large, midwestern city

chicago 2008

to the pigeons: “va a quel paese”

I’ve heard that the city is finally kicking out the birdfood vendors in the piazza. So far they haven’t budged, but recently, though, I saw a couple of men just outside the piazza who were trapping pigeons in nets and cramming them into plastic crates. Thinking this was perhaps part of a concerted eradication process, I asked what’s happening to them. Apparently they’re being sent to Mestre. Can’t tell you why — my follow up question didn’t get me very far so I stopped bothering the nice man doing the cramming. (If it was part of an eradication process, it’s not a concerted one.)

In other news, I was very clever at work today and came this close to finding a letter or poem in the hand of Policreti. (Long story.) I also dealt with the laundry…. Our washing machine has stopped spinning, so my sainted adoptive family let me come over to use theirs. Actually, mamma G. insisted that I come over and drop off my biancheria, which I did…though not without some protestation. I don’t mind mooching electricity and detergent, but just dropping off two huge loads of wash doesn’t feel right! Oh, and while I was over there they helped me call the dogana (again) and then asked me to stay for lunch. God bless mamma and pappa G.!

where am I?

We’re having a glorious spate of sunny days, and the city is suddenly different.  It’s not just that I’ve spent most of the last month at home (there, I’ve said it).  There’s a slate-gray flatness to Venetian winter.  Sunshine is to this city as varnish is to fine wood.  It brings out the texture, the depth, the grain, the color.  Animates it.  Gives it life.

Preparations for carnevale are also underway.  I knew this, of course.  Confetti has dotted the sidewalks more and more since New Years — like crocus heralding spring.  The passarelle for aqua alta are disappearing.  And the mask-shop saturation has cranked up a notch.  But I didn’t anticipate market stands (?) in Campo S. Stefano.  And, frankly, I’m a little alarmed that there’s a crepe stand in the little campo on our side of the Accademia bridge.  Somehow that crosses an invisible, psychological line for me.  This is liable to be more crowded and literally carnival-like than I anticipated.

Barolo chinato

That’s the uber-special, chocolate-appropriate wine I mentioned a couple of posts ago.  And here’s a description that outstrips anything I could muster:

“Barolo and Barbaresco: Big and burly, both made from the nebbiolo grape, they’re aged for up to three years in oak and can develop in bottle for decades. Locals call them the “king and queen” of Piemontese reds and serve them with the region’s heartiest fare including venison, risotto with porcini, and anything with white truffles. Barolo Chinato, seasoned with botanicals such as quinine bark, juniper and rosemary, makes a potent after-dinner digestivo.” — by Rosina Tinari Wilson, “Piemonte,” Wine X Magazine

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.