The thing about New York is that it looks much better in person than it does in rejection slips.
Yesterday I went to see my friend Jim, who has spent most of the winter traveling, mainly in Southeast Asia. He said that he used to come home and treat it as down time, but that now he's trying to maintain the same openness to experience that one has on the road.
As an example, he mentioned a day back in April when he'd gone to the post office to mail in his income tax form. The line was long and, taking his place at the end of it, he resigned himself to the fact that this was going to be a lost day.
But two women came in after him, and they got talking. The women were from Brazil and Jim, who loves Brazilian music, started throwing out names of favorite musicians. "Before long," he said, "we were at the front of the line."
The women looked at their watches and said they had to go catch their bus. Jim asked them where they were going. "Pompano Beach."
"I'll take you," he said, and in the car he put on Brazilian music. Once in Pompano, the women gave him a tour, showing him their favorite food stores, the best places to buy CDs. "I got home at 10 o'clock," he said.
Earlier in the day, he had told me: "You can go through life enjoying its absurdity, or you can go around angry all the time. Guess which I chose?"
Note: I'm off for a couple of weeks: Orlando, Philadelphia, Nazareth (PA), and New York City, where - for anyone who might be in the area - I'm doing a reading at 7 pm on May 25 at the Lolita Bar, 266 Broome Street in the Lower East Side. A few days after that I'll be back here.
The line at the 17th Street post office yesterday afternoon stretched halfway to the door, and I wondered what it will be like as post offices close due to lack of customers.
A man came and stood behind me, wearing a badge from ARVO, the annual meeting of ophthalmologists, that identified him as being from France.
In French, I asked him where he was from. "Clermont-Ferrand," he said.
"Auvergne," I said, and he seemed surprised at my geographical literacy. There are still some advantages to being a travel writer. (The ability to impress foreigners at your local post office.) He said he'd been coming to ARVO for years, back when it was held in Sarasota. "Sarasota," he said, "that is fantastic place." A man after my own heart.
I told him that I'd been in Auvergne ten years ago, for a wedding in a small town called Yssingeaux. He said he knew it. Now it was my turn to be surprised.
Italy's popularity with tourists is based on a combination of beautiful landscapes, historic cities, friendly people, a mild climate, a delicious cuisine and a large percentage of the world's art treasures. These last two are especially important, because they allow people to feel sophisticated while gazing at paintings and then to indulge in their favorite childhood foods: spaghetti and ice cream.
Coming through immigration in Miami is almost always pleasant (at least for those who carry the right passport). Usually I get, at the least, a "welcome home." Sometimes I'll be asked the nature of my business, and then I'll hear an envious "Nice."
Sunday, the officer was more expansive than usual. "How was Italy?" he asked, after taking my form.
"Wonderful," I said. "I was in Venice."
"What a great city," he said. "I was there last month."
We could have chatted longer - he seemed quite eager - but there were other people waiting.
I did something in Venice I rarely do: I got a room in the first hotel I entered.
Time was a factor, and I had a good feeling about the Locanda San Barnaba as soon as I walked in the door. (Ever since choosing a certain hotel in London in 1976, I have tended to trust my lodging instincts.)
From the bus terminal on the Piazzale Roma I had walked with my backpack along a canal, past some university buildings, across Campo Santa Margherita, over a bridge and through the smaller Campo San Barnaba, taking a left into a narrow street that led, eventually, to the Ca' Rezzonico vaporetto stop. On the right, a hanging lantern announced the entrance to the Locanda San Barnaba.
The man at reception wore a jacket and tie. The available single room was not what I had envisioned: just off the lobby, with windows giving onto the street, the single bed pushed against one wall. I of course had been thinking a balcony over a canal. But I remembered that most of my time in a hotel room is spent unconscious. And I liked the price of 110 euros a night (100 if I paid in cash).
Over four days I grew very attached to the room, and the hotel, and the neighborhood. Campo San Barnaba had everything one needed: a church (now a museum), a greengrocer who set up every day on his boat in the canal, a tabacchi, an osteria (where I had delicious mussels and clams in tomato sauce one evening) and a gelateria. A short walk away was Campo Santa Margherita, where every night students spilled from bars. And because this was in Dorsoduro, you saw more locals than tourists.
The receptionist at the Locanda San Barnaba was exceedingly helpful, checking addresses and giving directions. One evening, when I was looking for a flower shop, he not only told me where one was located, he called to make sure that it was still open. I should have given him the flowers.