margaret_cameron

THE WORST JOB IN THE WORLD?

maracam48@gmail.com (Margaret Cameron) — Wed, 27 Oct 2021 06:00:03 GMT

Gondolas and Venice are inseparable. Think of one and the other immediately follows.

Romantic images spring to mind: peaceful backwater canals canyoned between silent buildings, a smiling gondolier, perhaps singing, as snatches of accordian music drift in the air. What could be more wonderful?

It rarely happens that way.

Everyone has the same idea, you see, and Venetian gondoliers are hard-pressed meeting the Venice-in-a-gondola dream. Twenty-five million tourists arrive each year, all determined to round out the Venice experience with an hour afloat. For gondoliers, that involves a lot of rowing and a lot of patience.

You can bet there will be photo demands when the ride is done. It's not enough merely to ride in a gondola, there must be pictorial evidence of the event. Me in Venice with my smiling gondolier will be posted to Instagram. Young American women in particular have a fondness for the hug and kiss shot.

All in a day's work. At least I can settle down with Mario for a few minutes and catch up on emails.

The preceding photos were taken prior to the outbreak of COVID. Gondoliers have been affected by declining tourist numbers, as has everyone in Venezia turistico. Easing restriction have seen people begin to return to Venice, but what the future holds is uncertain .

VENICE BELONGS TO THE WORLD

maracam48@gmail.com (Margaret Cameron) — Tue, 12 Oct 2021 05:33:30 GMT

The petrochemical plant at Port Maghera has been responsible for significant pollution and damage to the fragile lagoon ecosystem. It is justifiably held by many Venetians to be public enemy number one. Just as concerning is the impact of climate change and rising sea levels for a city built on water.

Worrying issues indeed, and there is another problem - sometimes overlooked, often discounted - of equal significance. arm photo here to side of text.

Venice belongs to the world. And the world agrees, it seems, if tourist numbers are anything to go by. Visitors from all parts of the globe descend on the city each year, totting up more than twenty-five million visitations. This represents an environmental impost to a geographically small area, and massive disruption in the day-to-day lives of its fifty-five thousand residents. Look at it from their point of view.

Their city is consumed by tourists.

Housing has become scarce as accommodation is given over to visitors, and with scarcity has come price increases for the remaining housing stock. All too often, residents are left with no choice but to relocate, forced from their city by the tourist crush. Town planners postulate that Venice will in time cease to be a city of Venetians, becoming instead a Disneyland for grown ups, a watery theme park existing for no reason other than to entertain tourists.

The city's financial survival relies on the tourist t rade, and Venetians have no wish to bite the hand that feeds. But sometimes it's just not worth the bother. Single-day and short-term tourists - from cruise ships or visiting from neighbouring towns - flood the city and put a strain on its infrastructure but spend little in return. They show scant regard for the city's heritage: a quick dash to the Piazza, a gondola ride and a gelato round out the Venice experience. Activist community groups like Venice My Future, Gruppo 25 Aprile and Campaign for a Living Venice advocate change in the tourism space, especially a ban on visiting cruise ships. The idea of limiting visitor numbers and encouraging longer stays gains traction.

As the world emerges from pandemic lockdown and travel recommences, Venetians hope for a tourism reboot. Locals want to share their city with the world; share it through tourism that is mindful, environmentally sustainable and beneficial to both visitor and host community.

Only then will Venetians have their city back.

IT'S FOR REAL!

maracam48@gmail.com (Margaret Cameron) — Wed, 29 Sep 2021 05:13:57 GMT

After all this time and writing and research, all those edits and redrafts, countless workshops and mentoring sessions, I can now say that it's official. My manuscript, 'Under a Venice Moon' will be published by Hachette Australia in April next year. I'm both delighted and grateful. More news to follow when I come down to earth!

SPOT THE DIFFERENCE

maracam48@gmail.com (Margaret Cameron) — Tue, 01 Dec 2020 13:09:52 GMT

In the fifteenth century, Venetian painter Vittore Carpaccio put brush to canvas and came up with this famous work. It was entitled The Courtesans, and showed two women awaiting their male callers. Thus the matter rested for centuries. Recent technical analysis, however, has put the cat among the pigeons by confirming that the women were not courtesans at all. Far from it: they were in fact noblewomen awaiting the return of their husbands.

How had this mistake come about? The painting had been divided and displayed as two separate panels - the upper section became known as Hunting in the Lagoon, the lower section as The Courtesans. But taken as a single work - as Carpaccio intended - changed matters. The women were clearly passing the time while their husbands persued the aristocratic activity of duck hunting.

It underscores the point that many of the city's top sex-sellers were, in appearance, demeanour and lifestyle, the equal of noblewomen.

