Alla Trevigiana

I expected a swift pick-up at the airport in Treviso, and a simple drop-off. Where? That would be my friend's grandmother's house. She was on vacation, you see. It's a pretty random and complicated-sounding story, right?

Anyway, I knew it was Signor Fuser when he walked in, hands behind his back, yellow polo. He passed through the automatic doors, checked the arrival times, and then he figured the kid with the black duffel and overloaded backpack was that American guy he was supposed to find.

But no quick pick-up/drop-off deal did I receive; in twenty minutes we were in a buzzing Trevigian restaurant before a hot pizza and a cold beer. "I'm glad Helene has this calm, relaxed American friend," he said. "She's always in a hurry, doing a thousand things at once." Good thing I passed the test, right?

After a zippy tour around the grandmother's house in Villorba with Signora Fuser, I sat down with both parents for a glass of bubbly water. It fizzed more than usual. Later in the kitchen, I couldn't remember which glass was mine, so I took the Speedy Gonzalez one. The water was little help against the humidity; it seemed like the religious icons, pictures of the Pope, were all going to melt and slide down the walls. On the TV, almost too modern for such an old-fashioned place, a news story about a mountain festival is accompanied by Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire."

By day, the fish market in Treviso is, well, a fish market. The workers hose down the wooden platform before row after row of fish on ice. By night, it's loaded with aluminum tables, chairs, young people, and later on, empty cans and bottles.

There's a fountain not many people know about in Treviso, fortunately Helene knew about it. It's called "The Boob Fountain." I don't have to explain much, but just so you know, there's a hilarious picture coming up.

Helene took me to the local pool in Treviso. It was surrounded by little cypress trees, and the tiles on the bottom were wide and smooth. Pool rules said you had to wear a different pair of flip-flops in the pool area. And everyone had to wear a swim cap. Mine was a flashy shade of neon red. Picture that, now.

At dinner they set little candles, citronella, afloat in a dish of water. All to ward off the mosquitoes, which spiraled above the fish and tomatoes. Marcello, Helene's father, smiled as he cracked open a heavy bottle of Valdobbiadene prosecco, the best. In the humid garden, it tasted like summer.

A calm sort of nightlife wraps its way up and down the city's ancient walls. Drink-stand deals sprinkle the fringes of the historic center. At still more aluminum tables, girls bat their eyes and grind their heels into the gravel while the boys lean against the crumbly bricks.

Took a trip to Veneto Designer Outlets. Like Tanger, or whatever you know like that... you know, like a kind of consumer's Disneyworld. Here, we got crenelated stucco walls and bell towers in the Venetian style. It was wild, I tell you. Wild!

-a

Games and Wardrobes

Frauke invited me to a Kirchner exhibition. His art is a contorted twist of expressionism, contemporary to Nolde and an integral part of the Brücke movement. "Marcella" is a moody and moving portrait in soft green colors, a girl, bored, sitting on a couch.

After the exhibition, we squinted our eyes in the afternoon sun and I heard a few snatches of Italian in the street. We watched Linus and Quentin ride a mechanical bull at a kids´ "playplace," and I thought about stuff, random stuff. Behind the mechanical bull was the towering skyline of the city.

Here´s a joke. How many people does it take to move an old wardrobe from the first floor to the attic? The answer: two (one culture-shocked American and one motivated, leather jacket-wearing Christian guitar teacher). True story.

Another joke: How many people does it take to put together a new Ikea wardrobe? In Merle´s room, we went over the instructions three times, once in German, once in English, and once just to make sure we wouldn´t mess anything up. Still, our craftsmanship suffered a few hiccups. I found myself lying down under a drawer a-la-car mechanic. All that´s left to do are the doors.

Quentin loves playing. In a period of an hour or so, he turned me into a badminton pro, a tennis champ, a star goalie, and (not sure about this one) someone who is very good at passing a tennis ball under a wooden crate of stone tiles for the back porch.

At the pool, I jumped off the five-meter high-dive. Merle went first, and of course, of course, the American has to go now. So I jumped. I mean, fell. Curled into the fetal position and smacked the water with my knees. I´m sure it´s on youtube somewhere by now. More my speed was lying in the sun.

A final update: after-dinner conversations here are relaxing, interesting and fun. As the sun winds over the trees, we sit in the garden and swap stories on local politics, court systems and television programs. I recently recounted the "Homeowner vs. Kitchen Remodeling Company" court case story.

And just like that, another day, another post.
-a