You and I both know

Coping with Venetian Carabinieri

Once it was purely my fault; I forgot my pocket knife in my day pack as I was headed through security on my way back from Thailand. That was 2000 and a rail thin Thai security officer with a bolt action rifle stopped me as if I was about to disrobe the Jade Buddha and feign masturbation. September 11th hadn’t happened, we weren’t in a heightened state of security, and we definitely were not stateside where heightened state of security and security theater are interchangeable concepts. I apologized for my oversight and watched as my Gerber gator knife was removed from my backpack, placed in a brown paper bag, stapled and handed off to someone. At the time I thought that my thirty-some-odd dollar pig sticker would remain behind in Thailand as a trophy weapon captured in the battle of security against perceived threats. Our flight took us through Tokyo where we had a 12 hour layover. I might’ve thought briefly about my knife and how it was lonely in Thailand, sweating in the monsoon heat, it’s action becoming rusty without any grease as humidity condensed in its nooks and crannies rendering it useless and flaccid. When we made it through immigration in SFO I found a JAL representative, handed her my claim ticket expecting full well that they wouldn’t be able to locate my trusty sidekick. We waited, and waited, and waited some more until a smartly dressed flight attendant with a pretty smile and seductive, high-heeled walk strutted forward with an outstretched arm clutching a brown paper bag. My pig sticker and I were reunited. Life was good.

I swear, it wasn’t my fault.

San Basiglio is a strange port, a blip of a vaparetto stop on the south side of the island. It’s mostly deserted then springs to life twice daily as boats come in from Croatia in the morning and head back out in the evening. It’s too small a port for a sizable craft; no cruise ships stop there, they head to another port and tower in the canals like floating skyscrapers on their sides—sleeping contentious giants poisoning the Veneto with sulphuric waste. I’d like to sink them, but I fear it’d do more harm to the lagoon than anything else.

Like I said, for all my well intentioned violence, it wasn’t my fault!

We arrived early and sat down near the Venezia Lines desk to check in. We had some time to kill so we read, split a beer and ate semi-sweet strawberries that only made us miss the perfectly ripe fruit appearing at the farmers’ markets back home. I’m man enough to admit that there are advantages to where we live. Chief among them is the gastronomical paradise of ripe fruit and vegetables, not to mention high quality meat if you want to pay more.

Still, it wasn’t my fault.

Like a colony of ants the San Basiglio port came to life with uniformed customs agents, ticket attendants, port authority workers and cops arriving for the dance of day trippers heading back to Croatian shores and tired travelers escaping Venice’s mobbed thoroughfares. At the time I wouldn’t place us among either group; we were already sad to leave the fringes. Avoiding the grand canal and all major shopping lanes was almost a game: can we get lost on purpose? Can we go far enough to find the edge of Venice where sea monsters still roam?

And still, it really wasn’t my fault.

I had packed that morning and placed my knife in my locked travel backpack. I know deep-water, non-car carrying ferries; they have shelving designed for luggage storage. The boats themselves are catamarans of incredible speed and power; the most impressive of their many features is their ability to make people vomit repeatedly on voyages of just a couple hours. It doesn’t matter if the seas are rough, or if they’re tame, you will undoubtedly feel ill. If you’ve a sturdy set of sea legs then you only have to contend with the smell—the smell of bag after bag of vomit deposited into trash bags and the sight of your fellow passengers turning green/gray and sweating profusely. True these boats are more efficient than the 12 hour car-carrying ferries that rock slowly back and forth, but the price you pay can be steep even on those vessels: your inner ear ottis media will hate you after rocking back and forth for 12 hours. Upon exiting you’ll walk like a drunk for hours to come, swaying to phantom waves.

We checked in, received our boarding cards, small plastic credit cards. We headed for the security line where two lighted flat screens read: Prince of Venice and the other San Pawl. We were headed for the San Pawl boat destined for the port of Pula and then Rovinj on the Istrian peninsula. When we reached the guy who made sure you had a ticket to see the guy who would screen your bags, before you got to the guy that stamped your passport to let you out of Italy, that guy, the guy before the guy before the guy, told us “Prince of Venice only.” Well we certainly weren’t princes of Venice, so we stood by and waited until he physically called out San Pawl. Then why the lighted sign? I stopped questioning these things long ago.

We jumped back in line and were the first to security. My wife’s bag went on first, then my camera gear, then my big, locked backpack that would reside on some shelf near the entrance to the boat while we were in transit. Her bag went through, I picked up my camera, refilled my pockets with their random assortment or Euro coins, maps, passports, wallet and other sundries; that’s when I saw the guy staring at the monitor call the other guy over for a pow wow at the plate.