Venetian courtesans were for centuries renown for their beauty. Their homes were sumptuous, their entertainments lavish. Servants attended to dressing and grooming La Signorina as though she were nobility, while servants ran the household along the lines of a grand palazzi.

Such was the similarity that quite often courtesans were mistaken for noblewomen. That just wouldn't do. The Venetian ruling council instigated measures to avoid any confusion.

Prostitutes must be kept in their place. Literally. While the city's elite courtesans might live in magnificent homes scattered throughout the city, they were forbidden to own or rent property on that sacred strip of Venetian real estate, the Grand Canal. Nor could the rent they paid exceed 20 ducats, the aim being to keep them from setting up shop in the 'better' neighbourhoods.

In matters of dress they were also made to tow the line. Gold jewellery and pearls were a definite no-no, these being considered the refinements of noblewomen. And when out and about in Venice, prostitutes of all ranks were required to wear bright red or yellow costumes to identify themselves. It was for this reason they became known as the 'tulips of Venice.'

You have to wonder at the thinking behind these punitive measures. The Venetian ruling council should have been grateful to its prostitutes, not made life hard for them. Prostitutes had every incentive to behave and stay out of trouble. They were registered and paid taxes. Given the huge number of women engaged in the sex industry - and it endured for centuries - the revenue generated by their labours went a long way toward funding the Republic's never-ending wars.

A little thank you might have been in order.

GETTING AWAY FROM IT ALL

maracam48@gmail.com (Margaret Cameron) — Fri, 20 Nov 2020 01:28:12 GMT

Sometimes everything gets a bit much. Too many churches stuffed with artwork and crying out to be visited. Too many museums waiting to be ticked off the must-see list. And all those designer-label shops, hoping for my Visa card - don't even get me started on that one.

I love Venice as much as the next person, but now and then I just want out. And when I feel that way I catch a vaporetto and head to the far north of the lagoon. The distant island of Torcello is my go-to.

T orcello is where Venice began. Here, in a marshy, far flung-lagoon, refugees found safety from the marauding barbarians who descended on the Italian peninsula following the decline of the Roman Empire. The island's first settlers arrived in the firth century, and its population peaked at 20,000 during the fourteenth century. Today just twenty people call Torcello home. A visit to the cathedral of Santa Maria d'Assunta, built in 639 - Venice's first cathedral and the oldest building in the lagoon - connects me with the city's past. I crick my neck to look at the mosaics on the rear wall: sinners falling into the flames of hell as Lucifer has a jolly good laugh. A concern for some, perhaps.

U nsettled nerves can be settled with a cappuccino - or something stronger - just along the road at the Locanda Cipriani. A cute-as-a-button country inn, it's where Ernest Hemingway lived as he worked on his novel "Across the River and Into the Trees."

B ut the reviews which followed the publication of 'Across the River and Into the Trees' fell short of previous acclaim. Was it because Hemingway was distracted by the beauty of his workplace and glanced up too often? I wonder. Always partial to a drop, EH developed a fondness for a Verona red wine. Each night at ten o'clock he retired to his room with six bottles. Staff would find the empties in the morning.

Not far away there's another garden, at Villa 600. (I'm not working on a commission basis here, just passing on information that may be useful on a future visit.) I sit in the rambling garden, under a tree, for hours. I listen to the hum of insects and the craw of lagoon frogs and type away until my laptop battery runs down. A spritz or two helps the creative process. Way to go.

And when I do up sticks and head back to the vaporetto, I pass by the Ponte del Diavolo (Devil's Bridge).

It's built without sides, in the ancient Venetian manner. Legend associates the bridge with a sorry tale of love and death and holds that each year, on December 24th, the devil crosses the bridge in the guise of a black cat.

The devil gets me. I usually give in to temptation and enjoy a late lunch at Osteria al Ponte del Diavolo (truly, no commission). Another fantastic garden and the best of Venetian food. My favourite is grilled eels from the lagoon, served with polenta. My favourite is a traditional Venetian dish - grilled eels from the lagoon, served with polenta. Chocolate and mint mousse rounds out the calorie extravaganza.

History. Beauty and serenity. Good food. What better way to get away from it all. A trip across the lagoon takes me back to Venice, my beloved city. We just needed some time apart. It happens in the best of relationships.

I MET HIM AT THE BUS STOP

maracam48@gmail.com (Margaret Cameron) — Sat, 24 Oct 2020 17:01:52 GMT

What are the odds?

It makes a change from meeting someone at a party or in the workplace, that's for sure. I've had my share of the standard friendship beginnings, and a couple of unusual ones to liven things up. This is taken from my book Venice, Mischief and Kisses - and of course I'm not giving away the ending.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I MET HIM AT THE BUS STOP

'So shall I give him your number or not?' Impatience hovered behind Trish's words, and the drum of her fingers on a tabletop travelled along the phone line. I imagined her holding a frown in check. Trish was not the sort of person to dither over such matters.

