You may recall my bulletin from the neighborhood cafe about the unknown-person-or-persons, as the police would say, who left a pineapple in the cafe’s bathroom.
Buying a fresh pineapple (not cheap, hence a person with a little extra cash) with the intention of leaving it behind (disturbingly antisocial) — or just to have the rush of buying it (a person easy to entertain) — or even someone who has lost track of how forgetful or easy to distract (“Squirrel!!”) he or she has become, the episode maintains its prominence on my list of recent curiosities.
But it does indeed get better.
After talking with the cafe owner, the portrait of the unidentified perpetrator muddies and darkens.
Because not only did the person/s leave the pineapple, he and/or she tried to flush it down the toilet.
Let’s pause while we all picture that.
So now we have a person (I’m presuming it wasn’t a dog or an iguana or battalion of fruit flies) who is malicious and/or also slightly estranged from the world we label as real.
Of course, this was a windfall for one of the local plumbers, who had to come in and, I believe she said, break the toilet in order to free it. (The plumber had to come in? Oh wait a minute…… ).
The trail is now cold and the identity of this pineapple-wielding misfit (“Did anyone have a grudge against you, Manuela?”) may never be known. This annoys me even more than the blocked plumbing.
Trying to flush a pineapple down a toilet. Is some kid, or kid-like adult, trying to imitate some irresistible television ad, a kid perhaps unable to have read the fine print saying “This pineapple-wielding misfit is a professional. Do not try this at home”?
Naturally I will be posting updates, if there are any.
I'm not supposing the same person left this panel of plastic-covered glued sawdust on our bridge. Just wanted to illustrate the dark urges that drive a certain sort of person in our part of the world. You find yourself with an inconvenient object? Just put it down. There.
The Carabinieri — like the firemen — are always on hand whenever something hideous has occurred. Wrecks, suicides, etc. are always dealt with by this remarkable corps; think of them as the Police Who Must be Obeyed. (Not like all the other police around, or at least so it seems.) The Carabinieri are serious, get-it-done officers, and never mind all the jokes at their expense. (Example: Why do carabinieri always go on patrol in pairs? Because one is the one who knows how to read, and the other is the one who knows how to write. Ba-dum.) Let me add, before anyone else does, that they are a serious military entity on serious military duty in several places in the world, such as Iraq.
But let’s imagine — actually, you don’t need to imagine it, because it happened a few days ago — that you are a couple who has just arrived, as per months-in-the-planning, to get married at the Villa Giustinian Morosini in Mirano, a lovely 18th-century villa in a smallish settlement along the Brenta river between Venice and Padova. Friends — check. Family — check. Ring, flowers, photographer, check. Celebrant? Celebrant? Official marryer-type person? Hello?
The minutes tick by, and while I suppose somebody might have ventured a jest about at least the bride being on time, the mood could not have been what I would call festive. The groom especially was not amused. Because while it appears that in a civil ceremony you don’t get to choose your celebrant, you know there’s supposed to be somebody standing in front of you asking you a batch of questions and then signing some papers.
The absence of the expected official quickly passed “annoying” and was on a straight trajectory toward “insane.” Minutes were ticking by with no sign of anybody prepared to marry these two crazy kids. And the kids were getting crazier.
The Carabinieri look extremely fine, even in their everyday uniform -- as long as your conscience is clear, that is.
So the groom calls the Carabinieri. I love this guy! Because while I suppose that if he had been feeling slightly less tense, he might have called the firemen (my celebrant is stuck up a tree and I can’t get married), he knew that the Carabinieri are implacable. They are both civil and military police, and Lino has told me that the humblest carabiniere outranks a four-star general and an admiral of the fleet.
The Carabinieri take this seriously as any other official infraction, immediately contacting the vice-mayor to ask what’s going on. (I’m thinking about how amused he was to get a call from the Carabinieri.) He doesn’t know what’s going on, but he checks the list of who’s on duty that day as the mayor’s representative. It turns out that it’s a town councilor named Luigi Coro’, and the problem isn’t him, it’s the person who was on duty the day before.
Because while the bride and groom have been tapping their toes, and their watches, Mr. Coro’ has been wildly searching the municipal offices for the “wedding packet” which contains all the necessary documents, and the official register, and the tricolor sash (red, white and green, the colors of the Italian flag) which he has to drape across his chest to signify his official status as representative of the government of Italy. No packet, no wedding.
So why can’t he find it? (I imagine him emptying wastebaskets, checking the refrigerator.) Because the person who was on duty the day before forgot to tell anybody where he put it. I know — let that sink in for a minute. “Oh, just put it down anywhere…” And then, as I say, he forgot to notify anyone. Just…. forgot. Quittin’ time!
