Day 3: Santa Lucia
Monday brought a series of tiny misfortunes. I dressed in the morning and discovered a small hole in one of my softest sweaters, purchased in Seoul my first time there. Those damn moths! My sworn enemies. Though I’m one to dwell, I forced myself not to fixate, and went down to breakfast.
After locating stamps at the nearby tabacchi, I crossed the bridge and turned left to get to the Palazzo Grassi, a contemporary art museum set in a palace built in the 1700s. The salmon-pink stucco, grand archways, and ornate ceilings contrasted beautifully with the modern sculptures and drawings nested within. All of the work was by the same artist, Tatiana Trouvé. Worn cushions and old shopping bags carved from marble or cast in plaster, inorganic matter made to look like discarded orange peels. Metal twisted to look like warped tree branches, and bleached paper with bizarre scenes drawn over them in graphite. Such was the work of Ms. Trouvé, a prolific and talented artist to be sure, though not necessarily my favorite. Still, she’s inspired me to read Italo Calvino’s Invisible Cities, on which she based much of her work.
After leaving the museum, I walked back to Dorsoduro, to a panino shop just off a small square that I’d scouted on my first day. I snagged an open table outside and ordered un cappuccino di soia and a mortadella sandwich. I settled in to sip, nibble, and write, which was lovely—until the pigeons began their assault. A fat, grey bird with a rose-colored belly flapped up to the edge of my table, and I nudged it away with the napkin holder. Back it came, and again I nudged. Then a white friend of his landed even closer to me and I batted it away. On and on it went, to the point that I smudged my writing and made silly spelling errors.
I took a break from battle to find a text boasting a fraud alert from my credit card. Someone had tried to purchase a plane ticket on a European travel site. I reported the fraudulent charge, bemoaning my soon-to-be-closed card. Thank goodness I have others, but still! What a nuisance.
Post-lunch, I gathered my bags at the hotel and headed for the vaporetto at Zaterre, appreciating the symmetry of leaving from the same dock at which I’d arrived. A thirty-minute cruise later, we arrived at Statzione Santa Lucia a good hour and then some ahead of my train departure time.
To the restroom I went, eager for relief, only to find the door blocked by a barrier demanding 1.20 euros to enter, exact change only. I scrounged for coins, finally found the sum, only for my 10 cent coins to be denied. I tried again. Accepted. What a crime to charge for bathroom access!
I stood across from the large billboard flashing the platform assignments. For over forty minutes I waited, watching as every other train but mine received a number well ahead of their departure time. At 3:48, still no platform number had appeared. Our train was set to depart at 3:52. I watched an annoying blonde boy pestering his grandparents in German as they looked up at the screen, then down again, then back up. Where was our train?
Finally, just as I’d given up hope, the number four appeared, and off we raced to board. I found my seat in the Quiet Zone, all dreams of a phone call dashed. I settled in, and took to the internet, glancing up now and again to admire the tall, skinny trees of northern Italy. To my surprise, the sun began to set within the first half hour of our journey. All dreams of a scenic trip: also dashed.
And now, faced with nearly six more hours on a train engulfed in darkness, I begin to write.