Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - fogged in

Fog looks good on Venice. I took a boat trip through the Grand Canal to get a better look at this peeling, blackened, decaying city. As we glided past steps covered in algae that disappear into oily waters, I tell myself I am in a city that was old in Shakespeare’s time and never have to convince myself that what I say is true. Docks are rotting and sinking as the lagoon waters rise. Or maybe it’s because the land is sinking. Either way, Venice is slowly becoming one with the sea and no one can stop it. Fatality. Destiny. I find these concepts oddly comforting.

The loss of a coastline seems such a dramatically unimaginable thing. More than the filling in of a lake, the leveling of a mountain, the loss of fields turned into cities. Maybe it’s because of our map heritage. Coastlines defined first, then interiors. The loss of a coastline is the loss of definition. There are days when I think I am losing my own coastline. I went to the Biblioteca Marciana to see Fra Mauro’s map from the 15th cenutry, the one that had south at the top, like Islamic maps. I’m pleased it’s here in Italy instead of in Portugal, despite it having been originally commissioned by the Portugese court. That was the way back then: Portugal paid, Spain explored and Italy made the maps. I must look out for Amerigo Vespucci’s birthplace when I get to Florence. Now why is it that Columbus is so famous and Vespucci is not? And A.V. was by far the more talented, acute and able of the two. Columbus found the new world, but didn’t know he had, and never did. Vespucci was the man who saw it for what it was. I hope I can find a copy of Waldseemuller’s map in Florence, too. His map of Vespucci’s voyage is one of the most intriguing and enigmatic stories in the history of cartography. Vespucci, the geographer of the New World. The first person to identify the New World of North and South America as separate from Asia. I wonder why Waldseemuller didn’t call them North and South Vespucciland. Thank goodness he didn’t. I wouldn’t have put it past him. Waldseemuller always did like to make up names; he even made up his own. Of course he tried to change his mind but by then it was too late. Everyone was using the word ‘America’ and there was no way anyone would countenace a change. Gerardus Mercator's 1538 world map sealed the deal, from then on all maps included ‘North America’ and ‘South America’. And yet Amerigo still remains viturally unknown while everyone goes on and on about Columbus, whose diaries didn’t sell nearly as well, who was a poor adminstrator and who died thinking he had successfully reached Asia.

Renaissance maps are so fascinating, disregarding reality in favour of fabulous disillusion and imagination. Lands shifted when necessary to make room for new information as it came in, however incorrect both the old and new details might be. Mapmakers had the power to decide which tiny island, bay or peninsula was important enough to merit being drawn, then mixing them up in a bizarre game of chance that went on even through the age of science when maps really were symbols of knowledge. Where known and unknown collide, science and fantasy sharing equal billing. Travel then was motivated by trade and conquest, but I’d like to think there was curiosity too. Especially by the mapmakers, who documented wonders they never saw themselves. Neither Waldseemuller, Ribero, Ortelius nor Fra Mauro went on any voyage, but such documents they produced! Living plans of the earth that shaped the growth of nations.

Later this afternoon I went into the Jewish ghetto, its buildings even more decrepit and decayed, with eroded brickwork, ragged laundry hanging from windows, and garbage everywhere. There was a bronze plaque in a little square remembering the Jewish deportation and consequent slaughter during the Second World War:

Men, Women, children march for the gas chamber

Advancing toward horror beneath the whip of the executioner

Your sad holocaust is engraved in History

And nothing shall purge your deaths from our memories

For our memories are your only grave.

I have never known war or torture or anything like the real pain and problems of those who lived here or elsewhere during times of strife. But I guess the effectiveness of a monument is the meaning it gives its viewers, each person’s own experiences subscribing to the feeling that emerges.

I thought of you there. Of your life. I had never met anyone who was an orphan, who had to leave high school early to look after a little brother, who worked at anything to earn food money. Busking for coins. Serving in restaurants and bars. Pumping gas. Working 18 hours or more every day of the week, just to survive. When I met you you’d just decided to go back to school, studying and writing essays in coffee and lunch breaks, working overtime to pay for night classes. I was so proud of you. You never wanted any help.

