3 months ago, I was sitting outside a hidden cafe on a small side canal in Venice, drinking an Aperol Spritz with my love, ruminating on how absolutely enchanting our lives are. We were reflecting on the most spectacular 19 days of travel (that I shamefully did not blog one iota about), planning our last night in Venice and then Paris. They say you either love or hate Venice, that there is no grey area, and I definitely fell in love. Her stained and ornate, decaying facades, brackish canals, aroma of briny decay… she enchanted me. A city slowly sinking, but an absolute aura rising of lavish history, drama, decadence, unbridled sexiness, and glorious flavor. We both fantasized about the little apartment we'll rent there some day, maybe off in the Jewish ghetto (my favorite area of the city), with a small rooftop patio full of pigeons and sound. We'll write every morning after waking up, making love and drinking tiny espressos with whipped heavy cream and sambuca, followed by leisurely strolls in the back canals. An afternoon Aperol Spritz (this may have been one of my favorite traditions in Italy), and walks under ripe, heavy moons through the endless narrow passages will lead way to more wine, love, and collapsing on delicious high-thread count sheets in a haze of decadent, silky bliss.
And there's this past Sunday morning. I managed to half-crawl/ half-hobble to the bath my husband had drawn for me, melting into a warm mix of wintergreen and mustards, hoping for some kind of absolution from back spasms. The morning sunlight filtered in through the window, and the beautiful, sweet sounds of our 5 chicken ladies trickled in, just over the soft cello music I had put on. However, like any good symphony, we must have a crescendo. I was surprised that the elephant feet of whomever was crashing up and down the stairs, at top speed, over and over, did not actually drop plaster on my head. I quickly realized it was youngest, punctuated by the slamming of his sister's door and her indignant shouts that he had… looked at her funny. She emphasized her point with a repeated staccato slamming of the door. Over the smell of wintergreen crept the distinct odor of burned smoking pan… which eldest was perfecting with his version of petrified fried egg. He had very literally taken my advice that the pan must be very hot. The door cracked open, and my wide-eyed, disheveled, grinning-like-mad husband assured me "it's all under control", just as the Mildred the gender-bending chicken (she's a rooster that lays eggs) started squawking bloody murder (the cat was in the coop). He stepped in and leaned down to kiss me just as the bleat of "MOM! I feel like…." gave way to the unmistakeable sound of someone vomiting.
Some days are just like that. I wouldn't give up my symphony of chaos for anything, and besides, Venice will still be there.
