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.
