A (Sort-Of) Death In Venice
I penned the following piece, something of a humor/memoir/meditation hybrid, in 2019. Unable to find a suitable home for it and not entirely committed to doing so, I swept it into a folder and, while not exactly forgetting, accepted it for what it was: a moment in time that was farther behind me than I’d realized. I was and still am an immigrant — y’all know where I stand on the word expat— and no, there’s nothing glamorous about it. Anyone selling you something different is, to put it politely, full of shit. It’s challenging, it’s humbling, it’s transformative. Sometimes it’s funny, or has to be, or else you’re doomed. My first chapter in Italy felt like the pinnacle of something when, as the pandemic and ensuing years have shown me, it was just a moment. And so I’m leaving it here and moving on.
July / 2018
A friend here once gently opined while I was bemoaning various growing pains that progress isn’t a measure of time but — in his words — “just a measure.” I liked that, and tried to take it to heart, but the period leading up to that revelation wasn’t so heartening. Being an immigrant anywhere is hard but in Italy it’s like being the new kid in a school famously touted to be, like, the best school in the world except you’re still navigating the halls and trying to find a seat in the cafeteria while everybody gawks and makes easy comedy of your second language attempts. At my lowest I found myself envying tourists and wondering what’s more painful: leaving or feeling left behind? I was home and yet one foot was still somewhere mid-Atlantic, and that neither-here-nor-there status reinstated a prodigal depression.
It was at least partly that low, of missing ‘home folk’ but also admittedly curious to test transatlantic bridges, that saw me on the train to Venice to meet an editor and online friend for whom I’d written and been in touch with for several years. She and her husband were stopping over on their European honeymoon and welcomed me to kick around for the day. To spare you, dear reader, a dozen different synonyms for ‘friend’ throughout this piece, we shall call her la sposa, the newlywed.
In the voice of Golden Girls’ Sophia Petrillo: Picture it, mid-July, already an extension of August, Italy’s inferno season. A determined young woman carefully selects her outfit to represent what she thinks are the dueling-but-dazzling facets of her present m.o.: battered red Converse sneakers, black shorts, and a repurposed vintage floral blouse that, when dry and on the hanger, looks breezy and chic but ten minutes against her skin in the heat gives her the look and feel of a perspiring sofa. Even her rakish fedora — a long-admitted weakness, don’t judge — strikes a more early aughts Justin Timberlake chord than Patricia Highsmith heroine.
I knew as soon as we were in each other’s presence how la sposa sized me up: an oddity of shaggy street smarts and pampered femininity, Ramona Quimby-meets-Blanche Dubois by way of misfit émigré. We left her husband, who was under the weather, and set out to stroll Piazza San Marco. Along the way I pointed out some of my favorite sights, the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it details that make Venice such a beguiling place, aggressive tourism and all, a city I’ve sworn since childhood was a soul city. Eventually I gave up playing tour guide. You either vibe with a place or you don’t, and la sposa would vibe even less with La Serenissima by the end of the night. Fast-tracking aperitivo, I found a bar off the standard track and did what I do best in awkward social situations: imbibe.
Vino really does bring out the veritas and we gradually began to connect, although I did drop an entire beer on the floor by accident which temporarily threatened to reinstate the damage I’d drunk so hard to undo. La sposa gagged at the baccalà cicchetti so I helped myself to her portion, and while she gradually went down like a felled tree I felt like a new woman.
My triumph proved short-lived when a gentleman tapped me on the arm and suggested I check on my companion, who by then had locked herself in the bathroom. Having spent a good chunk of time at the bar, it was well into the evening and I had a train to catch sooner than I realized. I quickly paid our tab and offered my arm as we wove our way back to the hotel, pausing for an emergency pit stop in the alley behind a restaurant. By the time we arrived I had missed my train, and apologetically accepted an offer to crash there for the night.
Later after recuperating we went down to the canal outside the hotel and sat on the steps, slipping into a drowsy conversation that was abruptly interrupted by two things seemingly happening at the same time: I noticed a large brown female gull, let’s call her Birdy (after one of my favorite childhood reads Catherine, Called Birdy and not the low-hanging fruit), just outside a doorway with a broken leg; I then spotted a group of jostling boys making their way towards us, and knew I was watching two parts of a disaster meeting in slow motion.
I casually tried to conceal Birdy but it was no good. The boys, somewhere between the ages of 11 and maybe 13, stopped, took notice, inquired, then began to poke and kick at her with gleefully alternating shrieks of “Cattivo!” and “Cazzo!” whenever she bristled (their misgendering wasn’t lost on me). I racked my brain for the appropriate words, something akin to “Basta, basta, aiutaci; Stop, stop, help us.” The boys pulled an unexpected 180 and went looking for a box and paper. They were too squeamish to lift Birdy, resulting in a clash of feathers and swearing and hastily covered-up embarrassment. Things started to get ugly. Having grown surly from our lack of positive reinforcement, they began to tease us by tormenting her with more vigor than before.
I was beginning to reach my limit. The day having collapsed like a lung, I now regarded Birdy, wings folded tight as envelopes, quizzical eyes fixed on me, as all that suddenly mattered. She needed me and I needed her and to hell with everyone else. One beat past that reverie a French family approached us asking for directions, oblivious to context and anxiously pushing the patriarch’s Google mapped phone in my face. The boys, not to be parried, cranked up the volume on their commotion and that’s when I Hulked right out of my sofa blouse.
Grabbing some newspapers I scooped Birdy up and barked “Vaffanculo!” at who knows who. I turned on my heel, la sposa followed, and behind us the boys trailed. Swearing in both Italian AND English, our suddenly bilingual Casanovas threatened us with everything from sucking their cocks to killing Birdy. We ducked into the lobby of a ritzy hotel and I presented myself as a bubbly-but-bewildered American girl in distress. The concierge flicked his eyes from me to my friend to Birdy.
“You can wait here but the bird has to go.”
I pointed to the three boys trying their best to look as innocuous as possible while they loitered out front. “Can you at least keep them away?”
The concierge sighed and stepped outside. I could hear him saying something to the effect of “Why are you bothering foreign ladies? Buzz off,” and we made our exit. At last I found a small barricaded construction site to hide Birdy. I’m sorry, I whispered as I lowered her down, I’m so, so sorry.
I turned my attention to la sposa, who by now was fully and understandably traumatized, the Venetian leg of her honeymoon having pulled a roundhouse kick upon my arrival. I felt like a wretched troublemaker, hardly a new sensation, but I also couldn’t stop thinking about Birdy. Something about her had wrenched something loose in me, something that would keep rattling around until I addressed it. Venice looked beautiful that night, just as it always does, and while we sat in the hotel courtyard I remembered how much I loved that lagoon labyrinth of goblin’s ball decadence, loved how impervious it was to bad behavior. No bird fiasco could ever alter that. If anything, it made one thing clear as a pubescent in revolt: I was no longer an extended vacationer in my life and it was time to stop acting like one.
La sposa suddenly spoke. “You know, you’re a badass.” I saw in her admiring face the new impression that had replaced the former. Only by that point I was too exhausted to do anything but take a bath and pass out on the room’s Baroque chaise lounge.
The following morning I awoke early in hopes of escaping any awkward goodbyes, and on my way to the station took a detour to the site where I had hidden Birdy. She had somehow cleared the barricade and was once again settled on the street in plain view. Her go-about-your-business expression uncorked a sob of joy and frustration and relief. I wished my lady bird well, wished her all the serenity, broken leg and tyrannical boys and all.
