Three Hours in Venice

I am not sure what our teachers were thinking.

We’ll meet back here in three hours.

The pigeons flapped around us, sending puffs of their feathers everywhere.

Do NOT take a water taxi off this island.

We had already lost one boy, when he absentmindedly wandered off the water taxi at the wrong stop. A boy unlovingly called, “Bloey Jobbins.” One of the teachers tracked down Bloey fast enough to squash the hopes and dreams of 50 boys hoping for some crazy drama. The thought of him getting lost in a strange Italian city would have been the stuff of legend. But, instead he was standing among the group of boys while our teacher, Mr. Sanchez, shouted his instructions at us, his voice echoing against the walls of Piazza San Marco in Venice.

Does everyone understand?

Some heads nod, but not enough to satisfy Mr. Sanchez. He chooses a victim. “Nick, can you repeat the rules for everyone.”

Nick snapped his head back from the sky, the pigeons held his attention and he mumbled his way through some sort of unsatisfactory answer; Mr. Sanchez proceeded with the leading questions.

“And what should you not get on?” Mr. S asked.

“A water taxi,.”

“And when are we meeting back here?”

“In two hours.”

“No… not quite. It’s three hours. It’s noon right now, so that means three o’clock.”

The planning among the boy begins as heads tilt towards one another murmuring clandestine plans and constructing groups . The old song and dance, who’s going to hang out with who. We needed to be with the at least one person the whole time, and we needed to stay out of people’s way.

Don’t bother anyone, Mr Sanchez had said.

Asking 50 American middle-school boys to stay out of people’s way is like asking the sun to stay up for three days during an Alaskan winter.

“We’ll see you at three,” Mr. S said. His khaki round brimmed hat flopping in the breeze like a beacon.

I took Latin in middle school for a few reasons.

First, French was the other option, and I wasn’t one for speaking up in class in English, so why would I sign up for a class in another language? Latin was also pitched as a way to prep for the SSAT (the Secondary School Admissions Test) in the short term and the SAT in the not-so-short-term. One thing a 6th grader doesn’t think about is the ability to travel places and speak a language when they’re older. In a highly driven academic setting, of course Latin was going to win out for the sake of admission into the next fancy school. French offered no benefit to me during adolescence. My family wasn’t going to travel to France any time soon, and an acceptance letter from Groton or Andover or Harvard wasn’t arriving in my mailbox because of my impeccable French. It was only until I found myself 20 years later staring dumbstruck at a cashier in a Parisian market trying to ask buy some groceries that I realized the SAT didn’t really matter.

I bet that snarky French cashier could see in my eyes that I chose Latin over French.

The final short-sighted reason I took Latin was this trip to Italy. It was always pitched as an epic journey that happens every two years the week after school got out in June. The trip’s centerpiece was a journey to Pompeii, a city destroyed, and preserved, ironically, by a volcano in 79AD.

The first stop of the Italian trip was Venice. Looking back, it was the city I enjoyed the most. Rome and Florence felt more dangerous and grimy. Beggars trying to rob you and Gypsies tossing a bracelet on your wrist and demanding payment were everywhere in those cities. But for some reason, my memory of Venice is more pleasant. That might just be a trick of the memory more than anything else.

Our trip didn’t make much sense geographically. We flew into Milan and drove to Venice, then stopped in Florance, then Naples and Pompeii. Finally we finished the trip in Rome before flying home. 10 days and whole bunch of hours on the bus.

When we were given permission to wander the streets of Venice, I buddied up with my friend Andy. Like a lot of the other kids, we were hungry after a morning of walking through the streets and sightseeing. The entire group even took gondola rides through the city, which was both beautiful and gritty as we weaved through stunning sections of the city and the backwaters filled with trash. The angst among some of the boys during the gondola ride highlighted the homophobia that pulsed through a lot of them. The gondola was a romantic ride, not something you did with your jet-lagged buddy who smells like either garlic or a heavy dose of crappy body spray.

Back to the food. Naturally, our first full day in Italy meant we needed pizza. When (almost) in Rome, right? We bought pizza without the assistance of Yelp and gobbled it down rather quickly on the street, avoiding the extra cost of a table. You would think that 20 years later, the first slice of pizza in Italy would stick in my brain like grease to paper. But it really didn’t. I remember two dining experiences on the whole trip. One because of an incredible view (and delicious pizza) in Naples and another in Capri because of the hike we that preceded the meal.

The others were all forgettable, including the Venetian pizza.