Meanwhile, the vice-mayor himself has arrived — the Carabinieri do tend to get your attention — to try to keep everyone calm and the tarps on the lifeboats, and ready to step in as celebrant if Mr. Coro’ doesn’t manage to show up. (The vice-mayor can do it without any of the accessories, evidently, or can produce his own, or something.)
It must have seemed like years had gone by -- maybe even centuries -- before the celebrant finally showed up.
Forty-five minutes after the appointed time, which must have seemed much longer, Mr. Coro’ shows up with all his accessories, and the ceremony proceeds. The vows are exchanged, the deed is done, and the two lovebirds can finally get on with the rest of their lives, starting with the reception and continuing on to the honeymoon and having kids and grandkids and trial separations and hip replacements and so on.
The town government was very nice about it. They not only sent the couple a telegram, they also gave them a 50% discount on the use of the room.
I’d like to think that the Carabinieri got some kind of acknowledgment — maybe even a thank-you — though probably they don’t expect it. “Just all in a day’s work, sir.”
Or maybe one of them caught the bouquet. The one who knows how to read.
The location of Rosa Salva's cafe makes an excellent outdoor perch for resting and ingesting many first-class calories in the form of pastry and ice cream.
One Sunday afternoon as I was toiling along toward the Fondamente Nove on my way to Burano, I stopped for refreshment (coffee and use of the bathroom) at the elegant cafe/bar Rosa Salva in Campo Santi Giovanni e Paolo.
Let me note right here that although travel writers seem to love propagating “Zanipolo,” the ancient Venetian name for this trusty duet of saints, I myself have never heard any Venetian use that word, even by mistake. That era, whenever it was, is long, long gone. (I have seen it written, occasionally, on local boats or bars.) I just wanted to point that out.
Anyway, it was a miserable day. When it rains like that the entire world goes sodden, nothing escapes. Your skin isn’t just wet, it’s saturated. The air, your clothes, your brain. A day like this makes you want to just stay in bed, with the (sodden) covers pulled over your (sodden) head.
Not surprisingly, there were no other customers in the cafe. A dark-haired girl and a young man wearing glasses were standing behind the bar. I smiled and gave that whaddya-gonna-do shrug toward the weather and the world.
I said, “Why are we here?”
They smiled. He said, “Good question. There’s nobody around — nobody. And there’s five of us here to work today. Some days even with five we’re working like crazy, but look at this. There’s nothing to do.”
Helpful little Anglo-Saxon, no-minute-left-unexploited me, bounces right in: “You could read a book,” I offered. “Write some letters. Do needlepoint. Write the story of your life. Not the stuff that happened, but the stuff you wish had happened. Your dreams.”
Did someone say dreams? He was ready. “My dream was to become a captain of a vaporetto with the ACTV [the local transport company],” he replied.
“Good grief!” I said (or rather, its Venetian equivalent). “If you’re going to dream, dream big! Captain of a vaporetto? Why not make it captain of a cruise ship? After all, it’s just dreams. Go for it!”
“Well, no,” he replied, unruffled. “It would be enough for me. It’s a secure position, you work your seven hours and then you go home.” (This the classic philosophy of a certain sort of person here: I need to work but don’t let it disturb my life.) “Besides, my father was captain of a cruise ship and he was gone for weeks at a time.” Oops. I was aiming at the wrong dream.
“Well, that changes things,” I said. “You know what you’re talking about. So fine. Why don’t you apply to the ACTV?”
“I did.” He gestured toward his glasses. “You can’t make it if you wear glasses.”
I didn’t want to give in. “So have the operation!”
“I could do that” — he had obviously been serious about this dream, small as it might have seemed to me. “It would correct the near-sightedness, but not the astigmatism.” (Or the other way around, I can’t remember.)
“I wouldn’t have minded being a train driver,” he went on, “but it’s the same problem about the eyes. ”
“Subway driver?” (Somewhere else, obviously, not here.) Nope — anyone who wants to work at something that’s part of the autotramvieri union, it’s the same story. He was stuck.
He had sort of made his peace with it, but he was still young enough to feel the empty space where what he wanted to be his life was supposed to have been put. Meanwhile he’s making do with carrying overpriced cappuccinos to exhausted tourists. Or not, as is the case today.
“Well,” I said, still trying to be helpful but drastically changing tack, “just think, anyway you’ve still got your eyes. How many people could say they wish they had your problems?” Not the best contribution, being repulsively banal, but true, which is something, anyway.
He agreed. Well, what else could he do? Evidently he had long since reached that conclusion, the idea that things could have been, or be, worse. But meanwhile the rain is pouring down, and the motor has pretty much stalled in his life, so to speak. Whether he simply needs more fuel, or new spark plugs, or some part that’s more expensive and hard to find (“…we’ll have to order it…”…”it will be two months…” …”everybody’s closed for Christmas/New Year’s/summer vacation”…) I hope he finds it and gets his life moving again. He’s too young to stay stalled in the breakdown lane of life like this.