Remember…what was his name? The owner of the bar downtown. ‘The Crazy Fox’. Larry. Wasn’t it Larry? I think I’m losing my memory. One month Larry said, “Sorry Andrew, I can’t pay you this month. I got too much going on and not enough cash coming in.” Without giving you even a hint of this before payday! I was indignant, and tried to give you the money, even lend it to you, but you wouldn’t take it, saying your course would still be offfered the next term. You smiled and said, “Aw babe, (you always called me ‘babe’. I hate that word but for some reason I loved it that you called me ‘babe’) he’s really in a bind. I’ll help him out a bit to get him on his feet again. He’ll pay me when he can.” Of course he never did and you had to miss an entire semester because of it. You even threw his wife an impromptu birthday party because he said he couldn’t afford a present. Using his own wife to scam you! I was furious, but it never bothered you.

You deserved so much and asked for so little. I always wished I could have offered more, but you always said my love was enough to make you happy. Obviously not now. All the fighting I was willing to do for you I must do for myself to live without you. How ironic.

Shit.

What a way to feel on the last day of the year.

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - Christmas past

My optimism at arriving in Venice has turned a bit south. I thought by now, by here, I’d be starting to sort things out. But things haven’t changed an inch: it hurts as much as it did that day in June. The ache is heavier and duller but it is still carried around every minute of the day. This winter was going to be so special: our wedding was going to be at Christmas, a Christmas now come and gone. After June I thought I’d never be able to make it one month after and now six have passed. I am shocked at still being alive. The pain of living has not dissipated

Do you remember last Winter my love? The day school ended and we went up into the hills to get a tree for your place? We took a sled and had a riotous time toboganning down every hill we could find. I got a bruise the size of a truck right on my rear fender. The sky was that sort of orange colour you see just before it snows and by the time we’d chosen our tree the flakes had begun to fall. It took ages to find just the right tree. We put mittens on the tops of potentials so that we could narrow it down, and when we ran out of mittens we used our scarves and then our hats. Starting to get cold, we went back to all the trees we had marked to make our final tree choice. We never did find my left mitten. On the way back we stopped off to buy some thread, then had hot rum while stringing popcorn and cranberries. After it was all done, we just sat in the dark holding each other and watching the twinkling lights with childish fascination. Oh man, I’ve got to stop thinking of things like this – I start to lose control and everything gets all blurry. Part of me just wants to let loose, tears and anguish out, but I am terrified of that. What if I can’t stop?

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - almost homesick

I tried to call home last night, even though I knew it would be difficult. I first tried the post office, but found out I couldn’t make collect calls on public phones and it was a four hour wait. Then I had a brainwave and asked Franco at his rather upscale hotel. He seemed happy to see me again but rather overwhelmed with a full hotel, directing me to the back where a bank of phones could be used. Joy of joy, I found lots of phones, but my euphoria turned to dismay when it appeared there was now a six hour wait! I decided to bite the bullet and call direct from the post office, reading while I waited.

I got through, cried, laughed and paid through the nose for fifteen minutes. Everyone was there so I was able to hear a few words in their voices and it felt so good. Sidney’s doing fine and looking forward to the baby’s arrival. The nursery’s already decorated and every evening for an hour she presses the radio to her belly, tuned to the classical channel, because she read in one of her books that babies can hear music before they are born and classical music makes them smarter. She didn’t ask me one question about myself but she did tell me to take care of her child’s auntie. Sam has finished her dog training course, said Sidney is impossible to be with for more than five minutes because all she talks about is the baby, and then she told me in depth about her new puppies, how responsive they are, what they eat and how they sleep and how one of them will only sleep on the cushion I had given Sam last year. Despite being virtually a silent partner on the other side of both conversations, I got the feeling my sisters actually missed me – a circumstance I was not expecting at all. Dad told me briefly about this years bean choices (Royal Burgundy and Tenderette for the Bush snaps, Painted Lady and Rattlesnake for the Pole snaps, and Montezuma Red, Appaloosa and Windsor for the Dry choices) and a new kelp fertilizer that promises great things. Mom has bought herself a divining rod because one of her mah jong friends told her she had the gift. All my presents had arrived. Mom and Dad asked me how I was and no one told me what I should be doing. It was the first time in my life that I actually felt like a part of my family. I really hated to say good-bye.

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - o holy night

I lit candles to you all day and dreamed of you all night, this Christmas night. I miss you so much. I thought being in Venice would help but I feel alone in a wilderness.