In this pre-9/11 world, the freedom we had as 15 year-olds is still stunning to me. There were no phones, no real way of knowing precisely where we were, no group communication apps. The only apps were olives and bruschetta. The teachers, while I’m sure they were spinning with discomfort inside, seemed perfectly at ease sending us into a foreign city built on water. We didn’t even know the language!

All we had were maps, watches, and travelers cheques (yes, travelers chequers…). We could use all three, and considering this was the first day of the trip, all of us felt pretty flush with our parents’ money. A lot of it was back in the hotel, hidden away in a safe. But some of it was currently burning a hole in our pocket. Andy and I wandered around Venice rather aimlessly, popping into stores, garnering strange looks from the locals, then scampering out, too afraid to buy anything, even a candy bar or Italian soda.

Most of the 50 boys didn’t venture too far from Saint Mark’s Square. Andy and I would either randomly find ourselves back in the vicinity of the square or purposefully make our way back there to get out bearing, check-in with a teacher (there was always one waiting), and then go exploring again.

The joy of walking through a city is etched in my bones. To this day I love walking around Boston and any other city I visit. I often wonder if that experience was birthed in Venice. I recall dipping into little alleyways and crossing over arched bridges and nodding to the locals sitting outside around small tables smoking cigarettes and debating.

However, just like any three hours of freedom, the excitement waned a bit. It was hot and the travel was catching up with us. This is when we came across another group of boys. The three of them were running down the sidewalk, but they stopped in front of us with Cheshire cat grins.

“You wanna see what we’ve got?”

It was a strange question, but knowing the boys that were asking it, I assumed they were up to no good. They were the popular kids though, so we shrugged and said, “Sure.”

Tate but his bag down on the ground and unzipped it slowly, beckoning us closer. Something in the bag was a secret, and we were being let into the club. He pulled open the bag, not even touching the contents inside. Andy and I leaned over and looked in.

All I could see were the tops of magazine pages, I assumed they were left over from the plane ride. I peered in, my head nearly in the bag, looking for whatever it was these boys were so excited about. Jeff rattled the bag, the contents resettled, and then on the front of the magazine was a scantily clad woman and the word, PLAYBOY scrawled across the top.

“Where’d you get that?”

“They’ll sell them to you here. We’ve got a bunch of them.”

Each boy shifted up on his toes to show off the weight in their backpacks. All Andy and I had were packs full of water and some candy we were brave enough to buy from some cranky Italian in a small market.

Just then another four other boys rushed past, their feet echoing around the small intersection. Before they were gone Jeff shouted out, “You get any?”

They shouted in unison, “Oh yeah!” and kept moving.

Are we the only ones not doing this? I thought to myself. Andy had the same expression on his face. The boys’ appetite didn’t even seem satisfied. There was nothing else for them to do in this ancient city but collect magazines of naked woman.

“There’s a store around the corner. You wanna come?”

Andy’s response was faster than I assumed, “Yes.”

I had no choice, the buddy system was the buddy system. So the five of us turned and padded up the sidewalk, backpacks sagging with magazines, candy, and soda.

The store was tiny, dark, and dingy. The smell of stale cigarettes wafted in the air. Four small aisles ran from front to back, overflowing with food - a convenience store cornucopia. Our presence was conspicuous to be sure. Six American boys without any adult in sight.

I could feel the eyes of the cashier trying to follow all of us at the same time while also focusing on his cigarette. My heart was in my throat, even though I had no intention of trying to purchase a magazine. I sniffed out the snack section and stared very hard at all the different options, trying to learn the art of international nudie mags purchases. This was our version of foreign relations.

Andy sidled up next to me, staring at the potato chip options: “Originale” “Paprika” Pollo Roasted.” They came in chip form or stick form. I was glad for all the choices; they provided a bevy of distractions as we waited for one of the three other boys to approach the counter and ask for a magazine behind the grumpy cashier. The ding of the bell on the door announced the arrival of another customer, the cashier smiled and offered a big greeting; “Ciao!” he boomed.

Like a ninja, Morgan slid up to the counter, tossed a skinny bottle of Coke and some bright gummy candy on the counter. Even though Morgan was a bit taller and older looking, he craned his neck to make eye contact with the cashier who was standing above him on a platform. The cash register clanged and dinged, Morgan buried his hand into his pocket, the jingling coins sounded like a choir of bells. He held out his palm to showcase his money and deliberately counted out what he owed for the Coke and candy. He slid it to the cashier and then peered behind him at the magazines. They weren’t all adult themed, the magazines without provocative women showcased soccer and movie stars. Morgan lifted his finger and lazily pointed at the one he wanted like Adam in the Sistine Chapel. Andy and I were frozen just a few feet away, still very interested in the chips but using every ounce of our peripheral vision to take in the moment.

