We baked a cake, prepared a feast, and settled to unwrap his presents…. and just at that moment the boy was felled by a stomach virus that put him to bed with a bowl at his side for the next few days. As he recovered the bug took me down; we were both still too ill to travel as we boarded a plane to Italy.
The children, inspired by The Thief Lord and A Little Romance, have long clamored to visit Venice. In fact, the request predates even the first hint that we might move to Europe. But despite this, and the fact that my trip to Italy in 2001 convinced me that I wanted to live there, it has never proved convenient to trek in that direction.
Why? Because I literally never travel for pleasure. All of my various adventures are organized around work: if I pop up somewhere it is because one of us is performing, or lecturing, or attending conferences.
But this half-term Byron had meetings in Venice and Trento and I decided we should all go. The boy and I were wan and nauseous but still thrilled by the vaporetto ride from the bus station. The girl, normally persecuted by tricky food allergies, was delighted to be able to eat in regular restaurants – until she too was taken out by the virus, as we boarded a train to the Italian Alps.
We didn’t see much of Byron but we ran into the East London Massive intermittently embarking on boat rides. Once the three of us had all recovered, we had an absolutely idyllic time. Both children bought gorgeous handmade Italian boots; the girl (as is her habit) started to learn the language by purchasing and translating comic books. They both graciously indulged my love of ferry rides, even going along on a pilgrimage to an island cemetery where we stared at the grave of Ezra Pound as I delivered a lecture on modernism, fascism, and poetry.
I took them to watch glassblowing on Murano, telling them that two of my uncles were journeyman glassblowers before they died too young in horrible circumstances. This turned into a discussion about how, despite appearances, we are not wealthy. We are profligate. Moving to another country, traveling constantly, the careers, are symptomatic not of elite status, but rather of a cracked restlessness.
One of my fundamental worries as a parent is that my children are too sheltered, that they do not know how hard it is for most people to get through the day. While I cannot give them the lessons I learned as a working class kid, I can at least attempt to inoculate them against the prejudices of the upper classes.
My brief rant on the subject came to a halt when we rounded a corner to hear a posh British woman say My friend has one of these chandeliers at her castle in Scotland. We all agree that it is simply hideous!
We had to hurry away stifling our giggles.
We fed pigeons in San Marco, took a gondola ride (at a reduced price through extensive haggling; Byron and I are at heart used car dealers), explored the Doge’s Palace, wandered through countless churches. We ate gelatto and walked along canals and had, simply, the best trip ever.
View from the hotel room:
