Without Reservations_ The Travels of an Independent Woman - Alice Steinbach [83]
Along with the cheer came a surge of optimism. It was a totally unearned optimism; mysterious in its source but real nonetheless. Then, in what I guessed was a sly trick of association, I thought of E. B. White’s observation that “once in everyone’s life there is apt to be a period when he is fully awake, instead of half-asleep.”
I started walking. When I approached the corner, I wondered: should I turn right? Or left? Then I realized it really didn’t matter. Either way, something new—perhaps a tiny adventure—awaited my arrival.
I hurried down the street. Whatever was around the corner, I didn’t want to miss a minute of it.
13
WE OPEN IN VENICE
Dear Alice,
When it comes to travel I’m more convinced than ever that less is more. Yesterday I left Perugia at 7:45 A.M. (up at 6:30); took the train to Rome; lunched in Rome; took the train (under a threat of strike) to Naples; then a bus to Pompeii (where I took a two-hour tour); and arrived at Sorrento at 7:30 P.M. Whew!
Love, Alice
At caffè Florian the morning music had just begun. Tired-looking tourists sitting over their cappuccinos seemed to perk up as the band launched into a medley from Cabaret. I could see feet tapping under the tables, keeping time with the beat.
Late morning was a nice time to sit in the Piazza San Marco. The crowds had yet to arrive and the large square, half in sun and half in shadow, could be appreciated for what it was: one of the most beautiful and romantic spots in the world. Sitting at a table facing a domed, pink-and-gold church that glowed jewellike against a cloud-puffed sky of azure blue, I thought: it’s unreal. It’s like a stage set painted by children for a school play.
Of course, my being here was just as unreal. October was around the corner, but there were still mornings when I woke up, surprised to find myself in Italy and not in Baltimore. At home, the Japanese maple in my garden would be turning gold; at work, the newsroom would be back in full swing after the doldrums of late summer. Sometimes I thought I should be there, writing columns and rushing from place to place, not here, leisurely drinking espresso while contemplating the shimmering mirage of Venice.
But it was easier now than it had been six months earlier to let go of such thoughts. Usually I had only to ask myself one question: how stupid would it be to get stuck in the past or the future when I could sink into a morning like this?
So much was going on. I watched the waiters glide from table to table, swooping down at the last minute to present with a flourish a cappuccino or an iced Coca-Cola. An important-looking couple swept in, accompanied by an entourage of Prada-clad young men carrying cellular phones. Across the square at the Quadri, a rival café to Florian’s, a second band of musicians could be heard tuning up. Then just as Florian’s quintet segued into “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,” the Quadri’s group burst into a medley from Oklahoma. Dueling cafés, I thought.
I ordered another espresso. The waiter bowed and went off, expertly threading his way between the tables that now were quite crowded. I sat alone, looking around and eavesdropping.
Behind me a man said to a woman, “The canals are pretty, but I hate not being able to rent a car and go where I want to go when I want to go.” At another table where four women sat, one said, “Does anyone have any idea of how to get back to the hotel?” Two tables away I noticed an attractive man sitting alone reading Le Monde. Was he French? I wondered. To my chagrin, he caught me staring at him. He nodded, then smiled. I smiled back, then turned away, embarrassed. But I was also pleased. This small attention from a handsome stranger was like a bone thrown to my vanity. I resisted the temptation to march ahead into full-dress fantasy.
Still, I did allow myself to recall Summertime, an old movie filmed in Venice. In it, Katharine Hepburn played an