The cashier, exhausted from what was probably an hourly occurrence, turned and faced the collection of magazines and verified what Morgan was asking for. Morgan shook his head, content with any option that didn’t have a soccer or movie star on the front. In a flash the magazine was sitting on the counter next to the candy and Coke, like a strange commercial for the sugary beverage. Morgan plopped two bills on the counter, the register clicked open and the transaction was complete.

I decided I was going to at least buy something in this shop, so I snatched a bag of chips off the shelf, Pollo Roasted, and paid for them. I was alone in the shop, the other four boys had followed Morgan to celebrate another notch in his adolescent belt. The counter was lined with candy too, I grabbed a Snickers (they’re everywhere, I guess) and felt a surge of adrenaline as my finger, like it wasn’t even part of my body anymore, pointed at one of the magazines behind the counter. The cashier huffed and shook his head, then said gruffly, “No!” My pride hurt, I had to try to save the moment, I shook my head and said, “Futball, Per favore.” The man half-smiled, “Del Piero” I said, recognizing the Italian superstar on the cover. This made the man smile, some American kid knew an Italian hero. He mumbled happily to me in Italian as the price appeared on the little black screen of the register. I counted out my money and handed it to him.

“Ciao” he said as my sweaty palms collected the three items I didn’t even really need.

“Did you get one?” Jeff asked. I dramatically held up my picture of Del Piero, which might have given some of the boys a different idea of what I found attractive. “He wouldn’t give me one. So I got this instead.” A strange sense of relief came over the boys. I even felt it a bit, too.

“We’ve still got,” Morgan looked at his watch, his sandy hair shining in a shard of sun had weaseled it’s way into this tiny side street, “45 minutes.”

“Yeah, let’s try one more place,” Andy said.

I was a little annoyed with Andy. He left me alone in the store and seemed swept up in this chase without really even trying to be a part of it. I had just made a slight fool of myself, but he had done nothing.

“There’s a place that was really easy. You guys can go in and try,” Jeff said.

“Can I just pay you for one of the magazines you already have?” I said.

“No, I earned these,” Jeff patted the bottom of his backpack with his left hand like a proud father.

“C’mon. I’ll try this time, too” Andy said. This lifted my spirits, but I secretly hoped Andy would fail. I didn’t need to be the person who returns to Saint Mark’s Square with a soccer magazine while boobs and butts filled everyone else’s backpack.

Jeff turned to Morgan, “We can go to that one place that didn’t give shit.”

Brad chimed in for the first time, “They even sold me some.”

“Some?” I asked.

“Yeah, bought four of ‘em.”

We peered around the corner like five blundering spies. Jeff, Morgan, and Brad thought it would be best if they waited for us around the corner; they didn’t want to set off any alarms. How kind of them. Three men sat outside on the sidewalk soaking up the late afternoon sun, legs outstretched and eyes closed, like lizards in a desert.

My cousins in Ireland always called us the “Yanks” when we’d visit them each summer. We were the ones with the funny accents that they’d impersonate by talking with a horrible tone through their nose. The jokes never bothered me because they were family, I was never aware of how American I looked until this very moment in a Venice street as I prepared to join Andy in pursuit of an adult magazine.

I wore a baseball hat, a graphic tee shirt with something embarrassingly late-90s American slapped across the front (NO FEAR!), and the backpack were all just as quintessentially American as these three men were quintessentially Italian. We were stereotypes in this strange vacuum. None of them budged as Andy and I pushed past them into the store. The store was exactly the same as the last one, except this time a horrible looking woman stood behind the counter.

Those assholes tricked us, I thought. I pictured Andy and me walking out of the store and the entire grade standing in the street in on the joke. We’d been Punk’d.

Andy glanced at me and then at the lady. The Lira in my pocket jangled against my leg, waiting to be exchanged for photos of the female form. But this women seemed ready to guard the dignity of those women from the perv-y Americans. The Americans would have to settle for art museum nudity on our visit.

A flurry of Italian caught our attention, from the back storeroom a voice boomed and the old women yelled back, tossing her hand in the air exactly how you’d expect an Italian to do it, hand open, arm slicing upwards towards the sky in disgust. The perfect, dismissive gesture. The voice persisted from the back, and the women stepped around the counter down to floor level and shuffled past us like we were ghosts (I see American people…). She was tiny but fierce, just like my grandmothers in Ireland whose gaze would put the fear of God into you, and if that didn’t work, they always had the cane.

