Return to Venice (San Servolo)

Remember when I almost died in Venice one year ago? I mean, when I melodramatised that I was going to die in Venice from the naturally heinous consequences of unforseen humidity, recent emotional turbulence, and rapid national/geographical transitions? That had been my first weekend in Italy, the first venture out of Turin with my new Italian family, and I had been too busy with keeping food inside my body to enjoy the setting. This time I slowly paced the island and tried to appreciate, without too much fore- or afterthought, the unusual chance to walk the same paths in the same clothes on the same summer days, that I walked exactly one year ago. To look at exactly where I was, and where I am. Talk about closure.

Same weekend in June. Low humidity, thank the skies. Same five hour train ride from Turin to Milan to Venice. Same ferry from the train station to our island, same dormitory, same nannies, most of the same kids. Same aloof Italian parents - khaki and pearls, Blackberries, spritzes - disappearing to a different part of the island for their mysterious conferences. In place of Henry James' "Washington Square," I read Zora Neal Hurston's "Their Eyes Were Watching God." The holiday in August - I'm still referring directly to my original "Death in Venice" blog entry - turned out to be one week in Paris and one week alone in Turin; I did indeed visit Christa in July; and I didn't come home for Christmas, making this the longest I period I have ever passed away from my hometown and immediate family. 375 days since my plane took off, and I'm so much bigger for it.

Irene, the Filipino nanny, remembered me from last year. We have both shortened our hair. "So you are leabing soon to go back to California," she said, smiling. "You are lucky." She has a son and husband in the Philippines to whom she sends the money she earns in Italy from ironing and doing laundry and raising Federico, a vivacious 4-year-old. Irene always smiles.

Our trip coincided with the first strains of the Art Biennale, a biennial international art exhibition that takes over the whole city. I managed to visit the Arsenale exhibition space, the Ireland and North Ireland pavilions, the Morocco pavilion, and a few of the public exhibits. My main aim, however, after doing the Student Thing with my study abroad group in 2007, and the Tourist Thing with the family last year, was to find the real Venice: where do actual Venetians live? What do they do? Do they actually exist, or is everyone here part of the tourist culture? I snatched the few opportune hours to wander Venice alone, stuffed them into my shoulder bag with an umbrella and my journal, and took to the streets. Here's what I found:

Venice is even pretty in post-rain Monday evening.















Someone wore this tiger suit so much that it had to be washed.















Rainbow laundry dries on the line between house and tree.















Australian couple swinging barefoot to the jazz band playing in front of this historic cafe, to the delight of white blazered waiters and various passersby.















There are, in fact, some corners yet untouched by tourist culture...















... such as the wine bar (above) that I entered to escape the rain, only to find Eric Clapton's "San Francisco Bay Blues" playing on the flatscreen. I ordered a big glass of red wine and picked a corner table to attempt to journal, and instead struck up a conversation with a fellow American traveler that lasted all afternoon. Takei, a 28-year-old architect from New York, and I drank our way to the end of the passing rainshower and shouldered our respective loads to wander Venice together. He said he was losing focus in New York, unsure of his next steps, and I assured him that he was headed in the right direction if only by asking himself about it. We tossed coins into the case of a group of lean, hatted, teenaged gypsy guitar players improvising under a portico; I photographed his flannel shirt and bearded grin on a narrow gondola dock; he told me about the girl he lived with and now no longer lives with, and the siblings he barely knows. I wrote to myself

venice is as pretty as usual, and i got a straw hat like i wanted.

i feel like i've run out of things to write. all this time has gone by, and i'm no longer 1. in crisis from graduation, nor 2. alone.

Death in Venice

Hello, all! I have seen the very bottom of the barrel, so to speak, and now it's all upwards. We went to Venice for four days, Saturday to Tuesday, and for two of those days I was out of commission with some combination of traveller's illness, dehydration and too much sun. I had a fever and couldn't keep anything down for more than 48 hours, and it's only now, Thursday, that I feel 100%. Whew. Venice was, however, as beautiful as ever. In one of his emails Keith remarked, "How many people get to say they're going BACK to Venice?" and I had to stop to be grateful once again for all the decisions I've made that led me here. As hard as everything is in terms of the boys trying my patience and draining me of all my energy, I keep it in perspective when I realize how truly fortunate I am to be employed by a family of such means, creativity, generosity, and desire to travel.

After a five hour train ride during which we picked more and more people up from Padova, Milan, and other places along the way, we arrived in Venice. It was so hot! We each had one small bag/backpack and one piece of luggage, and this we all loaded onto a private boat that was waiting when we got out of the train station. We stayed on a nearby islet called San Servolo, a tiny tiny place that was once a monastery, then a psychiatric hospital, and now hosts student programs (such as "Duke in Venice") and private groups (like the one I was with). We were altogether about 25 people, parents and children and nannies, who ate in the cafeteria, slept in the IKEA catalogue dorms, and played all day in the garden. Well, the children played while the nannies watched and the parents convened for some meetings... I'm still unsure about what they were about, but it sounded like lectures and then small-group discussions about work psychology. Interesting. Anyway, when I wasn't in bed or on the floor of the bathroom, I was out with the children, watching them play soccer and catch, getting the ball out of the tree, spraying them with mosquito repellant (the humidity in Venice brought out the worst bug bites! I have many still), and speaking with the other nannies. In Italian it's tata, so plurale = tate. Le tate dei bambini. There were many children ranging in age from 10 months to 13 years, with most falling in the middle, and they got along just fine as long as we were around to break up the occasional squabble and reapply the spray. I met two Filipinas (one from Ilocos! Holla!), and we spent some time together on the last day listening to music on Irene's mp3: I told her I liked "Bebot" by the Black Eyed Peas (bebot is Tagalog slang for a cute girl), and she had it, so we listened to it, and she played for me another song by the Filipino guy in the group... I'll have to look it up, it's a rap about his life and how he came to be in the world famous group.

Anyway, then we took the train for 6 hours home from Venice, saying goodbye to various people along the way. I finished reading Henry James' "Washington Square" and wrote a few postcards, napped, talked with my father/employer about why they prefer an American au pair over something else. He said they considered one from South Africa, and another from the UK, but that I sounded like the best fit. They want the boys to learn English, and I think they thought this was the best way, maybe a clearer accent or something? I've been told again and again that my English is so clear for the Italian ear; I think it's a combination of the Californian accent (not so complicated as deep New York or Chicago, or the South), my snobby English major annunciation, and years of speaking slowly with Grandma and Grandpa Aczon.


More later, of course. We've begun to discuss the Big Questions, like my holiday in August - what to do, then? - and when I might visit Christa - after we go to Lampedusa/Sicily in July - and whether or not I will come home for Christmas. This is a big decision, but I think when I come home I want to stay home... a short visit in the middle might make it more difficult to come back. Or maybe easier. I will consult the experts: Alana and Christine, both of whom stayed abroad for one year, but one of whom came and home for winter vacation and the other stayed in Europe. I have some time before I absolutely have to decide. Comments welcome. :-)

Ciao for now! I love you.