'I don't understand,' she said. 'Where's the problem?'

I rubbed a hand over my forehead and let the phone slip until I held it by the earpiece. Thinking, thinking. My eyes followed Karla Marx as she circled her empty food bowl, whiskers dotted with milk drops. She flicked her head in a dainty cat sneeze and looked up at me, also awaiting a response. It was Sunday morning and I'd just finished my first cup of tea. I sank into a chair and propped my elbows on the kitchen table

'Who did you say he was again?

'Gavin.' Trish spoke with the air of someone explaining everything in a single word. 'Pleasant chap. Wearing a pink shirt. You must remember him.'

I put the previous evening on mental rewind and came up blank. A blur of faces. Snippets of conversation. Daffodil bulbs should always be planted before Anzac Day , I'd instructed someone's teenage son, prompting an anxious smile and his hasty retreat to the far side of the room. I knew I'd talked a lot. I knew I'd enjoyed myself. That was about it. Now here was this Gavin fellow it seemed I should remember.

'Hmm. I might be able to place him if I spoke to him again. I mean, I think I could. Possibly.'

I looked into space, assessing the chances of remembering Gavin. Karla Marx looked at me, assessing the chances of more food. The outlook didn't seem positive for either of us.

        A moment longer, then I decided. 'Oh, go on, then. Give him my number. And thanks for last night. Great party. I'll let you know what happens with … uh, Gavin.'
   I hung up and leant back in the chair. Sunshine crept over the kitchen floor and Karla Marx took up her morning position, asleep on the warming tiles. I glanced to the other end of the table. The last essay for the term, finished and ready to be handed in, sat under a pile of overdue books. Ahead lay an uninterrupted Sunday, with nothing planned until an evening walk through Kings Park.
   'Aaah,' I said, in one long, contented sigh.
   The phone rang again. Karla Marx woke and slitted her eyes toward it with a look of distrust. It was Gavin.
   'Hello? Margaret?'
   Nice voice, I thought; deep, finely grained. Encouraging. Off to a good start, at least. We worked our way through greetings and morning-after-the-party reflections. It had been fun, we agreed. How long had I know Trish, Gavin then wanted to know, and where did we meet? One thing led to another and before long we were chatting away like old mates. I poured a second cup of tea and spread Vegemite on a slice of toast. This Gavin was OK.
   'I liked your joke about the nine-legged spider,' he chuckled.
   I told that joke? I thought it was someone else. I took a bite of toast; surprised, but not to the point where alarm bells were called into pealing service. It wouldn't be the first time I'd said something then forgotten it in a storm of chatter. And the conversation was going so well, it seemed a shame to derail it with a small detail. Gavin's voice sounded better the longer I listened. I munched on as he continued.
   'So. I've got tickets for a performance at the Subiaco Theatre Centre next Saturday. Would you care to join me?'
   I liked his choice of venue for a first date. Much better than somewhere involving food and wine and good behaviour. Far preferable to an evening spent looking at someone across a narrow table, thinking up something witty or profound to say. And all the time wondering if my lipstick had been reduced to a tired, jagged outline. In unflattering light. Oh yes, I was beginning to have very positive vibes about forgotten Gavin.
   'That's close to my home,' I said, after what I hoped was a gracious acceptance. 'We could even walk there if the weather's good. Parking can be tricky on weekends.'
   'But I thought you lived in Nedlands.'
   Still the alarm bells remained silent. I'd lived in Nedlands before moving to Subiaco, so perhaps I'd mentioned it in this conversation I didn't remember. Nine-legged spiders and suburban addresses were not my strong point on a Sunday morning. A return to sleep beckoned, right after this cup of tea.
   'No. In Subiaco. Heytesbury Road.' I spelt it out, enunciating each letter, and then gave the street number. Twice. Not for want of a clear address would I miss my date with Gavin-in-the-pink-shirt.
   'See you around seven, then.' I hung up and smiled into the sunshine. Karla Marx yawned.
   Gavin presented himself next Saturday evening. With an intake of breath I answered the doorbell and opened the front door. There stood a man of about my age, with reddish hair cut close to his head. Wire-framed glasses gave him a professorial look, as though he spent a lot of time in the company of books. He probably had more degrees than a thermometer. A trimmed beard surrounded a mouthful of teeth that had not fared well. I'd never seen him before in my life.
   'Margaret?' he said, with barely disguised bafflement.
   'Gavin?' I said, with barely disguised disappointment.
   We made the best of things and went on our theatre date. And as I sat next to the man in the pink shirt - he'd worn it again that evening, or perhaps he had a whole wardrobe of them - I pieced together the scenes of our own drama.
   I blamed my parents. Coming from a generation which revered the British monarchy, they had, like so many others, named their daughters Margaret or Anne or Elizabeth. I'd won the Quinella - Margaret for my first name, Anne as my second. The names emulated the beloved royals, if only in a small way. But years later, calling out the name Margaret at any gathering where there were women of my age present guaranteed several heads would swing in your direction.
   So the confusion had a simple explanation. I was not the required Margaret. I had not caused the twinkle in Gavin's eye. He was after another named-for-a-princess party goer. I sat through the performance, applauding in the right places and making polite remarks until the dreary evening drew to a close. But a thought stayed with me as Gavin and I walked home along H-e-y-t-e-s-b-u-r-y Road. My parents and Princess Margaret had a lot to answer for.
   Setting Gavin to one side, the dating landscape of my single years had been an unremarkable plateau, tame and predictable. I remembered the high season of my amorous life with a certain fondness, to tell the truth. But one thing had always puzzled me and it still did, all these years on. Mention a new male acquaintance and the response was always the same. Where did you meet him? No other information carried the same weight. Even enquiries regarding the new suitor's name came as an afterthought. The mechanics of meeting remained the question uppermost in the minds of inquisitive friends.
   Why this preoccupation with first meetings? I had no idea. Over the years I devised answers to cut short tiresome explanations. I met him at my Tuesday night tap dancing class had served me well. But after some reflection, I believe I'm correct in saying it was Mum who responded to my dilemma by advising thus: Just say you met him at the bus stop.
   I don't catch enough buses to estimate the likelihood of such a meeting, but I'm sure I'd get good odds on the fact it doesn't happen often. So I've had to wait until well into my middle years and make three trips to Venice to be able to say with hand on heart honesty that I met him at the bus stop.

