and stopped in to the optometrist to drop off my glasses for new lenses. I've bought a few pair from him over the past few years. It's actually cheaper than using my Kaiser employee discount on one of their frames (well, except for airfare to get here, but you know what I mean.) Frames and lenses for under $150-200, I can't get that at home unless they are ugly old plain frames. I find I'm only stylish in my glasses these days, so I run with it. Getting the lenses changed to my new prescription is only 30Euros for me today. Whoo hoo! I told him I would come back before closing today and pick them up.
Walking back through the streets it's obvious how many merchants got hit with the highwater last night. Just about every shop has someone, sweeping the dregs of the wetness out by broom, shop vac or mop. The streets smell like bleach from their rinsing and disinfecting the floors. What a pain in keister that must be.
Over by the Doge's Palace on Piazza San Marco I found a discarded pair of socks, seemingly discarded from last night. I wonder how many pairs of shoes and socks this city ends up with in a month? I hope they don't just throw them away.
Caught to vap over to Giudecca and walked to the Marsons' place. Half a block down there were three older ladies talking and gesticulating in my direction. One of the ladies is their next door neighbor who had let me in to their place. I walked over and gave her the extra set of keys back, before I forgot and brought them back to the US. She smiled at me and leaned up to give me three cheek kisses. In broken English to me: "Good girl, good friend you are." Ok, thank you. See you later...
The entrance to their apartment building is now decorated with a black-ribboned wreath. One of the neighbors probably put it up. There are cards tucked into the doorjamb also, surely condolences from the neighbors. I saw a few funeral notices up on my way over, but couldn't make myself stop to read them. Nobody has probably opened the door yet this morning, so here the cards are.
I picked them out of the jamb and knocked. Mamma answered and attacked my face with pecks and pinches. It was late morning but they hadn't had breakfast yet. I guess they had a late night. I made some toast and tea and brought it into Chiara. She's looking better today, except for the blackeye which is starting to get that green tinge to it. At least it's not getting darker, right?
Over the next few hours, the doorbell kept buzzing - incessantly. Telegrams from family and friends from all over. Italy still has a stranglehold on the telegram market, apparently. They may not have a large greeting card industry, but telegrams are still the way to go when it comes to getting your message out. The telegram guy came 7 times, each visit with at least 2 or 3 telegrams. Wow.
The phone rang constantly. There was no use in me trying to answer the phone - I can't understand the Venetian dialect that most of the calls were in, judging by the responses from Mamma and Marco.
In the afternoon the doorbell started up again, this time with the neighborhood offering up casseroles and soups for the family, most of the indicating it's for Chiara's convalescence. They don't expect to be asked in; they know the family is grieving and they don't want to sit and visit. Rather different than what I'm used to seeing. At least it saves the family from having to tell the story over and over every ten minutes and make smalltalk. They have food for an army for at least two weeks. I know their tiny freezer can't hold it all.
Chiara was sleeping again and Marco asked if we could go out for a while. I think he's a little stir-crazy. He offered to walk in the Giardini by my place. I told him sure, plus he hadn't seen this apartment yet. The gardens are also where the Bienniale expositions take place every other year, a world-wide celebration of art, theater, music, dance, architecture and archival history. There are pavilions built to house the works, but as it's grown over the decades the exhibition locations have spread throughout town. Palazzos are now rented out for exhibitions and temporarily renamed as for the country of exhibition, e.g., "the Czech Pavilion" for the duration of the summer the Bienniale is on.
We walked around for a while and I asked him if he was aware of the reputation the park has at night. He looks at me as if I'm crazy. "Reputation? It's a park." I told him all the guidebooks talk about how it's a cruising spot for anonymous rendezvous, of the "in the bushes" kind.
"Mamma mia, you make up the nonsense, Krix."
Yeah, pal, I have nothing better to do than make this stuff up to give your city a randy reputation.
"What are you talking about? People come here to walk the dogs. In the middle of the afternoon? What is the cruising? The boats are over on the Riva Schiavoni."
Ok, cultural and transliteration differences abound in this subject. So I broke it down to him what cruising is. Again, people here seem to think that gays don't exist - they are just tourists making their way through or something... except for the one guy who works at the hotel, Roberto. "The" gay of Venice. Right. Except he lives with his longtime companion. So wouldn't that technically be 2 gays in the city?
He doesn't believe me that cruising happens. He wants to see it firsthand. That set me off laughing until I choked. I could just see this, him sitting on a bench with his eyes peeled for evidence of an encounter happening. I told him, "Oh you'd know it when it happened, because you would be the one accosted."
"Noooooooo. They would not talk to me." Whatever, man. Keep your head in the sand, small town boy. A guy sitting in a cruising spot who looks a lot like George Clooney would NEVER get hit on.
I wanted to stop at the store and get a bottle of red wine and something for a quick meal. We walked to Via Garibaldi, the main commercial street of this area of Castello and I found the tiny little Co-op store. It's not even as big as my apartment, what a teensy place! I grabbed a bottle of valpolicella, some romaine and a chicken breast. I've got the makings for the dressing at home, so it looks like caesar salad for me for dinner. Mmmm!
Marco took the bag with the groceries and walked out ahead of me. I had the wine bottle tucked under my arm and emerged outside a giant gust of wind which blew my skirt up. Not quite Marilyn Monroe, but pretty impressive. So glad I wear tights and a slip - it's not just for warmth, ladies. I looked over to my right and Marco was being talked to by an old gentleman. Very animated conversation. They both laughed and went their separate ways.
"What was that about?"
"Lui non sa che gli piace di più - il corposo rosso o la rossa corposa." He said he didn't know which he likes more, the full bodied red wine or the full bodied redhead.
I feel all a-twitter now. Men talking about me on the street. I've still got it. Ha!
We got back to my apartment and were standing outside. On the way there from the store I had been retelling the meeting of my neighbor upstairs and how she showed me over and over the proper way to close the door when she pops her head out the window on the third floor and asks me if I needed help getting in.
"Or did you forget???"
Crap. Leave me alone, lady.
And then... "Marco? È che tu, caro?" (Is that you, my dear?) He looked up and answered her. "Viviana! Come stai?" (How are you?)
Yes, they know each other. Of course they do. He tells me she used to work the switchboard at the hotel until 1999. She met us in the hallway and gave her condolences to him (word travels SOOO fast in this town, seriousl) and told him that anything he needed, just ask. When she left she actually smiled at me and told me she hoped to see me later. She smiled!
Wonders never cease.
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