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - amore!

I am in love! Infatuated! I arrived in Venice at midnight, lights shimmering over tremulous watery pathways. A high white bridge carried me into this place of statues and domes, jasmine heavy in the night air. Tempered light caressed the dark, silent shuttered houses before submerging into black oily waters. This is a place where secrets and mysteries gather for anyone patient enough to decipher them. I feel transformed by the city, in love with it.

After wandering around in a romantic haze I realized a more practical head was required and I went into a modern hotel to ask directions. A pleasant young concierge took me in hand and phoned the pension I hadn’t been able to find in the dark. Alas! Completely full. He tried several more, all of which were full. I began to realize my plight arriving at midnight two nights before Christmas. The concierge, Franco, was sympathetic and, motioning me over to the end of the desk, he leaned close and ‘sotto voce’ confidentially invited me to stay in one of the reception rooms at the back of the hotel as long as I left before the cleaner came at 6am. There was no one else anywhere near his desk but I played along, hanging around like a guilty schoolgirl until I was given the all-clear to slip into a room containing huge armchairs and gigantic mirrors. I looked at maps and made plans while Franco crept in at intervals, whispering suggestions and information in his halted English. I slipped off my shoes and found the most comfortable chair I could. At 5:30, Franco awakened me – did he never sleep himself? I thanked him profusely as I left and promised to come back for a visit.

It was too early to bang on pension doors so I went into a café-bar and ordered espresso and ‘toast’, which turned out to be a toasted ham and cheese sandwich. I inhaled it while watching the regulars come in for their early morning coffee before heading off to work, all well dressed and purposeful. I envy them. The sun rose while I was there and my walk back under blue skies and cool air was invigorating. This city makes me restless, excited, expectant. I headed to the market area over cobbled streets and bridges. Then over the Rialto bridge to San Marco Square to bask in sunlight. I sat near the Bridge of Sighs, surely one of the most romantically named places in the world despite the fact it led to the place of execution. Pigeons flocked in droves. Pigeons seem to be everywhere in the world. Do they speak the same language I wonder? Could a Brazilian pigeon co-exist with an Italian one?

I lucked out near the train station, a room would be available in an hour for 23,000 lire, about 15 American dollars, very expensive, but it did include breakfast and showers. My room is tiny, room enough for only one single bad that sits flat on the floor. My pack will have to sit on the end of the bed, and I had to give the landlord my guitar for safekeeping as well. I was a little worried about that, he wears a white singlet that’s stained and smelly, and he hasn’t smiled yet, but I don’t have much choice.

It’s always a wonderful feeling to go striding out unencumbered by my things. Everywhere I went I could hear church bells tolling and feet clicking on the stones in a hurry to get somewhere. Growing up with my parents’ - shall we say - lack of religious fervour, I’ve never attended church on Christmas Eve, but somehow it seems like the obvious thing to do here. And I wanted to do it. I really felt some pull of desire to be with people tonight. I couldn’t quite take the hugeness of St. Mark’s, but purely by accident I found a charming little church packed with people all dressed in holiday best. It was a small but elaborate building, full of plaster work, paintings and giltwork. There was a large choir up front with a small orchestra and a second, rather small and rustic choir with a harpsichord up in the gallery behind. As it happens I was lucky to get seats at all, for soon it was standing room only and the service was a long one. I did pretty well until the end when all the lights were turned out except for the tiny white ones dressing two trees at the altar. With instruments silent, everyone in the entire church sang “Twas on a Night Like This”. The sound of it, Italian voices in this dim glittering place on the eve of Christmas just undid me and I sobbed like a baby. Although you and I were destined to spend only one Christmas together, I feel like we have shared this one too.

Sometimes I can make myself dream of you, and I intend to try tonight. I just think of the first time we spent the night together. My ‘first time’ too. What is it about one’s ‘first time’? I guess everyone remembers theirs.

The hockey play-offs were on. I’d always kind of liked hockey, so fast and exciting. You didn’t have a TV and I asked if you wanted to come over and watch with me and you said yes. We’d lie on big cushions on the floor in that tiny apartment, sharing beer and chips and watching the puck dart across the white ice. Vancouver vs. Chicago.

