The Venice Experiment: Vignettes from A Year of Living Abroad

The Firemen

While walking in the area of Cà Foscari, the University of Venice, Debbie and I came upon the Venice fire station. The caserma, or barracks, had an unassuming front identifiable only by a small sign on the exterior. On the canal, four tunnels provided a method of exit and entry for the fireboats.

We stepped into the foyer and found ourselves surrounded by awards the firemen had won in firefighting competitions as well as a memorial to the firemen lost in fires over the years.

"Can I help you?" Stefano, a tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed fireman in his thirties, introduced himself.

"We're from Florida and have always been curious how a fire station works in this city of water. Would you mind if we looked around?" I asked, sounding a bit more amazed than I really was, hoping to get a tour.

"Stay here, I’ll ask the captain," he said, occasionally taking his eyes off of my wife’s low-cut blouse and short skirt.

When he returned, Stefano took us for a walk around the fire station. In many ways, it resembled any other fire station, except in the garage there were fire boats instead of fire trucks. One of the boats was in obviously better shape than the others, finely varnished and devoid of rust and corrosion.

"That’s the captain’s fireboat," Stefano said proudly. "It can outrun all of the others."

After putting me in a fire suit and a fireman’s hat, Stefano explained the process of fighting a fire in Venice. "Our boats just pump the water from the canal straight into the hose. It’s very efficient, as long as the hoses are long enough to reach the fire."

"How many fire stations does Venice have?" I asked.

"Just this one," Stefano explained. "It services Venice as well as the islands of Murano, Burano, and Torcello."

Noting the distance between the islands, I asked, "But Burano is quite a distance away. How does that work?"

Stefano sighed. "Not too well. It takes a good twenty minutes to get to Burano. The fire is usually out of control by the time we arrive."

Just then, a bell went off. I anticipated a flurry of activity, with firemen running down the stairs and heading for the boats. But instead, Stefano ushered us out of the garage, and said, "It’s dinnertime. Would you care to join us?"

Entering the mess hall, I felt as if I had faded into the background as each fireman carefully inspected Debbie. All were insistent upon having their picture taken individually with her. I glanced around for some cold water, certain that before too long I would need to be putting out their fires.

We ate together, with everyone interested in learning more about Debbie. Upon leaving, a young, dark-haired fireman barely out of his twenties leaned over and whispered something to her. "What did he say?" I asked as we walked away.

"Come back sometime without your husband." She chuckled.

Over the following months, Debbie prepared many dishes for our new friends the firemen—lasagna, manicotti, and tiramisu, among others. She enjoyed their cheerful thanks each time we delivered her delectable gifts, but never once did she visit the fire station alone.

Waterfront Dining

As the night set in, when many tourists left and most boats were docked for the night, a peaceful dinner on the banks of a canal in a quiet part of town was a heavenly experience. Nothing could compare with sitting outside in a pigeon-free zone, our table next to the canal, and the water lapping at the seawall by our feet. The moon was rising, and the quiet was only momentarily altered by the passing gondola playing the mandatory Volare, or the young Venetian cruising by with rap music blaring out of his boat speakers.

As you converse with your dinner companion while admiring the scenery, the flower salesmen will only stop by a few times to offer you a rose you could purchase for your date. As the salesman hands the flower to her, the "fiorista" will watch to see whether you come up with some slick way of asking your date to return the flower, or if instead, you will simply pay his highly inflated price for a flower in need of mouth-to-petal resuscitation.

It was on such a night that I sat outside a small restaurant in Cannaregio with Debbie and our friend Dona from Florida. Dona had been with us for over a week, reviewing the marvels of this city built on water.

"What a marvelous vacation this has been," she said. "You two certainly know your way around this city. Because of you, I have truly experienced Venice. And this dinner is the perfect way to end it."

Admittedly, it was a bit difficult to hear her comments over the sound of the approaching fireboat. As the boat raced to the fire, Stefano waved from the deck. Just then, the wake from the boat swamped our table and soaked us from the waist down. "Now, Dona, you have truly experienced Venice." I laughed, handing her a cloth napkin with which to dry herself.

Herbal Suicide

Our new apartment had plenty of sun, and the window ledge seemed like a great place to plant a bit of basil, just as I had seen in other apartments around Venice, many of which had built-in flowerboxes. We would have to settle for planting herbs in freestanding flower pots.

While Debbie was at the Rialto fish market, I ran out to purchase the basil, dirt, and container. I had just finished getting everything on the windowsill when she returned.

"Look, honey, I got you some herbs and planted them right here on the windowsill. Now you can have fresh basil without running down to the market!" I said excitedly.

"That was sweet of you, but are you sure the pot will be safe out there?".

"Safe? We’re on the sixth floor. I can’t imagine anyone stealing it up here," I replied.

About a week later, Debbie came into my office while I was working. "Barry, have you seen the basil? It’s not on the windowsill." I rushed to the window, and sure enough, it was gone. But six floors down, in the neighbor’s courtyard, was a smashed flowerpot and a small green plant splattered on the ground. I was stunned.

"Wow, honey. I never knew the suicide rate among basil plants was so high." Debbie was not amused, as the market was already closed for the day, and she would have to make her sauce without basil. I purchased a replacement plant the next morning, with a sturdier and more stable base. The second basil plant didn’t commit suicide until almost two weeks later.

Back in 1310, a popular uprising occurred in Venice. As the crowd entered Piazza San Marco, an old lady was said to have dropped a flowerpot from her window, killing the flag bearer and causing the leader, Tiepolo, and his followers to run for safety, thus ending the revolt. I now wonder if this historic event was actually the result of her basil pot having jumped from the window onto the troops marching down below, and the old lady had merely looked out of her window to find that her plant, which had just committed herbal suicide, had saved the Venetian republic.

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