SUMMERTIME MEMORIES

maracam48@gmail.com (Margaret Cameron) — Mon, 29 Jun 2020 16:54:43 GMT

Listening to the rain beating down and the wind blowing made me think back to this time last year. I put together a few of my favourite shots taken last summer in Venice, places I walk past on each trip to the supermarket. Just looking at them made me feel warmer.

My street in Venice. I set off with the very best of intentions, pulling my shopping buggy along Fondamenta di Gaffaro toward the Zattere and the Conad supermarket ...

... but I usually get distracted. A cappuccino stop in a little calle near Campo San Barnaba beckons. They also serve the coldest prosecco in town, so I'll be back here later this evening. And how do they keep those petunias looking so darn good all through a blistering Venetian summer?

Back to business, and I walk along Fondamenta di Socorsso, nearing the supermarket. This isn't the sort of thing I see on the way to Coles Floreat.

Lots of canals means lots of steps. Pretty, although pulling a shopping buggy up and down them is hard work. Different from loading everything into the car. But hey, who's complaining?

The flower seller on Calle Zane is a fixture on my shopping-day list.The scent of jasmine in late spring/early summer fills the whole neighbourhood. Geraniums do well on my window sill.

And then home through Campo Santa Margherita, balancing flowers on the groceries, hoping I don't upend the lot on the next set of steps. Some have other things on their minds.

It's only June, and winter seems to have lasted for months. September can't come soon enough. Overseas travel doesn't look likely this year or even next, so any thoughts of a Venetian summer have to be put aside. Thank goodness for photos and memories.

IT'S ONE WAY TO GET ATTENTION

maracam48@gmail.com (Margaret Cameron) — Wed, 17 Jun 2020 03:14:25 GMT

This is Venetian Mayor Luigi Brugnano. He wanted to make a point.

Some councillors had suggested that Venetian restaurants be clearer about the amount of meat (or fish, or chicken) they offered in their dishes. Like the 300 gram Big Mac, or The Whopper that takes two hands to handle. You know the sort of thing. Tourists felt cheated with the meagre serves they received after ordering from a menu photo that had promised abundance. The answer, councillors believed, was to cite the precise quantity, measured in grams, that a diner could expect to receive when placing an order.

Mayor Brunano has had a lot to say about tourists in his city. At this Council meeting he dressed as a shop-keeper to make his point. The meeting dissolved into pandemonium. Social media erupted with comments about the Mayor and his dress-up antics. But what was he saying? Did he agree with the proposal or not?

I've no idea. After reading the translation of his comments and the seventy-eight social media posts they prompted, I'm still none the wiser. All I can say for certain is that Venetians didn't like their highest elected official using such theatre . Uncool. Totally.

Venetians have a reputation for panache. Even when they illegally dump their rubbish, they do it with aplomb.

Little wonder they objected. Venetians want to maintain their position in the style stakes and Luigi-the-shop-keeper just didn't tick the boxes.

But there are plenty of stylish Venetian men around.

