first marca da bollo and amazing fish

Not necessarily in that order.

Caught up yesterday with another expat, who I’d actually met before and who is giving me the lowdown on choir options here in town. After a long afternoon of spritz at Al Timon — which was seriously hopping, since it’s one of the only places open on a Sunday — we (N and her fella and I) went to fella’s friend’s restaurant and had an incredible meal. I had the ‘orologio’ — a trip around the plate in small morsels of fabulous raw fish (sort of like Italian sushi, but without the rice and with more balsamic vinegar). Plus a perfect pinot noir and a risotto you could just curl up and snuggle with (involving some type of fish and radicchio da Treviso and something green). Already stuffed after many ciccheti and spritz and a clock’s worth of fish, I gave in and shared the marvelously intense chocolate dessert — paired with one of the rare wines that goes with chocolate. (Ask me later….)

On the way home I helped an older American man find his way back to Piazza San Marco — and was rewarded with yet another spritz and a handful of roses. Yes, the roses those sellers hawk to every couple south of the alps (maybe north, too). The prices are exorbitant! When I protested, the seller just crammed more roses into my hand. Clearly, at midnight, he was trying to dump his merchandise. Anyhow, it was an odd and touching end to a great day.

This morning I bought my first marca da bollo (basically a stamp, but not for postage) at the tobacconist and got my four passport photos, meaning I am ready to submit my permesso di soggiorno application. Woohoo!

Another first: I made an explicit effort to get over my photography phobia today and walked around, camera in hand, taking photographs not just of things but of people. There, I said it. Did most of this in Piazza San Marco, where everyone is photographing everyone and everything else, so it’s a good place to start. Once my internet situation is smoothed over (oh so soon), I’ll post some self-indulgent photos to go with the self-indulgent prose.

As I write this, the sun has just set, the bells of S Stefano have finished ringing, and the voices from the campo are settling to a low murmur. Clanking of dishes, the low hum of a hundred dinner conversations, voices of children playing, the occasional barking dog, all punctuated by high, melodious ‘ciaoooo’ s — which always come at least in pairs.