That Strange Woman: 9 February through 13 February

We had a much easier time getting out of Florence. Bologna was snowed under completely as we saw when we passed through. On the vaporetto on arrival in Venice there were chunks of icy slush bobbing in the water. We stayed in the Rialto area, two doors down from the little converted garage I rent from Signora Fieri. I had met the owners when I was there in October and November. This was also a converted ground level garage space, but it was much larger, double the size of mine. They had given a good price and were letting me stay extra days at no cost, to get myself sorted out next door after my folks departed. I steered my parents into the nearby Chinese restaurant while I took the bags in and settled the rent, and then joined them. We just had soup and drinks and when the bill came we were told Carlo & Laurie had taken care of it. So nice.

Dad's tolerance had certainly built up in a week and a half. By the end of the stay he was walking for a few hours at a time. I kept the amount of bridges to a minimum, but it's pretty unavoidable to to encounter steps and bridges in Venice. But no rolling pushchair or cane for him.

It was the first weekend of Carnivale, so the influx of people into the city was pronounced. And the idiot level had corresponded exponentially, as expected. Gaping, standing still in the street, completely clueless. Step to the side people. Don't gape in front of the stores and block the flow of traffic, go inside. They won't shoot you for looking inside, I promise.

I took the parentals to a few of my favorite restaurants, and they got to meet my bartender friends Giorgio, Aldo and Roberta. Serena, it turns out, was in hospital. Had an emergency appendectomy. Ouch. They also got to briefly meet Marco, in the flesh. He was working of course, so they only got to exchange pleasantries, but I can prove he exists now. Mom remarked at how handsome he is. I remarked that he totally tries to use it to his advantage – he works that dimpled cherubic cheek.

We had snowflakes on Sunday morning. It was a dusting of snow but it was mostly just wet collecting on the ground. Some of the streets got salted down to dissipate it, so you heard the crunching underfoot as people tromped about.

Monday it was nice out and since it was their last day we got some boat trips in as a way of seeing a better overview of other parts of the city. We took the #4.1 vaporetto circumnavigating the city and out to Murano. At Arsenale a group of about 15 schoolkids got on board and we sitting with us. The boy sitting beside me had face full of dried snot so I didn't mind when he left my side, and another boy slipped in.

He was very friendly. We chatted about where they were from - Mogliano on the mainland (and where Marco's niece and sister had lived – oh, my heart panged at hearing that.) I kept turning around and translating for the parentals. The boy was at that excitable age where he was full of energy and giving long answers in a rapid-fire cadence that was too fast for me. I told him I don't understand everything when he talks so fast so could you slow it down a little. He giggled and told his friends. A few came over and crowded around, asking me questions about where I was from, how could I speak Italian. I told them I speak Spanish and English too. Wow! Was the bug-eyed response from a little girl named Aja. I asked my little man what his name was. “Marco Eugenio Baldassare, e' io sono otto anni!” He's eight. One of the little girls asked me my name and how old I am. The faces they made when I said quarantuno (41) you'd have thought I said 127... but Marco told me I was still pretty. Awww.

I am not accustomed to little kids being so unguarded and open. In the US kids wouldn't tell you their full name and where they live to a complete stranger and if they did, some mother or nanny would have you turned into the authorities pronto. I do love that kids can actually have childhoods here and not be filled with fear constantly. Not saying you can't in the US, mind you, but it's been a long time since I've seen little kids not living such overscheduled lives by the age of 4. Playdates? What happened to just running around in the park and spinning until you fell down? Childhood shouldn't be calendared is all that I'm saying.

So, I briefly had a new favorite Marco in my life. He was a doll. They got off in Murano one stop ahead of us. I hope the teacher made it out okay when the day was over. Fifteen rambunctious 7-8 year old kids with just her and another adult. Sounds like a bottle of wine would be waiting for her when the field trip was over.

I had tried to be mindful of the amount of walking during the whole trip. We were in ice, we were in snow, leading to treacherous footing. I tried to have my hand or arm out for stability everywhere we went. We'd all done so well, and then on the last afternoon, Mom fell the steps up a bridge. Ouch! The step was the tiniest bit higher than others and she went down. I felt horrible. She bruises if you blow on her, always has, so that would leave a nasty mark. Sorry Mom!

In the end, while I didn't get to show them everything I wanted to, my parents definitely got a taste of why I have grown to love this country so much. They experienced the types of kindnesses from strangers that I encounter here regularly and I think they have an idea why I am so comfortable in making this place, especially Venice, a favorite environment for working and my second home.