LOVE IN THE PIAZZA
By
SUSAN ASHLEY MICHAEL
Prologue
An angry goddess tossed a bowl of sweets, and it landed here in the lagoon, scattering shards of crystal and candy. That's how Venice came to be.
I liked that. The idea of smashing something old to create something new and in this case, incredible. Magical. Of all the cities in the world, it is Venice that captures every visitor's imagination, convincing each of us that spirits roam its ancient alleys, that their longings hang in the air like the lagoonal mist. Adrift in this vaporetto on the canal, I could hear echoes of their footsteps and sighs. Echoes of echoes.
"Mar-co!" the ghosts of Venice seemed to call, and my heart reached out to them.
"Po-lo," I answered.
I boarded the Numero Uno, a water-bus that zigzags the Grand Canal, stopping at Ferrovia Santa Lucia, Riva di Biasio, and every station along the waterway. My heart vaulted at the marble palaces sliding by on a watery mirror of fleeting images. A waterlily, less seen than reflected. La Serenissima.
Our clunky vaporetto slowed when a dressed-down version of the gondola crossed our path to ferry commuters from one side to the other. What the traghetto lacked in glamor it made up for in practicality. Bridges crossing the Grand Canal were few and far between and for some sixty thousand, Venice was home sweet home, where business must be conducted and groceries bought.
Poised at the stern of a traditional gondola that skimmed swift and silent beside us, a sweet-faced boatman in striped shirt and pressed pants, worked the long, single oar. I got off at the next stop, called to him, and negotiated his fee before handing him my bags. Then he helped me into his gondola, introducing himself as Angelo.
I convinced him to take me way out into the lagoon, and when we were quite alone, I opened Bernie's luggage and, piece by piece, hurled his clothes overboard. Then I ordered Angelo to drown them.
© 2008 by Susan Ashley Michael
