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The Other Side of Opera

Our plane is delayed at Gatwick, so when it finally touches down at Marco Polo airport, the night sky is lit up with a ring of thunderclouds that don't release the rain, they simply provide a fireworks display the likes of which I haven't seen in years. We get into a taxi, and the driver plays some upbeat remixed opera, and with a sweat sheen painting my chest and face, I sit back in the taxi and let the music swish over me, holding Mr. Y's hand and enjoying the scent of warm air in the car. I feel girly, giddy, oozy with love.

We get to the bus station, and the driver directs us to the water ferries, so we head out to the water boat station and wait for one to show up and take us to our hotel, which is smack in the center of the city, a few minutes away from Piazza San Marco. It's late, and people are out and about on the docks, laughing, taking photos, stunned and amazed. The sky continues its night display, while sparing us the rain. Mr. Y is looking at boat timetables, trying to figure out the schedule.

I go dancing up to him, twirling my arms around his neck and so thrilled to be there with him. I shower his faces with kisses as I try to keep the grin off my face.

"I don't want kisses right now." he growls.

I stand back.

What?

I look at his face. "Are you ok, baby?" I ask, unsure of what's happening.

"No, I'm bloody furious!" he seethes. "We've been ripped off by the taxi driver, and we are totally unprepared for being here. This is a disaster. Don't tell me you think this is going well?"

Oh. "Actually, I do. I think of Italy as just being chaotic and corrupt. I don't mind it. In Italy, I think of just going with the flow. Can't you just think of that with me? Can't we just enjoy each other's company while we wait?" I stand back, unsure of what to do. He's livid, and I never know how to handle these situations.

Our boat finally comes. We get on it, him a wriggling mass of anger and me defeated and crushed that the trip to Venice I booked up for us is already going so wrong. It gets worse, too, as the boat we are on stops service halfway to our hotel, we all get unceremoniously dumped on a dock and we have to wait there for another one. When the next boat finally comes, Mr. Y and I are equally stone-faced. When we finally make it to the hotel and check in, riding the lift up to the room, his back to me as he faces the buttons of the side panel, I hear his voice quietly filling the tiny lift.

"I am so sorry." he says softly.

We go to bed, not touching, not talking.

The next morning dawns better, as he starts off with rounds of apologies. I accept them, I understand he was stressed. I had forgotten how difficult it can be to find your way around Venice, to work the system. I was regretting booking the trip, but hopeful that it would get better and that his stress was over. It became our joke, to see people lugging suitcases, map in hand and frown on face. And it seemed without fail that whenever we would see them, the man looked cross and stressed, the woman looked tired, an argument brewing in the space between them.

Formulaic, really.

But I still wish the fight hadn't happened.

Breakfast is in the hotel's little garden, a dish of rich cafe latte and croissants with Nutella. Ordinarily my calorific-fears would kick in over such a meal, but somehow in Italy or France it feels normal. Expected. One eats croissant with nutella in the sunshine, tiny birds all around. It's what's done. So far be it from me to say no, eh?

We start by sightseeing, walking around the city that is Venice. The sun is warm and spectacular, and there isn't a cloud in the sky. I can feel the light soaking into my arms, my face, my hair, and I breathe easier, knowing that the cobwebs are being chased out of me. We take a lot of pictures but avoid the tourist masses-uninterested in waiting for hours to see the Doge's Palace in San Marco, we pass it by and spend our time chasing up and down the alleys of Venice, learning the cobbled streets and agog at the ancient feeling in the city.

Once you get out of the center of Venice, you have whole areas to yourself. We stop at a little tiny restaurant in one of the quieter parts, a little trattoria whose name translates to "The Pumpkin". We drink a liter of wine (that's a bottle and a half to most of us) and sit outside in the warmth, gorging ourselves on buffalo mozzarello and pomodoro, pumpkin, and vegetables. The outside area fills up, and in no time we realize that two of the tables near us are populated by an American family and their Italian hosts.

Surprisingly, Venice was heaving with Americans. You heard them everywhere, all in groups, all laughing. It was so wild-I haven't heard so many Americans since...well...the last time I was in America. I hadn't really thought of Venice as being high on the tourist map-it's difficult and expensive to get there, and the last time I was in Venice, I don't recall hearing a single American accent. I think it's great that Americans are travelling, provided I am not exposed to loud stories of an American college student's father, who liked to drop his trousers to tuck his shirt in. On behalf of myself and all the other diners at that restaurant, sweetheart, we wish you'd lowered your voice. Really.

The father of the American family is on the phone, talking loudly. Not as loud as his wife, who is trying to pick out the most bland food on the menu possible. She settles for asking for some spaghetti with tomato sauce, proof perhaps that you can take the person out of the country, but you can't take the Ragu out of the person. I want to walk over to her and say: You have to try this food. The Italians can make such fantastic fare here. Give it a shot, you'll love it. Honest.

The father is talking even louder on the phone. "Ohmigod are you serious?" he nearly shouts into the phone. "Was that on the news? Really?" he shakes his head. Mr. Y and I (and, frankly, everyone within a block radius) wonder what's up. He hangs up and turns to his group.

