Silence in Disneyland

Just one further thing that I have to mention before I stop crapping on about Venice.

Talk to people about Venice and the first reaction you tend to get is a 'wow' if they have not been there, or you get a kind of sneer and a remark about 'Disneyland for Grown-Ups',which is the precursor to the slightly embarassed admission that they have.

Its is true that the really touristy bits are genuinley and dismayingly awful. One night, when we where sitting in our rose garden, looking over the grand canal to the people dining on the opposite shore, we had a thought that maybe it would be nice on a sunny evening to eat while watching those glossy water taxis drift by. Perhaps, we reasoned, even though the restaurants in question were off the the horridist street we had found, once you were in looking out it would be alright.

So, we slipped past the African guys selling fake handbags and ventured over the Ponte Scalzi,the density of persons-per-square-foot increasing with every step. We peered past the glitter of gelati vendors, walls festooned with low-rent mini-masks and bad t-shirts and through to the restaurants mining the bottomless income-earning potential of their canal-side tables. The first three or four didn't warrant a second look. We were about to turn back, but dedided to creep ahead just a bit more.

Suddenly, to our relief,we were greeted with lovely old rugs draping over antique furtniture in a rather peaceful and elegant looking hotel lobby. With the confidence that stems from Green Coat Magic, we strolled in. Through the glass doors directly in front we could see white table cloths, tragically empty glasses and sunlight glinting on the water. This was more like it.

We had nearly reached the door to the restaurant when suddenly it came. With a pant and a crackle, a slightly off-key 'O sole mia'(sic) boomed out from the terrace, tune favoured of advertising industry gondoliers the world over (though apparently its not even a Venetian song). Worse, it was accompanied by the amplified puffs, clicks and crackles that accompanies bad cabaret acts the world over. Yes, there was a live (though possibly only just) singer in a bad suit creeping his way between the tables.

I looked at J. He looked at me. Without breaking silence or stride we pirouetted on our heels and walked straight out again, back through the souvenier stalls, back over the bridge, back to the safety of Santa Croce, on OUR side of the canal.

Which brings me, after that rather lengthy and unintended digression, to my point. Which is silence. In amongst all the Disney madness of a city that lives and breathes tourism, is was surprisingly easy to find silence. It was in in Santa Croce, San Polo and Dorsoduro, anyway. All the tourists didn't seem comfortable with the notion of getting lost in this maze of lanes where no car has ever rolled, so in that part of town all it took was a little wander down a narow lane,and suddenly you would be in the cool shade, with the old walls like canyons brushing your shoulders and geraniums glinting from widow-boxes in the top floor. A square opens in a glare of light and there is women playing with their babies, boys doing their best to skittle old men with their soccer balls, and old women watching over it all. Turn down another lane and you meet an old lady with a walking stick who waves and says something to you in Italian. You smile, continue on your way, and reach a dead end: canal and no bridge, and which point you realise she telling you that down there was only 'aqua'.

You thank her sheepishly as you return,and she smiles tolerantly in a way that looks like it probably translates as 'the idiots never stop and listen'.

A funny thing happened in Prague

It started at a little gallery in the Old Town, not far from the street full of puppets, not far from the doorway where the stone blokes were wearing stone lion skins. I don't know whether the woman in the gallery was desperate for a sale, or just desperate for someone to talk to, but she was desperate for something. Expressing interest in a rather cute painting called 'Marauders' (or something) in which two dogs played tug-of-war with a typewriter had led to a lengthy but completely uneccessary discussion of how postage costs to the UK were undeniably great value.

I ended up with a handful of brochures that I really didn't want, and finally stumbled out into the cold street. I gazed at the top corner of the opposite building for a while. That is the appropriate thing to do in Prague, as every top corner is flouting some kind of groovy accoutrement that begs for your attention.

I turned around and saw a largish bloke kind of loping towards us down the cobbled street, and immediately got that little tweak of vertigo you get when your contexts unexpectedly go awry. I had the peculiar sensation that my TV screen had just taken on a very impressive big-screen, 3-D kinda quality. Suddenly Law and Order had gone medieval. The lighting was even right.

I swear it was him. Jesse L. Martin. I looked at him. He looked right back. He was looking kinda friendly (I was wearing the green coat: it has that effect), and if I could have only remembered his name at the time, I could have quite happily said hello. I didn't think 'Hi, love your work. Can't remember who you are, but love your work' would quite do the business, though. He looked like he was having a nice day, so gratuitous ego-deflation seemed inappropriate. The Green Coat Magic also completely prevented me from engaging in the sleeve tug and the accompanying 'Look, its the guy from Law and Order' stage-whisper without both spoiling the moment and shamelessly exposing my tragic un-hippness.

As a result, J. kept gazing at rooftops, oblivious. We passed like the proverbial ships, Jesse L's personal space intact, and any chance for independent verification of the sighting lost forever.

I was left assuring J.that yes, I was really, really sure, and wondering whether, if I was just a bit more opportunistic, that little encounter could have been the start of...of ...um...something. The lucrative sale of that unfinished undergraduate (and let's face it shithouse) film script? A sudden, unsought invitation to a glamorous cocktail party teeming with commissioning producers from HBO? One of those out-of-focus'look who I met on my holiday' snaps? Ah, the golden opportunities that slip through your fingers for the want of some good old-fashioned chutzpah!

For the record, its not all a trick of the light. He really is quite handsome.