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Dennis E. Bolen
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*** My first full day alone in Venice (January 14, 2001) was marked by a pizzaraiding bird attack. I was distracted, speaking with a former garage-owner from Colwood, BC, (and his not-pretty wife) who told me of his new, happy, taxfriendly life as a garage-operator on long Island, NY, when the starlings descended. They picked at the cheese and slightly moved the large piece I was not intending to eat toward their side of the plate. As soon as the pigeons saw that progress was to be made so easily, they came in by the pairs and when I turned from conversation to sip more wine, the wind of their wings was stronger than a close electric fan. *** One of the first problems of Venice was the fact there was no hot water in my three-hundred-year-old stone apartment I was getting so cheaply. One night I met Todd, a guy from Cincinnati who mentioned that he had had the same problem when he moved into similar digs. "Just run the water," he said, "run it from all the taps. Run it for ten or fifteen minutes. Don't worry about the gas line temperature, the pipes, the wastage of water, anything. After awhile the system will clear itself out and the magnifico aqua caldo will flow..." Though mostly drunk and unappologetically sloppy, I noted this information with zeal and couldn't wait for the vaporetto to get its jerky, liquefied way to my place. Immediately I tried the cure and it worked. Happy day. Try living without hot water if you're as spoiled a man as I am. ***
When four days ago my plane wavered, buffeted by high winds as it landed at Marco Polo airport and I felt frigid fingers reach up my sleeves as we disembarked, and the gusts are so violent the vaporetto I rode in on went sideways in the Grand Canale, out of control for several minutes after an aborted docking attempt, and almost wiped out a couple of tied-up gondolas at the side; by the non-reaction of the other passengers this now seems to me to be something Venetian's take as part of the January experience. Not necessarily so says the British lady I have been referred to for advice on day-to-day concerns around the flat and the town. "It's the Bora (phonetic)," she said. "It comes direct from the Russian steppes by way of Trieste and this year it is particularly vital." "I considered not bringing my winter overcoat." "Thank goodness you did." "I'll say." "But aren't you a Canadian?" "Western Canadian. Vancouverite. There's a difference." *** Though this is what I always wanted - a cultural sauna-bath, comfortable lodgings, lots of time to lounge, reading material, anonymity - it is a prison of my choosing and will stay that way of a long idle day unless I push at least a little. I check my Italian-English dictionary, dress up as warmly as I have in my life, and sally forward. Outside the life is fine and rocking as it can characteristically rock on a minute-to-minute basis in Italy, but as a guy who has scant comprehension of the effusive conversations going on I am not an invited guest at the party, only a casual walker-through. In a city which exists on tourism - there is virtually no other industry - tourists themselves are considered merchandise, property, livestock, definitely something slightly less than human. Certainly not Italian. Not since the early nineteen seventies in Quebec have I experienced such disdainful behaviour toward what must be to at least the average Venetian worker (not all are, apparently because of the lack of economic opportunity Venice is apparently the favourite domain of the idle rich) some kind of disgusting cross-cultural poseur as those restaurateurs in the tourist areas when an English-speaking guy tries his dozen words of Italian. The accented-but-correct English begins to flow from them like rubber bullets from the cultural appropriation riot gun. I have taken to persevering, even when they peevishly retranslate everything I say, and stick to my halting, elemental, likely hilariously incorrect Italian diction. Though they will not dare laugh -- that would be out-and-out surrender, and an acceptance leading to virtual friendship -- I sense a grudging respect. It's true what I've always been told, the valorosamente/corraggioso ethic lives irrevocably, even when observed for only a second in a tourist. *** The other night I had a conversation with an British woman, doing some kind of Ph.D. on some kind of renaissance figure, who has lived here fours years and enjoys a live-in relationship with an Italian man (Paulo, whom I met later on and who seemed atypically quiet and pleasant). She stated with acidic emphasis that no matter how well you speak the language, how long and well you sleep with an Italian citizen, how much you suspend your disappointment and try (molto prova), one may not gain entree to Venetian society in any meaningful sense. I wondered at that. She vehemently denounced the rudeness. While we spoke, in a crowded shop standing with wine in our hands, she was gently nudged at the rear by a well-dressed man who wanted a bottle off a shelf behind us. Perhaps he noted that we were speaking English and decided not to bother asking permisso as is the practice I have observed often on the public transit. Later, as we walked to a restaurant, she whipped out a cell phone and sprayed a grippingly audible slathering of Italian (English accented no doubt, though I couldn't tell) into the canal-water-scented night. *** Every morning, all morning, for the past week there has stood a posse of Italian citizens outside the entrance to my apartment. I glance warily at them from the second floor, hoping the sheer curtains hide my presence. But they are not here to intercept a non-legitimate visitor who has steadfastly refused to consider getting the required permesso di soggiorno for my extended stay. No, they are talking over, reviewing and generally overseeing the refurbishment of the formerly abandoned trattoria downstairs. It's revival will mean much to the neighborhood, as there are enough wine shops, a panettieria and other business places sprinkled around which become busiest around quitting time for the schoolchildren and office workers (about 5 PM). The nearest operational trattoria is several blocks away, a four-minute walk, virtually a crosstown trudge on a Venetian scale. The restoration of the eating place on Secco Marina will significantly affect the community. For now it means a modest crowd on the street speaking amongst themselves, a constant traffic of hand-cart workers bringing building materials, and disturbed sleep for me, whose bedroom window is directly above a lot of hammering, drilling and exclamatory conversation (Later on it'll be the smell of pizza!) from 0900 to 1230 each day. For some reason the work dies down and/or stops after lunch. The other day I let myself out the street door about 1130 and had to squeak by the end of a scaffold. The workman upon it, a young guy, smiled and mentioned something friendly. I managed a lavoro bene as I walked by. My attempts at being Italo-chummy have met with such comedy over this first week that I did not wish to remain and see if there was any kind of reaction. *** My daughter, who learned early on that love is optional (I taught her. Well.) has not-so-gracefully declined an invitation to join me in Venice. It's okay, though, I've chosen this period of excommunication from my comfortable life and those I love. There was no alternative, after my dad died and I lost my guts to do parole work and to write or do anything but the crossword puzzle, I knew it was curtains for my former, easy life. From now on it's a grind and my chief task is to see that it is at least a life and not become an alcoholic and/or too much of a nihilist while maintaining my sense of humour and at least trying to be kind to everyone. *** I'm getting to be chums with Todd, the guy from Cincinnati, who cheerfully advertised that unlike others of us who fear running afoul of any kind of Italian authority (Vigily, Carabinieri, Transit supervisors) he intends to ride free on the vaporetto for his entire six month stay. "If they catch me I'll just pay the fine," he says. I have never seen them check, but I don't know. I once had to pay a fine on a train to Florence, an express with assigned seating, etc. We forgot to stamp the ticket in the station prior to boarding. A ten thousand lira fine and a heaping load of indignant attitude from the conductor. As I get farther and farther from my former profession my attitude toward police authority slips and slips more toward apprehensive hostility. © Dennis E. Bolen 1/2001 |
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Culture Court | copyright 2001 | Lawrence Russell