You just need to know where to look.

THE NEW NORMAL

maracam48@gmail.com (Margaret Cameron) — Wed, 17 Jun 2020 02:57:51 GMT

Things have been different for the last few months. In mid-February the world was turned upside down. People called on their imagination to help family, friends and community make it through those (dare I say it) unprecedented times.

From the cities of Europe most affected by the Covid pandemic came images such as these.

People shared, in the ways they best could, to help others.

And friends here in Perth were no different. They shared too, and their own answers to Covid helped others.

THE NAME'S BOND. JAMES BOND

Marie got with the whole teddy bear in the window thing, going one better. Each day - every day - she dressed Ted in a different outfit. A soldier commemorated Anzac Day and a nurse acknowledged our health care workers. Stay-at-home footballers were not overlooked, either: what would NicNat make of this, I wonder?

Marie's creativity lessened the burden of social distancing for her grandchildren as they played on the front lawn and waved through the window. The teddy bear dress-ups entertained neighbours out for a walk. My personal favourite is Marilyn Monroe. A little glamour is so-o-o-o important.

And let's not forget Dom, who put the Covid close-down to good use by working on his herb and veggie garden. He preserved olives - delicious, better than any you can buy - and made his own ricotta. I want that recipe!

Dom's success lit my green thumb spark. Gloved and masked, I lined up with the two-metre-per-person queue outside Bunnings to prowl through their veggie section. I'll just say this: the tomato plant has been a total underachiever.

The mint doesn't know when to stop growing. Snails like rocket as much as I do. But I've had some luck. From little things big things grew ...

Friends have taken to their laptops and i-pads to send and forward jokes and videos. Humour and information have flowed freely, with people turning to the virtual world as the physical world locked down. My email inbox has never been so full, my phone never rung so often. Jenny put away her chain saw and maintained a constant supply of online jokes and videos to friends, bringing chuckles to people all around Australia. From her dozens of contributions, I went with a pet theme and chose these as my favourites.

And this one, because it's my all-time favourite and brings a smile to my face each time I see it.

The worst appears to be over, and we're on the path back to something resembling normal. I'm grateful to everyone who kept me safe during Covid by following the restrictions. To friends who stayed in touch and kept me and others entertained. I'm thankful that our governments, both state and federal, showed leadership and resolve. I'm grateful to our essential workers who put others first, and to the media who kept up the flow of information. At the risk of repeating what has become a cliche, it really did seem that we were all in it together.

SO NOW IT'S SMILE TIME!

SOMETHING DIFFERENT

maracam48@gmail.com (Margaret Cameron) — Fri, 05 Jun 2020 06:26:09 GMT

I usually write about Venice, but this time I'm celebrating the opening of our intrastate borders with a short story. It won second prize in a competition about three years ago. It's called SISTERS.

The two girls sat side by side on a wooden bench. Eucalyptus trees cast quivering shade, meagre protection against the sun's heat. Leaves rustled in the easterly wind. Sunday School had finished half an hour ago. Nine year old Annie held a book of religious scenes in one hand and the sweaty palm of her sister, Hannah, in the other. The starch of Annie's Sunday dress prickled the back of her legs, and she was tempted to lift the dress and place herself directly on the bench. But then there was the question of splinters. Or worse, ants.

Annie's dress - and Hannah's - had been made by their mother. Her Singer sewing machine churned out an endless supply of clothing for the girls, from simple play dresses to the elaborate costumes Miss Murdick favoured for their ballet-class performances. Today's dresses were full-skirted and floral, made stylish (Annie believed) by the circular pockets trimmed with binding in a contrasting colour. The girls were always identically dressed, down to the last bow and button hole. Annie and Hannah liked that.

Annie waited with growing impatience. Her thoughts were already at the coastal town where the family would spend the next two weeks of the summer school holidays. In Annie's mind the holiday would start the minute her parents arrived to collect them. Wherever were they, she wondered, looking down the highway for the familiar blue Holden station wagon.

********************************

Annie gazed through the car window at a landscape that was sparse and muted in colour. Waves of wheat crested the low hills and stretched into the distance, oceans of dull gold surging across the land, breaking onto the horizon of blue-grey hills. The low metal roofs of farmhouses glinted beneath trees, as if pressed into the earth by an enormous sky. It was the dry, hot panorama of an Australian rural summer.

Annie's legs stuck to the vinyl of the car's back seat. A moist pull had replaced the crisp scratchiness of her dress and she moved her legs from side to side, attempting to find a cooler position. She discovered a new game. Pressing her legs down on the seat and then abruptly lifting them brought about a satisfying squelch. Hannah followed in giggling imitation. Hannah's legs were sturdier than those of her elder sister, and the sound as they parted company with the vinyl was memorable.

