The Mayor of S. Stefano

It’s Monday morning and we are headed back to Florence. One look at the bathroom today and I forbade Rosemarie to even attempt to take a shower. The tub is so high that even I have trouble getting in and out of it. With no shower curtain and nothing to hold on to for support, it’s a slippery trap for anyone at any age. I insisted that she sit on the edge of the ceramic death trap and clean up as best she could before we make our way to the train station.

Packing up, we headed out - but not before I mentioned how wonderful it is to have everything paid for on this trip. I’d booked and paid for this hotel as well as all our train travel months ago and the only reason euros leave our wallet is to buy food and trinkets. This is the only way to vacation.

Venice during the early morning is not Florence. If the street cleaners came out over night, there’s no evidence of it and we walked through the quiet alleys to take a tour of some areas that I was too tired to show her yesterday. We wound up in S. Stefano, a square I had stayed at in 1999 on my very first trip to Italy.

Every morning, my mom has had a cannolli and what the hell, I thought, let’s give it a try here. Alas, Venice, you cut me to the quick and disappoint me once again with your gastronomic attempts. More like a pastry shell stuffed with wedding cake frosting, we took one bite and deposited it into the nearest bin.

It was already hot and we were quickly getting dehydrated so we sat at a small café, places that I will miss terribly when I am back in America. Overlooking S. Stefano, we sat next to an old Italian woman, who no doubt, could be the mayor of this piazza. Bent over scratching her lottery tickets, something that immediately reminded us of our Aunt Lil, the woman’s unkempt white hair and flowered dress completed the picture.

All around us, the square was becoming alive with activity and nothing escaped the mayor’s gaze. Although I don’t speak Italian, it was clear the woman was complaining about the unruly children milling about in the square.

“They don’t listen to their mother,” she said to us, putting her thumb against her index finger and moving her hand back and forth. “Parle Italiano?”

I answered her that we did not, but I understood when she asked if Rosemarie was my mother.

“Si,si,” I said as she gave us a big smile and pointed to the similarities in our faces. I look exactly like my father, so it was nice to know that the mayor of S Stefano saw a resemblance.

We finished our beverages and then set off for the Rialto to catch our water bus to the train station. Now, on the Eurostar back to Firenze, I am already dreaming of the pizza that we are going to have for lunch. Arriverderci Venezia. Il dio lo benedice.