Bleeding America

Woke up, dressed and went to continental breakfast.  Tried to keep it light, but still stuffed myself silly.  After we finished eating my mom and I rented bikes and biked around the Island of Lido.  We made it around the whole island in about 45 minutes.  Twas gorgeous.  I realized how much I love biking and how much more respect bikers get in Europe.  I accidentally lost track of my mom after we made the loop around the island, and so, on impulse, I decided to go off on my own for the last half hour of my rental.  I stopped at a poster for a local theater, locked my bike up, and went on a hunt to quench my theatrical thirst.  I found nothing but a gigantic deserted area of buildings with a bunch of broken windows.  I had a strange feeling that if I were to get robbed or murdered in Europe, this would probably be the place.  Luckily neither happened, and I got some cool pictures in the process.

After meeting back up with my father, sister and mother, we all went down to the beach for a swim.  Today’s beach visit provided me with a much different perspective on Italians.  I initially thought that only Italian men didn’t give a fuck, but fuck, Italian women don’t either!  I mean, there were some women who looked pregnant with fat wearing bright red bikinis.  Aged, wrinkled grandmothers wore tube tops.  And I was the pale, estranged American wearing a lavender speedo in the middle of it all.  Bellisimo.

After my beach experience, the family and I headed back to the hotel, showered, and hopped on a boat to Venice.  We got some delicious paninis at a local vendor, went to a museum display on the history of Venice, and wrapped it all up by eating fresh fruit on the steps of Saint Mark’s square.   It was still early afternoon at this point, so we decided to divide up and roam around Venice on our own accord.  My mom and sister went shopping while my dad and I hunted, for a Venetian geocache.  Geocaching, for those of you who don’t know, is like an online treasure hunt all around the world.  People hide caches of all sizes, post the coordinates online with some clues and send dogs like me hunting.  We spent most of our time winding through the alleys trying to find the area of the cache, until we eventually gave up and asked a local artist for directions.  His directions helped immensely.  We found the area in a breeze.  The cache, not so much.

 The clue told us to look in the trees, and we looked in every single one.  No luck.  I eventually came upon a tree with a huge hole and stuck my hand in.  After digging around for awhile, I still found nothing.  “Well, at least you can say you tried,” reasoned my dad.  As we began to walk out of the plaza, two locals stopped us.  “Scusi.”  We turned around.  On a bench sat an old withered Italian man with dark skin.  Next to him sat his old withered wife.  I could tell they couldn’t speak much English.  The man made a gesture that said something like, “What the fuck are you doing to my trees?”  I explained how geocaching works, and how people hide things all around the world.  The man looked confused.   My dad made a gesture like he was typing on a keyboard and explained “People do it with the internet”.    I don’t think he understood us, but he nodded with a smile and said “Ciao”.  And that was that.

We met up with my mom and sister and went on a hunt for a Bellini, which is a traditional Venetian cocktail.  We eventually found a nice little spot out of the way, and indulged in some mid-afternoon alcohol.  We followed the alcohol with some shopping, and when our stomachs began to shout, we began to search for a restaurant recommended to us by our tour guide.  After fifteen minutes of asking locals and trying to follow instructions on an Iphone, we found nothing.  In the midst of our search we walked past a jovial restaurant owner who talked to my dad.  “Where is your horse?” he asked.  He was making a joke about my father’s hat, which looked nothing like a cowboy’s.  My dad joked back.  “I let him go.”  The owner and my father shared a chuckle, and we left to find the Brandt females. 

We all finally decided for one last try.  My mom walked into a gelateria and asked the owner if he knew how to get to the restaurant.  “Go down the little alley to the left and take a right.  It should be right behind this store.”  We all smiled.  VICTORY.  We followed his instructions and found the restaurant.  And of course, it was closed. 

My dad, in all his brilliance, suggested we go pay a visit to the restaurant of our newly made friend.  And what a beautiful decision that was.  We knew it was a good restaurant right off the bat because everyone seated for a meal looked very Italian.  There weren’t any tables open yet, so the restaurant owner poured us all a glass of wine and gave us some delicious appetizers to eat.  And as soon as a table was open, we were seated at a gorgeous outside table.  We ordered our food and waited with excitement.  And suddenly, we heard the happy birthday song pour over the air in an Italian accent.  We all joined in.  An Indian family sitting next to us were celebrating a birthday, and the owner brought the birthday gentleman a cake with a gigantic “1” for a candle.  “Ah,” he remarked, “I start over again.”  As our drinks came in, an American family came in to get seated at the restaurant.  Damn.

They were a family of five from the New Jersey.  Most of them were fine and dandy, but boy, did the father say some douchey things.  “We have a rule that if we see more than five Americans at a restaurant, we walk out.”  I can understand why, but this guy was flaunting his stuff as if he was a regular in Venice.  He started talking to some local Venetians sitting at the restaurant about where to go and what to do.  And then he started bashing Americans.  “Boy, you guys are so friendly here. But I feel sorry for you.  If you were to come to America, everyone would ignore you.”  I squinted and gave him a dirty look.  The Venetian lady, who had spent some years in America, didn’t agree.  “Well, I met some very wonderful people in America when I was there.”  He went on as If she hadn’t spoke.  “I wish I could say Americans were as nice as Italians…but they’re not.”  The lady smiled and didn’t respond.

The past couple of days I had been trying, in vain, to blend into the crowd.  To hide any morsel of my American culture.  But now that my identity was under attack, a certain pride began to swell up in my belly.  I didn’t say anything because it wasn’t my place to butt in, but at that moment I felt an eagle erupting from my soul.  In its talons it carried liberty and justice.  And though my chest bled from the eagle bursting free, I stood on my chair, wiped the blood with my hand and licked it clean.  “AMERICAAAA!”  My voice echoed through the alleys and tunnels of Venice.  The sheer power of my yell knocked the fat New Yorker out of his seat.  I jumped down, put one foot on his belly, and pumped my fist victoriously in the air. 

Alright, I’ll own up.  I didn’t lick my bloody hand clean.  I just sort of wiped it on my shirt.

But in all honesty, I was pretty pissed.   Yeah, sure, there might be some assholes in America, but there are assholes everywhere you go.  It just sort of comes with the package of life.  There’s no need to suck up to the locals and kiss their feet.  Just treat them like normal human beings.

Okay, I’m done with my rant.

                Luckily the food and service of the restaurant was exceptional enough to make my experience enjoyable.  The owner brought my dad and I shots of Limoncello on the house to tie up our delicious dinner, and we got up from the table with full stomachs and happy hearts.  After shaking hands with the restaurant owners and thanking them endlessly, we wandered around and soaked up our last hour of Venice.  We wandered down alleys, filled up on gelato, and snapped some pretty sweet shots of local graffiti.  We boated back around 11:30 and checked into our hotel around midnight.  And this is where I find myself now.  Tired, shirtless, and ready.  Tomorrow we wake up at 6:30 to take a 3 hour bus ride to Florence.  I’m going to miss Venice dearly, but I’m excited as hell to see new sights. 

I will continue taking pictures and scribbling observations, and I hope the few of you following my blog will continue reading.

Goodbye for now America.  I’m gonna try to get some sleep in.

CIAO.

Lucas