We’ve known about this trip for a while. We’ve been broke for a while, too, so there were no plans made for me to go along, although my first thought on hearing about the tour was VENICE! I could take Lala to Venice! That was my first thought, even though my first thought really should have been something along the lines of "Oh, how wonderful that my wife’s band is so good and popular." No, I thought of how close Venice is to Brussels via Ryan Air.
Then we looked at finances, and I had given up the dream. Sigh. Someday.
Then we rented the condo, and I signed up for on-calls and overtime, and the dream is BACK on, baby.
I have to admit, that however glamorous it sounds, I don’t have much interest in touring with the band. That sounds like a lot of work and not enough time sitting in cafes. So instead, Lala and I are going to fly into Brussels about four days before the tour starts, and immediately hop a flight to Venice, where I will show her the city of my heart. (For more, if you have to have more, there are links to some of my Venice ramblings on the left.)
We’ll stay three days only, a long weekend for me, and then we’ll fly back to Brussels where I’ll dump her at her gig, maybe watch the first show, and head home.
I am beside myself. Look. Here’s me, and then over here, here’s me, sitting next to me. Be. Side. My. Self.
To catch you up if you’re behind, I love Venice, Italy. I do not like the city. I do not feel fondly toward it. I love it. I love everything about it. I’ve been six times, I think, and nothing dampens the passion. I got an amazing email from someone today, a gal who had stumbled on some of my Venice writing and wrote to say that she feels the same In Love way with the city. She, however, is living the life — writing for nine months in America, and living for three in Venice. I am jealous in that happy oh-someone’s-really-doing-it way.
The passion for the city feels physical, it feels like when you’re in love with a person. The smell of salt mixed with diesel, the sound of birds’ wings flapping and the myriad bells chiming, none at the same time, none together, the taste of spritz and prosecco and coffee and sepia.
Look! That just happens when I think about Venice. I wax poetic. How annoying for you.
I worry a little about freaking Lala out. She won’t love it as much as I do, and that’s okay. Few people do. She’ll think it’s a nice, pretty, tourist town, as most do, and that will be good. She might like it a LOT. She’ll be amused by her enthusiastic Boxy Ferrari (a Venetian working on a church’s scaffolding once gave me that description), and hopefully that will keep her from wanting to scream if the Ferrari says, "Oh, over here, sugar, over here!" one more time.
Also, even though god knows I love Italy, Italy does not, so much, as a whole, love the gay. They’re pretty closed to the gay. So it’ll be interesting to be there, out as a couple. I could have a very different experience this time. But I don’t think so. While the people are wonderful, and I love the interactions I have there, my relationship is with La Serenissima herself. I’ve called the city "it" through this blog entry, and every time I typed the word, I felt like I was calling a woman "it." I knew, however that saying I can’t wait to get back to her would be too precious, and I’d want to slap myself. You’d come through the computer to slap me, and I wouldn’t blame you. But Venezia just isn’t an It.
Ack! Stop me!
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