"The governor of New Jersey has resigned after a gay affair!" he crows. "Can you believe it? And there was nothing on the news about it! Clearly the BBC didn't think it was newsworthy! Can you believe it? That's not newsworthy over here!"

Well, mate, actually....yes, I can believe it. It's not newsworthy in Italy. So he had a gay affair? Big deal. Hope he wore a condom. But no-honestly we don't really care about the governor of New Jersey. I mean, the Home Secretary in the UK is rumored to be having an affair with a married woman, but you don't see that prancing across the screen on CNN, do you? It's all regional news, about what affects the people that live in the areas the news is broadcast to.

A bit sozzled by all the wine, we decide to bounce out of the trattoria and head for the center again, where Mr. Y negotiates a gondolier down to a lovely price for a short ride. The price may be nice, but the gondolier is pissed off about accepting it, and we get the curtest and shortest ride ever. But even so, we laugh off his attitude and enjoy ourselves, relaxing in the company of the sun and each other.

Walking back to the hotel, I realize that I recognize the area we are in. I don't know why, but something tells me that I had been to that area before, and I found myself looking around, wondering why. Walking up a small alley, I see a spray of graffiti on the wall. My heart stops and fills with ice water. There, scribbled on the wall, is the saying (in English): I hate my parents and my life. And I remember that graffiti from eight years ago. Kim made us pose against it and he took a picture of it. I still have those pictures, wrapped in a box in a storage unit in Stockholm. A part of me feels strange to see those words-it's almost physical proof to my mind that he was indeed here with me all those years ago. A part of me wants to listen down the alley for the sound of him, even though the fall of his footsteps on that cobble happened over eight years ago.

I take a picture instead, and move on.

Graffiti

We go back to the hotel for a siesta, a round of sex, and a shower. Changing clothes, we head out for a nice dinner at a candlelit square, the risotto rich and the wine flowing. We talk warm heart-to-heart things, feet rubbing under the table and smiles on our lips. Mr. Y lets me know that he was worried that I am comparing this trip to Venice to my previous trip, but the truth is, I really wasn't. My visit with Mr. Y was so wildly different and so full of sunlight that it hadn't even occured to me.

As we walk back to our hotel, we hear stunning and loving opera flowing down the street. It's a lone voice hurtling up the heights of the scale, accompanied only by a piano. The sound is haunting and beautiful, an ache that makes me squirm and yearn. As we turn the corner, we see that the person singing is directly opposite our hotel, a crowd gathered listening. And to my utter shock, the singer is a man. A older gray-haired man, clearly deprived of his male bits, whose voice made me quiver with tears and happiness.

Saturday and Sunday were also spent walking. We just walked around Venice, taking in the sights and views. Talking to each other, getting to know the city. The Adriatic sparkling and fantastic in the sun, water so blue and clear that it takes my breath away. All I want is to be by it, to feel it, smell it, see it. We have one more argument, a mar on the otherwise sunny landscape. We make up. We make out. Sunday we eat lunch at another tiny trattoria, owned and run by a mother and son. The food is simple, understated, and fantastic.

Venice is for lovers and families. You don't see a lot of single folk wandering around hoping to score-it's couples, holding hands. Families touring the area, all of them looking eager and interested. Apparently, Venice is also popular for proposals, which Mr. Y warns me off of from the get go (which is ok-I didn't actually anticipate one!)

The trip home is fraught and boring, but we both manage to hold our tempers. An American chick stands next to me on the bus from the terminal to the airplane. She is wearing a sparkly new engagement ring and an incredibly sour face, while her boyfriend juggles their bags.

"I hate this country. I hate Europe. I'm never coming back." she whines.

Mr. Y is reading his newspaper, propping himself against a pole and maintaining his balance on the moving bus. I tell him about the conversation that I overheard.

"Fine with me." he says, to her "never coming back statement". "Don't think she'll be missed here."

We are talking now about where to go in October-my only requirement is that it is hot and by the water-and so we are looking at options. Regardless, you can be sure that I will have worked out the transportation upon arriving. But even if the transport goes awry, hopefully Mr. Y will be able to laugh and relax and give me kisses, just glad to be in my company, instead of getting so angry. Maybe it's a chick thing-since learning to laugh things off and not get angry, I now simply want to throw my arms around the boy and enjoy things. Maybe it's not so easy for men to climb down from anger, to want to be kissed when they are pissed off.

And now when I think of Venice, I think of the wonderful company I had and the sun on the Adriatic. And something takes me back to the Friday night. With the windows open to let the wind in, Mr. Y's naked form sleeping peacefully next to me and holding on to me, I stay awake. I let a six foot tall eunuch, dressed in a white T-shirt and fraying jeans sing to me. I stay awake until his last song, and then I let this man's voice reach into my ears and massage my spine, rubbing it and smoothing out the frayed edges, easing me to sleep.

-H.

Some pictures, including my new sidebar pic.

Mr. Y and Helen

View from the Rialto Bridge

On the Gondola

PS-I am pleased for Jim-he's got himself an article published about blogging. It's like he's all grown up and moved out of the house. New home, job safe, been published. *sniff sniff*. Soon he won't need Simon and I, and then what? :)

Posted by Everydaystranger at August 17, 2004 08:09 AM .

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