First times

There's a nice page on the RadioBDC blog site on which staff members recall their first concerts. Some of them happened to attend relatively momentous shows - Bowie in the mid-1970s, Pearl Jam shortly after the death of Kurt Cobain - while others had slightly less dramatic experiences. Mark Lewis, for instance, recalls being taken to a Billy Joel concert at Madison Square Garden in 1982 - and falling asleep, midway through the fifth song. The Piano Man can be compelling, but so can a nap.

Given that, I wasn't quite sure what to expect when I took Cleo to her first full-length feature film yesterday: Monsters University, a prequel to the wonderful 2001 Pixar film Monsters Inc. We've been watching 25-minute segments of the latter on DVD over the last few weeks, and as Cleo has come to know the world of Sully and Mike she's also come to understand the concept of sarcasm ("Why does Mike say 'Great plan' when they are put into the ice world??), the cynical deceitfulness of Randall, and the retro appeal of Roz. But, still: how would she come to terms with a full 1:45 of new material? Could she stay awake, in a dark theater? And would she really tell me if she needed to go to the bathroom?

The answers turned out to be, in order: Well; yes; not quite. In the cool of the air conditioning, she sat in my lap for the whole film, making it through six previews and a short film before taking in the pleasant but hardly transcendent feature attraction. I tried to clear up a few of the plot complexities during quieter moments, but the storyline was generally clean and accessible, and Cleo confidently demonstrated, in an inappropriately loud voice, that she was on top of the other details ("They're sitting," she correctly announced to the nearly empty theater at one point, "on a bunk bed"). I asked her a few times if she wanted to stay, and the answer was always a focused yes. And when we left the theater afterwards, chatting about the film, it was clear that she'd understood much of it, even if the references to fraternity hazings were aimed more at me than at her.

But the first thing that Cleo said after her first film was in fact less directly related to the plot. It was: "I'm a little wet." And she was: just a touch, as the result of a minor lapse in bladder control that might be seen as a testament to the film's appeal more than anything else. Some find the memory of spectacle indelible; some fall asleep. And some forget about slight pressures. But the first time out is often, in various senses, absorbing.

Finding oneself

But let's put our Dante down for a few days, and acknowledge the fact that summer's also for easy, low-friction fiction: for Dan Brown, read onsite (as above), and, for part of this past weekend, Christopher Krovatin's youthful but rather touching Heavy Metal and You. Written when Krovatin was just 20 (and a PUSH intern), it's the story of a West Side prep schooler who finds himself torn between his allegiance to metal and his love for a warm but straightedge girl across town. Drawing heavily on Nick Hornby and Junot Diaz, and nodding reverently towards Salinger, Krovatin manages to craft a sweet story that fairly evokes the intensity of those years, and that is ultimately about the importance of being true to oneself (or of avoiding, as Salinger would put it, the phonies).

But finding oneself can take, of course, many forms. And while some of us go about it with our toes buried in the poolside sand of Meadowbrook, other folks begin to discover themselves at - well, at the neighborhood trattoria. That, at least, seems to be Cleo's way. On one of our last nights in Venice, we joined the fourteen students and several colleagues at a restaurant in Dorsoduro for a farewell meal. Generously, a waiter placed a bucket of pens and several sheets of paper on the table, and so L. and I let Cleo take care of business, as we chatted with others about upcoming travel plans and about the Angola pavilion. And then I happened to glace over at what Cleo was doing - only to find that for the first time ever, she was writing phonetically. And no small potatoes, either: the girl had tried to figure out, on her own, how to spell sailboat. Granted, she says it a bit differently than us: it's more sao-bot than sailboat. But that only helps to explain her spelled version, as you can see here:

I was floored. Of course, every kid eventually figures it out. But, still, when it happens, it's a small miracle. As is, I suppose, a high schooler's realization that he wants one thing more than another. We find ourselves in the strangest of places: in mosh pits, or Venetian restaurants. But the environment doesn't really matter, in the end, for as we remove the sheath, all else momentarily disappears.

Rings

Here, reader, let your eyes look sharp at truth,
for now the veil has grown so very thin...
                               -Dante, Purgatorio, 8:19-21

We fly back to Baltimore tomorrow, and I'll be leaving my wedding ring here. Presumably, it's in the sand that lies beneath the soft waves of the Adriatic, which is where I think I lost it while playing with Cleo two weeks ago, but it may have been snapped up by one of the beachcombers who ply the shore with metal detectors, or by a vacationing Russian housewife. All I know is that as I held Cleo on a sunny seat on the number 2 vaporetto back from the Lido, I noticed it missing, and when we returned to look for it, it did not surface.

