A bottle of prosecco greeted us
in La Calcina, our front room with a view
of the wide canal, the island of Giudecca.
John Ruskin’s room was right next door to ours,
but we fared better on our honeymoon.
His pheromones were triggered by the Gothic
arches and foils, not hardcore fleshiness
of a real woman with real body hair,
his wedding surprise, while ours got us in trouble
we couldn’t resist, artists and models both
who plunged into romantic complications,
years of my dithering, a legal slough
we likened to the slow process in Bleak House.
But when we made love, that first afternoon,
feeling a sea breeze, hearing the boats and waves,
each other’s odalisques, we were incensed
that baggage handlers or airport security
inspected our vibrator so hard it broke.
It hummed like a power drill but didn’t shimmy.
It figured, since our love affair and friendship
had always been tempestuous, not calm.
She needed medicine, so I took a walk,
looking for the nearest farmacia,
but the shop at San Trovaso wasn’t open.
I kept on looking for green neon crosses,
stopping on bridges, gazing at canals
where someone sloshed a mop on a boat’s deck
and workers hoisted paving stones from barges.
Near Byron’s palace on the Grand Canal,
blue screens kept off the cruising paparazzi
who trolled in boats, lusting for a shot
of Angelina Jolie. But my LaWanda
raged at the arrogance of stardom, swore
she’d never see The Tourist, in production
while we were honeymooning in the city.
I said I’d never pay to see the movie,
but still, it was a record of our stay,
and if we could ignore the silly thriller
it might become a kind of photo album:
sunny nostalgia, tinged with a bitter edge.
Scornful of cars, I didn’t want to sully
our honeymoon by going to the Lido,
but she insisted we couldn’t miss the beach,
sorry it wasn’t warm enough to swim.
We took a bus—after the waterbus—
and got off at the Grand Hotel des Bains,
closed for the season, despite the ghosts of Mann
and Aschenbach. We walked past the cabanas
and men who were playing soccer on the beach
so she could wade in the Adriatic Sea.
I knew how wrong I’d been to discourage her
from joy that made her radiant as the wave tips
dizzy with sunlight, cresting with tidal surges.
Love wasn’t rigid but resilient,
open to change, eager to divorce
anything impeding its energy.
The whole time we were there, she wouldn’t visit
a single church, despite the Tintorettos,
but wouldn’t miss the shrine of Harry’s Bar,
savoring martinis, popping olives
in our mouths. The high point of the trip
came when the suave proprietor, named for the bar,
approached from behind, holding her chair to help
her from the table—Arrigo Cipriani
smiling and flirting with my vibrant bride.
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