"Ciao, Tesoro"!

Experiencing a definite lag in my energy and motivation, after some 10 days of marching through the alleys and canals of this city.  It is hard for me to just take time off, it would seem, and thus I continue walking, exploring, and making interesting discoveries.  Today my instinct is to do nothing.  Maybe a short walk, some more writing, some picture taking.  When I looked at my camera yesterday I saw that I had taken upwards of 700 photographs in this relatively short time.  It is interesting, though, that when you spend a lot of time moving mindfully through space and not talking a lot to others, this thing called time moves more slowly.  In fact, if someone were to ask me how long I had been here, I'd want to say "months"!  In writing to a good friend I commented that this whole experience feels like being on retreat in some way, with the stretching out of time...  I guess I had imagined that there would be more ongoing conversation with the Venetians whose city I have come to inhabit, but the opposite appears to be true.  They are not particularly interested in making friends with any foreigners; they are a people perpetually flooded with visitors from all over the world whose main interest is to maximize their Venetian vacation -- see the best sights, eat in the great places, get the best deals shopping, etc., etc. Take, take, take.... I would guess that most visitors have minimal interest in inhabiting this culture and looking below the surface at what unfolds here in real life for the Venetians.  It is hard to imagine living like that.  I even find that I become grumpy at times at the short-clad tourists tramping about San Francisco, hanging off cable cars, eating at Fishermans wharf and buying dumb t-shirts .... I want to tell them that there is so much more to experience in my city, but then I remind myself it's not my business.  So, the grumpiness comes from thinking I know better than they what their experience should be, AND not liking the congestion that they can cause at certain times, in certain places.  Well, the Venetians have it a lot worse! 
I spend a lot of my time listening to conversations amongst these Italians, trying to peer into their lives.  I do love this language, and the more I listen the better I get.  It is a language embued with exhuberance, love, affection, and passion.  This morning a lady at my hotel was saying goodbye to the kitchen help, and she said it this way:  "Ciao, tesoro," which means literally:  "goodbye, my treasure."  Can you imagine us saying that to one another in the U.S.?  I have been paying a lot of attention to people and their dogs here in Venice, and in fact have made a little project of taking as many pics of these pairs as possible.  The other day, a woman was reprimanding her dog, trying to redirect his desire to pee in a certain spot, calling him, "mio amore."  That would be like us saying to our hound back home, "please don't pee there, my love."   We do love our dogs in America, but I doubt we would so openly express our true love in public.
Perhaps my most wonderful interaction with a Venetian has been with Gianni Basso, the printer, a man whom I have looked up every time I've been in Venice, since I first stumbled on him eons of time ago.  He runs an old fashioned print studio, with hand driven presses, the real authentic kind, and, yes, it has been in his family for generations.  He is a proud man, but wonderfully proud of his craft.  He has no website, no fax machine, and he doesn't taken credit cards.  He also doesn't speak much English!  He prints the most beautiful stationary, and business cards, among other things.... I stopped by a week ago and ordered a few more editions of business cards -- not that I really NEED them -- but I treasure his work, and feel so happy to have his cards in my life when I get back home.  We talk endlessly when I go about my travels, his new clients, our feelings about Venice in winter, the great old churches that are "must sees" ... I stumble along in my creaky Italian, and the more I do it the more confident I become... the more I find the words that I need to express myself.  I am grateful to be able to have a connection with someone here, with whom I can be myself, and be seen as such.  I think to many of the others I encounter -- restaurant staff, hotel people, shop keepers -- I am just another foreign face.  But this in fact is what is true.  I am a foreigner.  I must remember that I am not just what I seem to be to myself, but I am this other persona to the Italians I meet here everyday.
As much as I love seafood, I have to confess I am becoming a bit tired of octopus, salted cod, squid, and the like.  Maybe my stomach is telling me it is wearying of this, I don't know... The next time I journey here for two weeks, I believe I'll rent an apartment, do my own shopping, and cook what I want.  Maybe.  Sounds like a great idea, AND it's a lot more work.  A lot of time figuring out how to get to the market at the right time before they shut down.  When I went to the fish and produce market the other morning specifically to take pictures it was about 10:30 am and the place had been in full swing since early on (7 maybe).  They shut down firmly at noon, pack up their stuff, clean up the arcade, and, poof, they're gone.  The Italians take marketing very seriously, and it is huge entertainment to watch them all poking at the veggies, having intense conversations about the shimmering fishes that are on display.  The amount of choice is staggering.  The wealth of beautiful looking fish from the tiny little crabs and shrimps to the huge swordfishes, soles, branzinos, and all variety that I couldn't possibly translate into English.  The produce is stunning too, punctuated by a proliferation of purple artichokes now in season, in a large variety of sizes.  And when you sample those little gems, perfectly marinated in olive oil at your little osteria, you are transported into the pleasure realm for sure.  One lunch I had recently was just this:  fresh made tagliarini with granseola (baby crab) in olive oil and garlic, with a side of those charming little purple "carciofini" (baby artichokes).  The perfect Italian lunch!
I could sit here all day writing about the culinary pleasures and disappointments (fortunately fewer of those), but something is calling me to go outside, and try my hand a little more exploring.  Only today and the weekend left before returning.  I must get to Torcello, the island with the ancient church which is said to be the "mother Venice" -- the original Venetian community.  It is a haunting place, but sadly I don't have the motivation to get out there today ....
From the Flora Hotel in the center of  San Marco, I will say, "arrivederci" for now.