It was relatively thick, and made of solid gold; I'd worn it since our wedding, just over seven years ago. And it was inscribed with a passage from Inferno: Inferno 5:138, if you care to look it up.

For the past two weeks, I've felt a bit as though I have a phantom limb; I find myself trying to toy with it, or to turn it - only to realize, again, that it's gone. At this point, it's as though I've lost the ring - or relived losing it - at least a hundred times. But there are also ways in which the loss feels, well, almost poetic. For example, for centuries the Venetian doge annually took a private gondola from San Marco, in order to cast a ring into the sea, commemorating the city's marriage to the water. And he did it on the Lido: precisely where my ring went missing. Admittedly, the doge could count on a local fisher boy to plunge into the water and recover the ring; in my case, no youth presented himself. But then there is also the realization that I likely lost it during a raucous game of Marco Polo with Cleo and an 8-year-old named Zoe. And Marco Polo was from - well, you know the answer to that. In several senses, then, the ring is perhaps where it belongs.

But, still: such a loss can feel heavy. Or, at least, it can feel heavy until one remembers what heaviness truly implies. Today, I took Cleo to the Lido for a final morning romp: we built a castle, punched waves, and piled sand on our legs. And, when Cleo was making sand cakes, I neared the end of Purgatorio, which I've been reading in quiet moments over the past couple of weeks. Canto 31 felt especially appropriate, in two places. Early in the canto, Beatrice challenges Dante, before the river Lethe: "What are you thinking?" she asks. "The water has not yet Obliterated your memories." Indeed not; I still missed the ring. My thumb idly found the paler spot on my ring finger. But then this, in Dante's subsequent confession: "Mere appearances Turned me aside with their false loveliness..." Indeed; why do we find ourselves weighed down with symbols of love, when the real thing is right at hand?

I put down my book and read no more; I jogged to Cleo, who asked me to make balls of sand for her. And tomorrow I will fly, as Beatrice recommends, with wings unweighted by pargoletta o altra novita.

In case you were wondering

You dance; they danced

Cleo, Mom told me that you went to dance class yesterday, and did really well. Nice job! I wish I had been there to see it, but maybe I can take you when we get back to Baltimore. Meanwhile, I'm very happy that I'll get to see you in three days. And I've been looking for pictures of dancers here in Venice. Today, I was in a cemetery, and I saw the tomb of a man who ran a very important ballet company: one of the best in the world. He wasn't a dancer himself, but he directed the ballet dancers: and look at the sculptures of shoes on his tomb!

The sun has been shining here almost every day, and yesterday I went to the beach, to see if it's something we might do together. Yes, indeed: the sand looks good for castling, and the water is not cold at all. Bring a swimsuit, okay? And we can take the ferry to the beach, and maybe get some ice cream afterwards. So, you have three days to decide what flavor you'd like to try first...

Q: and wedding dresses? A: and wedding dresses.

Cleo, I suppose that you may have wondered if there are good, long dresses in Venice. Yes, there are! In fact, lots of people come here to get married, and have their pictures taken in special places around the city. This morning, as I was walking to my boat, I saw this bride posing for her photographer in the gentle early sun. Maybe we can look for some brides with really long dresses when you get here!

But of course there are other fun things to see and hear, as well. Today I learned that the first storybook of Pinocchio was made here - and that we can see the tools that were used to make it. Also, occasionally the men who row the gondolas will sing, or will ask a friend to sing. You can sometimes here them coming down a canal, before you even see them. Or, if you're lucky, they might row right past you, when you're not even expecting it. Here's a picture I took (in a reflection, in a sculpture) that might show you what I mean:

Anyway, I hope that you had a fun trip to Washington, and that you're enjoying your time with Omi and Papa.

From here to there

Cleo! It's taken us four years, but perhaps we're now at a point where we can use this blog as a means of actually communicating, rather than as a more limited platform for my comments. So, perhaps you can get Mom to read this to you:

I miss you. I hope that camp, so far, is fun. Do you think that Max ever goes to camp? He would be a silly camper. Anyway, I'm in Venice, and so far it's a lot of fun. The city is built on many islands, and you can take boats from one island to another. I took the picture above last night, when I was riding back to the main island. Can you find the seagull in the picture? I love you, and I will see you in 8 days; meanwhile, please be nice to Mom and take good care of her. And, by the way, if you want to write anything to me, you can use the comment box, below! Love, Dad.