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.