As if some paranormal transformation happened, a youngish man sauntered into out of the storeroom and took the spot on the platform. He wore a black baseball cap pulled down tight over his eyes and a white t-shirt with some gaudy print across the front. He was tan, and, if I do say so, handsome and kind looking. The perfect vessel to help us complete our mission.

Andy grabbed a water bottle and an Italian flag magnet and dashed for the counter before the man transformed back into the horrible old woman again. I heard Andy’s change rattle around in his pocket and he muttered the word, “magazine.” It sounded more like a question than a statement, his voice quivered and trailed off. But the man stepped aside like Vana White so Andy could look over the entire rack (pun intended) of options. Like an absolute professional he said, “Uno Football e Uno Playboy.” The mix of Italian and English amused the man, and he took both magazines off the shelf and placed them on the counter.

Remember this was 1999. There was basically no internet, a Playboy was still very much a teenage boy’s Everest. I was still stunk at basecamp still acclimating to the atmosphere, while Andy, Jeff, Morgan, and Brad (even that pipsqueek, Brad!), were at the summit enjoying the view.

With the swiftness of a student on the last day of school, Andy swept everything off the counter and into his backpack. He was gone in a flash, leaving me alone in the store, staring at magnets and a cooler packed with enticing Italian sodas. My insides were screaming at me to grow some balls and ask for a magazine, I tried to remind my insides that I had already tried, and failed, and instead have a soccer magazine with a handsome man on the cover. My insides urged me to take advantage of this kind, young man - the Santa Claus of adult magazines.

This adventure had morphed from an act of hormonal impulse to one of pride. In my adolescent brain everyone on the trip would return to Saint Mark’s Square weighed down with so much pornographic material that we might sink the water taxis.

I checked my watch, it read “2:45.” Time was running out. I slid open the cooler, grabbed an orange Fanta, and strode towards the counter with sweaty palms and a resolute mind. The crack of the old women’s voice startled me. The man flinched, looked at me, held up an index finger “One moment”, and rushed to the back of the store.

I stood there completely alone and the thought crossed my mind that I could try to steal a magazine. I also considered the simple excuse that I ran out of time and no one was there to sell me a magazine. The front door swung open, it was Jeff. He looked at me and said, “We have to go.”

“I know.”

“Hurry up.”

“I’m trying.”

He dipped back out of the store, and low and behold, who returns to the counter but the tiny old lady. She’s sweaty and hunched over. She scans me quickly and frowns: Americans. I force a smile and watch her as she takes her post and begins to to ring me up. For the second time in an hour I ask a stranger in a foreign country to exchange money for a magazine of naked women. While the build up exhausted me, the act of asking was easier the second time.

“Uno Playboy,” I say as nonchalantly as possible, digging into my pocket as if I’ve done this before.

The sky opened and the sun shined down, I think I might have even heard a choir of angels singing from the storeroom. The old women turned without an ounce of hesitation and grabbed the Playboy. As it slapped on the counter the door swung open again, it was another American. This time an adult American, wearing a khaki wide brimmed hat. My heart sunk, it was Mr. S. I saw him before he saw me, and I quickly slid the Fanta and Playboy into my backpack just as he spotted me.

Mr. S. was always the type to know when we were up to no good. He had this instinct that even after the mischief had passed, he could smell it in the air. I wasn’t sure if I had acted quickly enough. Mr. S. gave me a smile and said, “Finish up getting whatever you need. It’s time to head back.”

“Ok.”

“Andy and the boys are waiting for you. They seemed very interested in what you were up to in here.” Another smile. He slid open the cooler, it hummed loudly, and wrapped his fingers around a water bottle. I scurried out the door and smiled at the four boys waiting for me.

“Did Mr. S. see you in buying it?” Andy asked.

“I have no idea. He came in right after I paid.”

“Oh man. Imagine if he caught you. How awkward would that be?"

The door swung open and Mr. S. exited the store, the bottle of water in his left hand. He absentmindedly slid a pack of cigarettes into the square pocket on the chest of his shirt. He didn’t see us right away, and when he did he paused for a second hoping we didn’t see what we saw. The tables had turned.

“You all heading back to the square, right?”

“Yep,” we said in unison.

The six of us walked along the Venetian sidewalks bathed in sunlight, each with just a thin bit of fabric poorly concealing our dirty little secrets as we transformed back into the rolls we have played our whole lives. Our three hours in Venice were up.