The Boy Who Ate Lasagne And Jumped Over a Church
One of the rituals which quickly evolved during the honeymoon was the three o'clock aperitif, a combination of several factors, including sore feet which always needed a rest around three in the afternoon, the desire to sample some of Italy's trademark drinks, and the fact that between 3 and 6pm in Italy a drink or a stale sandwich are about your only options for sustenance.
During one such rest stop, on our last full day in Venice, we found ourselves at a quiet little sidewalk cafe (I guess they're all sidewalk cafes in a city with no streets) next to the Basilica di Santi Giovanni e Paolo.
Because the basilica is located in a large campo near both a hospital and school, the square contained an interesting mix of people taking hospital invalids out for a stroll (or roll) in the sunshine, a number of adults enjoying a cup of coffee, and those adults' children talking in the square or playing soccer.
The soccer kids had decided that a locked side door of the basilica would make a good goal. Several meters out on either side of the door a wall jutted out, providing the virtual soccer pitch with side boundaries as well, with only the far side (toward us) open.
This worked pretty well, assuming that the sound of the ball slamming into the door of the church didn't wake centuries' worth of dead doges and priests inside the basilica. The only real flaw with the setup was that right next to the cafe where we sat was a Murano glass shop.
You can see where this is going.
It wasn't long before an errant soccer ball, successfully blocked by the kid playing goaltender, went sailing in a high arc away from the church and right into . . . you guessed it . . . the glass shop. Um, twice.
A testament to how laid back the average Venetian is, I suppose, the first time it happened, the shop owner came out and gently scolded the kids to be more careful.
The second time, a few of the parents intervened and stopped the game. Fair enough. But what's a kid to do when his mother is still chatting with her friends but his soccer privileges have been taken away? Heed the call of nature, you say? Well, that's what the kid decided, anyway.
If his mother wasn't paying attention before, she was now. The ensuing dialogue (as best our translation skills could do) went something like this:
Mother: Dear God! Are you crazy? What are you doing?!? What are you doing?!?
Kid: [silent, most likely because it was patently obvious what he was doing]
Mother: Stop! Stop that!
Kid: But Mama, you know that once the pee starts it doesn't stop!
And so this poor woman, with the patience of a saint, stood there and watched her son finish what had to be the longest pee in recorded history on the side of the Basilica di Santi Giovanni e Paolo, occasionally looking around to see if anyone was watching, and finally, once the deed was done and his pants were back up, dragged him in true Italian movie fashion by the ear over to where the rest of the adults were standing.
"And I thought I was such a rebel for peeing on Florence in the train washroom," I said.
During one such rest stop, on our last full day in Venice, we found ourselves at a quiet little sidewalk cafe (I guess they're all sidewalk cafes in a city with no streets) next to the Basilica di Santi Giovanni e Paolo.
Because the basilica is located in a large campo near both a hospital and school, the square contained an interesting mix of people taking hospital invalids out for a stroll (or roll) in the sunshine, a number of adults enjoying a cup of coffee, and those adults' children talking in the square or playing soccer.
The soccer kids had decided that a locked side door of the basilica would make a good goal. Several meters out on either side of the door a wall jutted out, providing the virtual soccer pitch with side boundaries as well, with only the far side (toward us) open.
This worked pretty well, assuming that the sound of the ball slamming into the door of the church didn't wake centuries' worth of dead doges and priests inside the basilica. The only real flaw with the setup was that right next to the cafe where we sat was a Murano glass shop.
You can see where this is going.
It wasn't long before an errant soccer ball, successfully blocked by the kid playing goaltender, went sailing in a high arc away from the church and right into . . . you guessed it . . . the glass shop. Um, twice.
A testament to how laid back the average Venetian is, I suppose, the first time it happened, the shop owner came out and gently scolded the kids to be more careful.
The second time, a few of the parents intervened and stopped the game. Fair enough. But what's a kid to do when his mother is still chatting with her friends but his soccer privileges have been taken away? Heed the call of nature, you say? Well, that's what the kid decided, anyway.
If his mother wasn't paying attention before, she was now. The ensuing dialogue (as best our translation skills could do) went something like this:
Mother: Dear God! Are you crazy? What are you doing?!? What are you doing?!?
Kid: [silent, most likely because it was patently obvious what he was doing]
Mother: Stop! Stop that!
Kid: But Mama, you know that once the pee starts it doesn't stop!
And so this poor woman, with the patience of a saint, stood there and watched her son finish what had to be the longest pee in recorded history on the side of the Basilica di Santi Giovanni e Paolo, occasionally looking around to see if anyone was watching, and finally, once the deed was done and his pants were back up, dragged him in true Italian movie fashion by the ear over to where the rest of the adults were standing.
"And I thought I was such a rebel for peeing on Florence in the train washroom," I said.