Monday, December 05, 2005
because, most of the time, I know how to protect myself
Winter, 1973. I am done with college. I need to leave New York. My work is complete.
I rent a room in a farmer’s house in the mountains of Italy. I want my sociology male-friend to come visit, but he cannot disentangle himself. I want my college girlfriend to visit, but she cannot disentangle herself. I am lonely. I take the train to Venice. Once. Twice. Three times. Ten times. It is February, then March. The Venetian b&b owner knows that I am lonely. He reaches for me, there in his own house, with his son and wife in the floors above. I have studied the language, I know how to say no. I push him away and go out in the drizzly Venetian March air.
I am there again, years later when I travel back to Venice with my family – two little girls and a husband. We need a room. Behind the desk, the adult son looks at me blankly. I want to say “ call your dad – he’ll remember me.” I know he will remember me. But I refrain. We find another b&b. Better. Without the layers.
I rent a room in a farmer’s house in the mountains of Italy. I want my sociology male-friend to come visit, but he cannot disentangle himself. I want my college girlfriend to visit, but she cannot disentangle herself. I am lonely. I take the train to Venice. Once. Twice. Three times. Ten times. It is February, then March. The Venetian b&b owner knows that I am lonely. He reaches for me, there in his own house, with his son and wife in the floors above. I have studied the language, I know how to say no. I push him away and go out in the drizzly Venetian March air.
I am there again, years later when I travel back to Venice with my family – two little girls and a husband. We need a room. Behind the desk, the adult son looks at me blankly. I want to say “ call your dad – he’ll remember me.” I know he will remember me. But I refrain. We find another b&b. Better. Without the layers.
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Short, but deep. Realistic enough. Excellent closing line.
ReplyDeleteI like this style of your writing. Especially the form of realism. Dreamy writing is overrated.
zxc
beautiful
ReplyDeleteIn fairness to S. Romanelli, I showed up at his b&b thirteen separate times that winter. I expressed interest in his old house, he showed me the rooms, we talked over morning espresso about Venice in the winter -- it was a peculiar set of circumstances. All those times, I never met the woman of the house. The son -- yes, but not the wife. Which makes me wonder now -- might there not have been a wife? No matter. I was swooning after my sociologist back in NY.
ReplyDeleteNina, I was two years old at the time. I didn't even know what sociology was.
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