Since the day Laing died, and apart from from hotels (which don’t count), I have not slept under the same roof as another person, until last night.
You see, I have company with me. A fellow widower. Now he and his other half always wanted to go to Venice, but as with so many of us widows and widowers, cancer intervened, thank you very much, and decided to screw up the future plans we had all been making.
As I knew I was going to be in Venice for the language school for an extended period I thought I would get an apartment which was not all chintz and Murano glass, but something more modern. The place I had original checked out for Laing and I only slept two in a double bed (but what a place), and finding somewhere in Venice that wasn’t a converted attic where anybody above 3’4½” would suffer intense back ache within 3 minutes of entering.
So the end result was I found this gorgeous and expensive apartment, not that there’s much that is cheap in Venice with three bedrooms. I sent out a handful of offers. I didn’t dare consider inflicting upon most people my Dometic Slut. I just trust present company will be forgiving.
I collected him from the airport. As a wee bit of humour I had written his name on my iPad and had it at the ready when he exited airside. I had approving remarks from the local taxi drivers/meeters/greeters/collectors about how modern I was being. I am sure I heard a muttered “Bravo, molto moderno”.
We walked to the water taxi rank, and I had to show the local on a map where to go to. I felt quite superior advising him that he needed to drop us off at Campiello dei Fells in the Rio de Gesuiti. Contrast that with my taxi driver when I arrived on the Saturday afternoon who knew exactly where he was taking me.
Earlier in the day I had popped into one of the worst (and by that I mean best, all shall become clear, dear reader) shops in Venice, if not the world, Vizio Virtù.
I jest not, you walk in there and immediately put on 3 kilos, so overwhelming is the sacred scent of chocolate. Anyway, I bought a little selection and had it in a box because it was ‘un regalo’, a present. The selection was of the candied fruits that taste and feel like the fruits and not coloured chunks of sugar dipped in the most succulent mouth-wateringly mouth-meltingly delicious orgasm of taste. If you don’t believe me, be nice to me and find out when I’m next in Venice and I will take you there. This is not a frivolous offer.
Where was I? Oh, yes! We got to the apartment, got him unpacked and I asked if he wanted to be a regular proper tourist on his first evening. As the response was in the affirmative (I knew it would be) I took him to the Piazza San Marco where we sat outside the sumptuously and improbably ancient Caffe Florian and listened to the little orchestra which, believe it or not, made even the title song from ‘The Phantom of the Opera’ sound like decent music. Yes, I am a musical snob and proud of it. I once described to Laing, that ALW sounded like Puccini without balls, and the Radio 3 chap popped up and said it sounded like emasculated Puccini. Same sense, different terminology and approach! A cover charge of €6 for the music was not that high a price to pay for sitting in the open from about 10-12 and due prosecchi each. I shan’t horrify you with the final bill, suffice to say there’s not much that is cheap in Venice.
A stroll back in the evening to the apartment through quite Venetian calli over several ponti, pointing out landmarks and just revelling in sharing Venice with somebody looking at Venice for the first time, and wondering what emotions were running through him. It brought back memories of my very first visit about 30 years ago.
Venice got under my skin then, and like a magnificent and beneficent virus slowly transformed me in the Venice-aholic I am today. This is an illness from which there is no cure, and unlike cancer, I never want this illness to be curable, nor treatable.
