My stomach growled vociferously, demanding its beloved bacon as-soon-as-possible without regard for my own personal embarrassment. Looking around the room, I was relieved to find my roommates steadfast asleep.
Mouse-like in nature, I crawled from under my warm covers and into a sitting position on the side of my bed. With knees spread and torso erect, my hands combed through my nappy morning hair as I thought deeply about how to make my growling stomach shut up. Placing my palms on my cheeks, I pushed them inward while widening my eyes outward until my face fully morphed into the silly fish I was trying to create. I giggled myself into a wide, tooth-full smile, the tangible reflection of innermost joy, initially overwhelming my loud desires for food. But after my usual morning routine of reading my bible, praying and hygiene, even my powerful tooth-full smile became victim to my conquering hunger. I wanted some bacon, eggs and toast and nothing was going to stop me. With clothes snug, hair combed and teeth brushed I grabbed my wallet proceeded towards the entry door. Today I was going to visit the Bacon Butcher, my buddy Stefano. A deep tooth-full smile once again crept upon my face. “Stefano!” I yelled happily in my vaguely Southern American accent. “Dario!” Stefano yelled back happily in his authentic Venetian dialect. Stefano is an older Italian male, father-like in nature as evidenced by his bold beard and proud stance. And the glare he gave me was that of a happy father teaching his son a lesson. One look and I knew today was my most dreaded day: I’d have to order in full Italian. “Come esta-i…?” “No Dario,” Stefano gently laughed as he corrected me while emphasizing with his hand, “It is, ‘como stai’.” He has come to find my half-Spanish, half-Italian failings quite hilarious, “Try again. Take your time.” “Gracie Signor,” I replied with equal chuckle, “Come stai?” “Bene, e tu?” “Ah, sto bene, bene, bene!” I paused momentarily to ensure the quality of my next words, “Stefano, vorre…i?” “Si, si.” He replied as he grabbed the bacon meat with a visible grin. We both knew I came to pick up his famous bacon, but clearly he wanted this moment to be an investment into my personal assimilation as a migrant Venetian citizen. “Vorrei bacon. E… dieci bacon, per favore.” “Fantastico! Bravo!” He clapped, handing over my bacon as I handed him three euro, “Ciao Dario! Next time we chat more!” We both exchanged tooth-full smiles before I exited his deli. As I walked home, illustrations of Plato’s idealism, 1950s propaganda and Orwell’s 1984 plastered the inside of my canvased cranium. My fading smile was replaced by the stale face most associated with deep thought. From the outside looking into Venice, my first thoughts were that this was THE ideal place of life. Venice feels of Plato’s utopianism, civility as its culturally ingrained ideology and its citizens perfectly playing their part without sincere regard for the political sphere. Each simply bringing to the public sphere what they were expected to bring, neither more nor less. Reminiscent of an European version of those overtly traditional mid-1900s American advertisements that seemed to represent Plato’s idealism well—the ads which White Americans brought local products from persons such as “Bob the butcher”; neighbors waved at one another robotically as they cut perfect green grass and housewives had a hot dinner prepared for their husbands when they got home from a hard day of work. Or even more appropriately illustrated through the year 1984, as I was taken into the capital area called “Airstrip One”—also known as London, England. Because all the Venetian persons surrounding me were starting to appear emotionally unemotional, simply living their lives the way they’ve been trained, leaving the politics to those who “know best” without the slightest complaint—each with genuine big brother tendency, watching over as keeper. For it seemed the normalization behind sitting outside of the Italian Chestnut Tree Caffé sipping caffè was a sufficient way of life in the eyes of the Venetian citizen. And I thought about how well Stefano plays his part, bringing his best to the public sphere each day. He is a butcher and he is supposed to maintain his domain: a small deli. Every morning he is to open his deli around eight and close an hour before sunset. He is supposed to sell his meats, cheeses and local specialty items, occasionally selling a ham and cheese sub. Conversations with customers are his daily routine, whether he wants to or not. Albeit rewarding, Stefano understands his infectious smile brings his customers back. Yet all of this Venetian idealism made me wonder if Stefano, while drinking his gin at the local caffé, ever took the time to dwell in his past memories—if he had any youthful dreams or aging regrets alongside his happiest of days. It made me wonder if Stefano was simply content with the politically and economically corrupted Venetian system merely because he felt his role as a Venetian citizen was both summarized and concluded by his daily meat sales. The mere thoughts took me back to 1984, giving me chills and making me ask which Winston was to found within Stefano the Bacon Butcher: page one hundred or page three-hundred and fifty one? I didn’t have time to deliberate the answer because I had just re-entered my beloved Casa Artom. My stomach was screaming louder than ever for bacon, instinctively forcing my body to gallop up the stairs, through the dining area and towards the kitchen. I was sure nothing could stop my momentum, yet—perhaps due to some sort of divine intervention—something did. For the first time I noticed four picture frames hanging on the western most yellow wall, in-between the windowed wooden doors. In the top left frame was a black and white image of a small deli. Behind the counter were a young Stefano and his aging father. Both had wide, tooth-full smiles.
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AuthorDarius Williams ArchivesCategories |