It was early evening when the family arrived at the small town where they planned to stay overnight. A hotel provided the town's only accommodation, and it stood proudly on the main street, in the manner of most country hotels. Two storeys high and rather grand, it had been built at a time when optimism infused the Western Australian psyche, and new farming lands were opened up for soldiers returning from the Great War.It was a time when the world wanted wheat rather than weapons.

To Annie the hotel was a palace. The family sat at a table set with white linen and silver, positioned beneath a whirring fan which sent her napkin skittering across the polished floorboards. Annie ordered grilled fish with chips and salad, the dish she believed represented the pinnacle of sophistication. The basis for this assumption she could not really say. Annie's parents and Hannah ordered roast beef and vegetables.

Annie's mother told the children about a beautiful film star who had fallen in love with a prince. The prince loved her too, and married her, to make her princess of his kingdom. The children's mother had a gift for story telling. But this was true, she vowed to Annie and Hannah, as they sat at a formal table, in a little country town, in sweltering heat and dressed in their Sunday best.

Dusk was falling as Annie stood on the upstairs verandah after dinner and looked across the town and the paddocks beyond. Eastward stretched farmland until the dessert took over, sweeping on to the silent heart of Australia. To think of it. A princess. Could anyone do it? Marry a prince and become his princess? She felt like royalty already as she leant over the balustrade of ornate iron work. The bedroom she shared with Hannah opened directly onto the verandah, and the gauze curtains across the doorway billowed outward, tickling her legs. The easterly wind had started again.

Hannah came out to the verandah. She held the latest Famous Five book, a sticky finger marking her place in the literature of an eight year old.

'I think I'll be a princess when I grow up,' Annie informed her.

Hannah gave a snort of the calibre only an eight year old can deliver. She turned back to their bedroom. The vastness was of no interest to her.

************************************

Heavy rain tore down. I ran to the kerb as the taxi pulled up alongside parked cars, then darted back into the traffic. A yellow beetle, edging between vehicles, accelerating and braking.The horn registered the driver's disapproval of other road users.

It's a beautiful noise, coming up from the streets ...

He'll sing that song tonight. I'll be in the front row ... I rubbed to clear a patch on the fogged-up window, and saw we were nearing Times Square. Ten years a resident, and taxi drivers still registered my Australian accent as that of a new arrival and chose the longest way to any destination. I'd learned not to argue.

And it fits me as well as a hand in a glove. Yes it does. Yes it does.

I have an invitation to the post-performance party ... I'm going to meet him. I loved the New York, loved its vibrancy and pace. It fitted me perfectly too.

The taxi driver slowed to make way for incoming traffic. He turned to me, ignoring the shouts from other drivers. Had I heard, he asked, that Princess Grace of Monaco had died in a car crash?

That's when the memory came, racing across the years to join me on the back seat of a New York cab. Two sisters with their parents in a country town. Their mother's story of a beautiful princess. A hotel verandah, looking out to the wheat paddocks that lay beyond the slanting roof of the Pioneer Bakery. Sheets of gold, thrown across the landscape, stretching off to a distant horizon. For years at a time I'd given no thought to the vastness, to those far off horizons. I'd raced toward others instead.

****************************************

The telephone message light winked. Annie was back in Perth, just returned from her evening walk. She listened to the messages.

'It's your sister Hannah,' an unfamiliar voice said.

Annie and Hannah were no longer close. It was more than twenty yeas since they'd last spoken. Annie had moved away from her family, from all of them, on to another life in another world. Family was a blur, seen through a dusty window she had no interest in wiping clean. Annie and Hannah. The little girls who had looked down from the upstairs verandah of a country hotel. One had seen further than the other.

Hannah's recorded voice continued. 'Our mother died this morning.'

Annie replaced the telephone and walked down the hallway to her bedroom. A table swathed in Venetian lace held a lamp and several photos. It was one of Annie's keenest pleasures, to turn on this lamp each evening. The light glowed down on the photos.

The photos. She'd kept some of her childhood snaps with Hannah because she liked the frames holding them and had never found time to change the photos. No sentimentality was involved. At least that's what she told herself.

Annie picked up a photo, held it close. There it was, the image of Hannah standing beside her, head lifted and a smile unfolded across her plump face. Hannah's hair curled inside the frame of a bonnet, tied beneath her right cheek with a large, fussy bow. Ballet slippers peeped from beneath her dress. It had been Easter, Annie remembered, the Easter following their summer holiday and overnight stay in the country hotel. She and Hannah were dressed in their Easter bonnets for one of Miss Murdick's productions at the Town Hall. Their mother had made the bonnets and the identical tulle dresses they wore.