I was pulled aside, my bag removed from the machine and I was asked to open it.

“Do you have a knife?”

“I do. It’s going in my checked luggage.”

“Please take it out.”

“Ok.”

A brief flurry of Italian flew by me as heads shook and something akin to a ‘no’ came out of the guy sitting behind the monitor.

Like I said, it wasn’t my fault, and I stopped arguing with these things long ago. I bought this thing on Amazon, it’s not a family heirloom and I’ve long ago left my western sensibilities behind. I don’t get pissy with slow service, or service that ignores me, it’s just different, and I know I’m a stranger in a strange land. My sense of entitlement waits idly by when I travel and I do my best to make like a leaf in a river unless my life is threatened, someone is seriously trying to rip me off, or I’m surrounded by dip shit travelers that are calling way too much attention to themselves and to me. Then I flee.

The guy behind the monitor took my passport and began to fill out a form. My knife might cost me I thought; are they trying to fine me?

“How do you spell ‘ka-neef-a?’ ?” Said the one guy to the other guy.

He began to shake his head “Kay, en, eye, eff, eee!”

I was given a slip of paper, my knife vanished, a trophy for the mighty Venetian Navy I’m sure, and we were ushered toward the guy with the big stamp. Oh well, I smiled at my wife who did her best to make me feel better about the loss. I didn’t care. It’s the price of travel. It doesn’t make sense, just like when a security agent in Hanoi wouldn’t let me on the plane with my tripod, that’s been to more countries than he has in the cabin, because he said it was a weapon. These are things that can’t be explained and feeling entitled, macho and western in your ‘rights’ is just a stupid thing to do.

We got the stamp and proceeded outside to board the vomit comet.

I heard a flurry of Italian behind me and the big guy behind monitor was pointing at me, sweating from the brisk walk from behind the monitor. He was jabbering at a sung glass clad carabinieri with a sidearm in a white case. I told my wife to board the boat and that I’d for sure be right back. He motioned me over to him and began to walk to meet me halfway. My wife would have no part of this and remained on the dock. At stake were good seats in what was sure to be a packed junk on the high seas.

“Are you the one with the ‘ka-neefa’ ?”

“Yep, it’s mine.” I looked down and saw it in his pocket. The blade was fully extended and the handle protruded suggestively.

“What do you use this for?”

“Slicing salami.”

“You and I both know this knife is not for Salami. It is very offensive.”

“It’s a knife and I’ve sliced salami with it.”

“Why do you have it?”

“It’s always in my bag.”

“How did you get it here?”

“I put it in my bag when I left the US headed for the UK. Then it came with me to Brussels, Bruges and Cologne and then Venize, by plane at that.”

“This is illegal in Italy.”

“Salami knives are illegal in Italy?” He smiled; I might’ve been succumbing to heat at this point. “Look, if it’s easier for you to confiscate this knife, go ahead. That’s fine. I didn’t know. I just want to get on my boat.”

“Yes but this is a very offensive weapon.”

“As I said, I’m ok with you taking it, it’s just a knife and I lost my swiss army knife long ago. it was all I had at home.”

“Is this kind of weapon legal in the United States?”

“Yep, the blade isn’t that long, it’s of legal length.”

“In Italy it is considered a very offensive weapon.”

“Ok, well it can stay in Italy if that’s what you need.”

“Ok, you go and I will consider what to do.”

As I turned my back and began to walk to the boat to a now smiling wife, I heard “Signor!” I turned “How does it work?” I showed him how to close the knife and lock the mechanism, a bit hair triggered, from popping the blade open thanks to an ingenious spring assist. He thanked me. Shit, I just showed this walking San Danielle chorizo how to use the knife he’s keeping for himself. Shamed and shit on I boarded my boat but with an incredible sense of nonchalance and absolutely not caring that I had lost my trusty Smith&Wesson spring assisted ‘ka-neefa.’

Our adventure was underway and like I said, it wasn’t our fault.

After a bumpy ride we reached Rovinj. We were the last off a mostly empty boat. The lion’s share of German and Russian travelers, some that had to be warned by loud speaker not to smoke in the bathroom, and in three languages, got off in Pula. We went to fetch our backpacks and my wife reminded me about the paper, the magical claim ticket for the ‘ka-neefa’ that would not be waiting for me. I laughed, “Sure let’s see.” I handed my golden ticket to a tall dark haired Croat gal who ran back. We waited, all of the first class Japanese tourists descended from the deck above and were quite certainly the last people on the boat. A bald guy showed up in an orange shirt and with absolutely no ceremony handed me my knife and went about fiddling with the boat’s moorings.

Like I said, it wasn’t my fault.