I could feel the heat of you lying close. My heart throbbed and I tried to calm myself by just looking straight ahead at the screen, the hockey action tamer than my emotions. In between the periods we would talk a bit, and kiss. Long, drawn out kisses that took my breath away. Then, that one night near the end of the semi-final, we kept kissing even when the second period started. I don’t think we watched one minute more of that game. We just lay there holding each other’s gaze and imploring each other’s lips, the TV flickering in the background. We must have looked ridiculous but it felt glorious. Is it really possible that anyone felt that way ever before? You didn’t get up to leave after the game ended. We just lay there holding each other. Time stopped.

“I’d like to stay the night, if I may.”

I buried my face in your shirt and felt the red hot blush go right through me. How could I tell you? It’s ridiculous to still be a virgin at 23. “I, yes, but… it’s…. my first time.” I looked up to see the surprised look on your face and felt uncomfortable and awkward.

You let out a breath. Then, silently, you rose, took my hand and led me into the bedroom, turned off all the lights. Then you undressed me, slowly, kissing each part of my ambiguous body as it became divested. The darkness allowed me to kiss you back, to touch you and explore your body in tentative, concealed caresses. We whispered and giggled until I started to feel more confident and sexy. Even after the safety of dark became light.

Then we didn’t sleep for weeks.

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - nice Nice

Niki had told me I simply must go to Nice. No reason not to, I guess, even though I've been backtracking myself through the south of France. I thought I'd stop there on my way to Italy. I awkwardly got on the train, getting my guitar wedged horizontally between my body and the door opening. I am always getting caught in doors with it, like that scene in ‘The Sound of Music’ when Maria von Trapp takes the bus to go to her position as governess, all nervous about her new life’s direction. We have a lot in common, old Maria and me.


The train followed the Mediterranean coastline eastward. Farmers were out in the fields burning waste and the air was hazy and mellow in rheumy sun. Fields and vineyards became craggy rocks rising from the sea, dotted with villas. The soil changed from chalky white to brick red as the train moved east, terrain getting rougher. On the left side I saw dry hills and on the right, flashes of the Mediterranean Sea below. Nice’s old large and rectangular, was full of rowers, sailors and freighters. After wandering around the town, I walked along the breakwater and gazed out over lapis. The sun broke through cloud at times in long shafts of hazy light illuminating one spot of sea, then disappearing before finding another spot to transmute into sparkles of molten gold. Like a finger from heaven. I got one of those jumps in my heart. I tried to absorb the image, eyes closed, holding it as a memory. Ever since I was a kid. Another ‘golden second’. I wish I could find some way to express the joyous pain I feel at such beauty but I’m no artist. No poet either. A reader of other people’s words. A player of other people’s songs.

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - proving myself

Yesterday my pension landlady wanted me to pay for a week’s worth regardless of how long I actually stay. She was short tempered and after taking my passport as insurance she directed me to a bank in town. Of course it was closed being Sunday. All the banks were closed and I spent my whole day trying to accomplish something that was unaccomplishable. I know she doesn’t know me and probably gets loads of travelers coming and going, many of whom might not be honest, but I’ve never really had anyone doubt me before. When I think about it, I guess I have never had to prove myself to anyone before. I grew up in one place and have always lived there. The people I went to university with were mostly the people I went to school with and the only new people I have met in the last few years are the people I worked with. And you of course.

It’s a bit of a blow to the ego. I can’t say, “Look, it’s me! I’m good for it. I’m clean and educated and generally a good person. Here’s a picture of my family and here’s one of my old cat and this…. this is – was - my boyfriend – yes he is handsome isn’t he?”

Oh damn, there go the waterworks again. Okay, I’m fine now. If I just swallow it inside and blink a lot I’m fine.

On reflection, being unknown is a bit like having a secret. I could be anyone. I can say anything and no one will be surprised that such things come out of my mouth. Cut adrift yet free at the same time. Occasionally I even find myself a little excited about my next destination or the day’s activities, or catch myself smiling at something I overheard or read or saw, and it shocks me. Could it be that I will – could - feel happiness again? That’s a little scary. And exhausting. I don’t want to even think about it. So much easier to concern myself only with ‘Now’. Where am I going to sleep? What am I going to eat? Do I have enough cash in the right currency? What time is the train east? How much are these postcards? Head down, do the time.

Anyway, today I could pay my landlady, who suddenly became all friendly and hugged me like I was her niece.