Annie looked more closely. She had never noticed before, not in all the years she had kept the photo. Hannah glowed with assurance as she smiled at the photographer, their mother. Her little feet established a confident tenancy on the cement paving.

How different Hannah was from Annie's long-ago self. Just the faintest smile shaped Annie's mouth and she looked beyond the camera, as if her attention had moved on. Annie stood on tip-toe, feet raised from the paving. Her arms were crooked at the elbow, ready to drop the handfuls of tulle she held and be somewhere else.

***************************************

The rented SUV glided over hot bitumen, windows closed against the east wind. Air conditioning thrummed with modern efficiency and coolness washed over Annie. The leather seat felt smooth beneath her jeans. She pressed the CD play button, then decided against it. Silence better suited her mood. Bittersweet.

Familiar-yet-not-familiar scenes flicked past. Paddocks of wheat shone. Roadside trees proliferated, a response to changing weather patterns that threatened fertile land. Open-mouthed dams waited at the foot of low hills, muddy water rising to their lips. It had been a good season. In a bad season it was red, dry heartbreak.

Annie drove away from the small town, heading south toward Perth. Tomorrow she would pack her suitcases and leave for New York. Loose ends had been knotted off. Steps retraced. A return to where the fork in the road had first branched. She and Hannah, standing on that verandah at dusk. Annie had dared hope an immense hope. And Hannah. Sweet, smiling Hannah, unwilling to embrace the same vision. Annie pondered a might-have-been life, a life different from the one she had chosen. She thought about the people she had left behind.

A cloud blotted out the sun. There was no way of knowing what might have been. And Annie knew there was nothing she would change, nothing whatsoever. The map of her life had been signposted with love, excitement, adventure. But oh, to think of it. Annie and Hannah, who had waited after Sunday School, sitting on a bench and holding hands. Annie and Hannah, waiting in their identical dresses.

Annie glanced at the speedometer and her eyes continued downward. One of her sandals was missing its bow. It must have fallen off somewhere, probably back at the hotel. Two feet with vivid red toenails rested side by side. Feet wearing shoes that had been identical until something was lost.

Annie smiled a wry smile. The bow could stay where it had fallen, back at the hotel. Stay there, along with her memories. She pressed the play button and the first CD slotted into position. Mick Jagger, still looking for satisfaction. He couldn't get any.

*****************************************

BIG SHIPS, BIG PROBLEMS

Fri, 01 May 2020 02:53:27 GMT

The view is better from the deck than down here.

Until the last few weeks this was a familiar sight for Venetians. Taking a stroll, out doing the daily bits and pieces and wham - a floating office block arrived in your face. Enough to spoil your whole day.

But the real damage is unseen. Enormous volumes of water are displaced by these mega-monsters, forced into small side canals and causing corrosive damage to already fragile substructures. Turbulence lasts for up to twenty-four hours after the ship's passage. With cruise ships arriving and departing almost daily, there's no time when building foundations aren't under stress. They have been standing there for as long as a millennium, carrying the weight of a city on their shoulders. They deserve a rest.

Venetians agree. In a recent referendum, fully ninety-eight percent of residents voted to divert the passage of these ships.

From 2022, they will arrive in Venice via the industrial mainland, a far less glamourous route. For passengers, a view of bell towers will be replaced by towers belching smoke.

Cruise ships have not received good press just lately. I hadn't given the matter much thought until a conversation with my Venetian friend, Dimitri. It's not just ecological damage that concerns Venetians like Dimitri.

"We Venetians call them gelato tourists," he told me. "They eat a snack in a cafe. Buy a few souveniers. Often return to the ship for their evening meal. They crowd our city and leave us nothing."

I'll let the photos do the talking ...

... except to say I don't believe cruise ship passengers are selfish fun-seekers, pushing to one side the environmental impact of their good times. No. They are simply unaware of the threat these marine intruders pose to Venice. As I once was.

The last word goes to Venetian entrepreneur, Pierro Pazzi. On the subject of mass tourism, cruising included, he has this to say: "You are actually breaking the balls and compromising the fragile environment of a little city that was built on a human scale."

It's something to think about as you walk up the gangplank.

I'M WITH YOU, LUIGI

Wed, 29 Apr 2020 02:42:18 GMT

Last year, I think it was.

Bridge partner Dom showed me a newspaper article concerning one Luke Tang, who had recently travelled from Birmingham in England to Venice. There he had eaten lunch and received a bill for $A800, grazie mille.

Mr Tang was not happy about this. He wrote to the Mayor of Venice, Luigi Brugnaro, and to Italy's national news agency to draw attention to what he described as 'the shame of Venice.' But Mayor Brugnaro, as his city's representative, was unrepentant. The word 'cheapskate' was used.

"Someone eats and drinks in a restaurant, then says they cannot understand the language?" he queried.

