Botticelli Blue Skies: An American in Florence

20. Seashells from the Adriatic and Roast Sardines

Venice is the fabled city. I know it from Shakespeare and from the movies. What will I see with my own eyes? Rain strikes my face as we disembark from the train. On the dock is an odd, slatted, wooden sculpture, triangular in shape—which I don’t have time to consider since we immediately board a traghetto for the Lido, where our group has rooms reserved in a cheap hotel. The students, who have all slept on the train, are in the mood to take photographs; they rush outside the glassed-in area to the bow of the boat and lean recklessly upon one another while their friends take pictures to document their arrival in the mythical city. They seem to take dozens of pictures of themselves at every historical site, using it mainly as backdrop for their mugging. Nicoletta is busy counting heads; her general query is always the same: “Check for your roommates! Is everyone here?” Since no one speaks up, she assumes, fairly, that everyone is on the boat—till we are well out on the canal, when someone shouts, “Oh, Clarita isn’t here!” Her consternation is visible; she and Joe confer. What to do? Joe reminds Nicoletta that Clarita used to be in the Marines; Clarita will probably find her way to the hotel on the next traghetto. Though the students are all over eighteen, and in theory the teachers are not in 77 20 Seashells from the Adriatic and Roast Sardines loco parentis, both Nicoletta and Joe are concerned about the kids’ safety. I turn my attention to the waterway, prepared for the great scenes of the Grand Canal, the palazzi on the waterfront, the carved facades I have studied in my guidebook, Venice and the Veneto. Joe seems puzzled—we are in some kind of backwater place, passing unremarkable buildings, docks on which gas stations seem to be located, loading piers, industrial storage areas. He and Nicoletta confer again—“I think they’re taking us on a back route to the Lido,” she says. “It’s probably shorter this way.” She looks thoroughly frustrated. The students are still so busy making human pyramids and taking photos they haven’t noticed that we aren’t yet seeing the beauties of Venice. Oh, well. Joe and Nicoletta assure each other there will be plenty of opportunities for everyone to experience the Grand Canal in all its aspects. The Hotel Euclid, at the Lido of Venice, has an ascensore only to the fourth floor; however, Joe and I have been assigned una camera matrimoniale on the fifth floor. We struggle up the narrow staircase, bumping our small suitcases behind us, and find ourselves in a room as small as a closet, damp and chilly on this rainy day, no heat in the pipes, and a bathroom that seems to serve in its entirety as a shower. The narrow letto matrimoniale is shoved against a wall; the mattress is rock hard. The towels in the bathroom are made of stiff, starched waffle squares that scratch my face when I dry it. When I look out the window, I see only a clothesline hung with large white sheets that flap in the wind and block whatever view may be out there. I feel my good will drifting away; childish emotions, easily aroused lately, are creeping up on me: I want to blame someone. Why didn’t we get a good room? Why doesn’t the elevator go to our floor? Why isn’t the heat on? Why don’t we have a view of something? Anything! (Why didn’t I stay home? Not just home in Florence, but home at home, in California!) Now that we have deposited our luggage, we are scheduled immediately to take a traghetto back to Venice. All this transporting of my body has begun to seem a major burden. (I remember one writer’s arch comment about travel; his body, he said, was the “valet for his soul.”) Merrill Joan Gerber 78 A call to Nicoletta’s room confirms that Clarita has indeed turned up safe at the hotel. In fact, she got here somehow before the rest of us. But there’s another problem; Mai Jing, our Chinese student, neglected to bring any identification with her—neither visa nor passport nor credit card—and the hotel is forbidden to register anyone without proper ID. Nicoletta and Joe hurry back...