The Slowest Vaporetto in Venice
Imagination Is The Art of Remaining Recklessly Happy
"Fabio!" Vito yelled.
He was leaning against one of the sliding doors of the vaporetto, all agitated. But Fabio was slumped in his green plastic bucket seat, his head tilted to the left and teetering with the waves that crashed against the boat's worn hull. It looked as if, at any moment, he would lean into the young woman next to him, resting his bald head on her ample bosom.
"Fabio, dai!"
He banged the door with the palm of his hand. It rattled on its tracks loud enough for Fabio to hesitantly open his eyes and lift his head, not without staring at the lycra-wrapped bulge, which could momentarily have served as his pillow. A look of disappointment marred what—even at 76—was still a babyface.
If the woman's expression hadn't been so obviously friendly, she might have been able to give Vito a disapproving look. Now it just showed pity.
A woman's pity is a dagger to the heart of any aging man.
"Two more stops. Stay awake! Why the hell are you falling asleep anyway? You just woke up."
"Don't worry about me, Vito. I'll manage. Not sure about you—you twitch like you have ants in your pants."
"More than that, Fabio. Way more than that."
The ACTV Line 1 starts at Piazzale Roma and ends at Lido. It moves insanely slowly along the Canal Grande. 24 times the marinai—they are sailors, not just staff—perform their choreographed ritual of docking and casting off at every stop and yelling out its name while the ropes, thick as a wrist, snap and squeak under the weight of the ship and the tow of the current. The boats are old, but the crew is young and confident. Their uniforms fit as though tailor-made.
No one wears a uniform more attractively than an Italian.
"Ca d'Oro, Fabio. Get up!" Vito was rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet now, staring towards San Polo. His knuckles were white from clasping the handrail.
At the stop, a boy kneeled to capture his girlfriend in frog's-eye view—cropped white singlet, navy gymnast pants ending in Converse sneakers. Oversized sunglasses somehow accentuated the gap in her teeth while morning light shimmered on the peach fuzz of her arms. They boarded last.
Fabio left the cabin and shuffled towards Vito on the starboard side of the vaporetto as it sailed towards Rialto Market with its red awnings, now faded under the Mediterranean sun. A mere six fish stalls were left in the market hall. The buzz had disappeared. The fish, once piled high, lay dispersed on the crushed ice. Twenty scallops were waiting for a buyer. A single fishmonger stood at every stall. The melting ice left the concrete floor permanently wet and glistening.
That's when they saw her again. At the first stall in the market hall. The one closest to the water. It was then that the Canal Grande and its palazzos ceased to exist. That history was expunged. That Venice was just her.
She was tall and blond; her hair piled up. Not a day older than 35, she wore a white plastic apron over a sleeveless shirt and tight jeans. She had written "Laura" with a black marker underneath its left strap. She was laughing at a man in a gray suit, a regular. Clad in blue gloves, she hoisted a two-kilo turbot—a hundred-euro feast for six. They discussed.
Then, she was out of sight. It took 40 seconds, tops, for the reality of the city to reappear.
As the vaporetto reached the Rialto Mercato stop, both men shuffled into the cabin again. Neither said a word.
The young couple disembarked, recklessly happy.
Sinking in the green plastic bucket seats, Vito had stopped rocking. Fabio had his eyes closed. They imagined dining on grilled turbot steaks. They imagined a bosom to rest their heads against.
But there was only the insanely slow vaporetto ride and the daily walk along the Giardini of two retired marinai.
Contributors:
Hans Pauwels, words - Reinhilde Gielen, photographs and design
Artworks:
William Kentridge, Self-Portrait as a Coffee Pot - Alex Katz, Grass 3 - Willem de Kooning - Martha Boto, Optical Structure
Locations:
Vini da Arturo restaurant - Antiche Carampane restaurant
Makes me want to return to Venice, despite the hoards of tourists. And any post that mentions both Kentridge and Venice is a winner in my book.
what a delightful transporting postcard!