I'm with you, Luigi, and here's why.

Luke Tang was joined by his parents for the meal, eaten in a restaurant near the Piazza di San Marco. The trio ordered drinks, entrees and oysters worth about $A90 from the a la carte menu, so the meal was well on the way to being an expensive outing before the arrival of the main course.

And that's where it all came unstuck. Mr Tang ordered the main course, using as his reference the picture of a single fish on the menu's front page. What arrived at their table was far from the menu representation. Platters of sea bass, lobster and shrimp covered the table. Far from being a single serve of grilled fish, it was a seafood banquet of impressive proportions. The total weight of fish served to the Tangs was 3.5 kg. They ate the lot.

Mr Tang did not ask for prices. Not when he pointed to the fish illustrated on the menu. Not later, when half the edible contents of the Adriatic Sea washed up in front of him.

You can't hitch a ride and then not pay the fare. I'm waving the nanna finger here, Mr Tang, but you should have queried the price before tucking in. You said so yourself. The San Marco precinct is notorious for its high prices. That's because so many tourists - as many as ninety percent - don't venture beyond it.

And there lies the real 'shame' of Venice . Most of the city's unique beauty remains undiscovered, passed over in favour of this one, crowded district. A nightmare of people and pigeons.

Tucked away in off-grid campi are some of the best cafes and restaurants in the city. I've eaten at them. Often. I've never been given a bill for $A800.

A favourite lunchtime spot is the wonderfully energized Campo San Barnaba. I sit in the sunshine. I listen as the young flautist sends his music heavenward (free). I order a glass of prosecco from the Conegliano Hills ($A5). I tackle a large salad with generous serves of salmon, squid and prawns ($A10). I finish with a cappuccino ($A3.5). It's at the Ai Artisti cafe, Mr Tang, and I'm sorry you missed it. But never mind, there's always next time.

Buon appertito

IT WAS NO LAUGHING MATTER

Sun, 26 Apr 2020 02:16:20 GMT

Something had to be done . Pronto. The Catholic Church, Venice's governing Council and the sex industry all agreed. How many times in history have these groups cosied up to tackle the common enemy?

We're talking late fifteenth-century. Transvestites from the nearby mainland flooded into Venice like seaweed at high tide. The Catholic Church was appalled. Whatever transgressions it was prepared to overlook, men playing dress-up and selling sex to other men was not one of them. And the new enterprise proved so darn popular! Mama mia! The Church called on the governing Council to act.

Prostitutes were none too happy either. Their clientele diminished as men turned to these Johnny-come-lately practitioners for services they had previously sought from women. Outraged, they petitioned the Council to protect their rights as citizens and taxpayers.

Taxpayers? Fifteenth-century sex workers? You bet. Every woman engaged in the sex industry was required to be officially registered and to pay tax. And Venetians were excellent record keepers. That's how we know that for centuries Venetian prostitution was big, big business. At times as many as one in every eleven citizens was involved in the sex industry. So when prostitutes spoke, governments listened.

They listened now. A large and certain revenue stream was on the line, put at risk by unregistered, untaxed interlopers from the mainland. And the purveyors of righteousness were breathing down their collective necks, making life wearisome. What to do?

The Venetian governing Council fell back to its centuries-old default setting. Wit and cunning, skills honed to perfection as a strategy for survival, won the day.

A section of the San Polo neighbourhood, Venice's sex central, was decreed an area where prostitutes were permitted - encouraged - to flaunt their naked breasts while touting for business. This display of feminine charms would, the Council believed, lure men back to the services of women. The Ponte de le Tette (quite literally, the Bridge of Tits) and the streets surrounding it marked the site of the city's novel initiative.

It was the winning trifecta.

A win for the Church.

Folks got back to more traditional ways of sinning

A win for sex workers.

Prostitution continued apace, full steam ahead into the coming centuries.

A win for the governing Council.

Revenue from the labour of prostitutes flowed into Treasury coffers, financing war games and the eye-watering cost of maintaining an empire.

A bridge over a quiet, backwater canal in Venice. Who knows what mischief it saw?

Venice, the great survivor.

Mon, 06 Apr 2020 06:16:04 GMT

I've had good times in Venice.

I've seen so much, learned so much, met so many. Today Venice is suffering. A city that has hosted visitors and traded with all nations for longer than a millennium is closed for business. To tell my stories would be to disrespect Venetian citizens, to minimise their hardships. I can only say...

... that Venice is the great historical survivor.

Venice started from nothing. In a far-flung lagoon, refugees sought safety from the succession of barbarian invaders who ravaged the Italian peninsula as the Roman Empire collapsed. From their marshy, inaccessible islands, Venetians kept intruders at bay. They survived.

And they have been in survival mode ever since. Changing international trade patterns precipitated centuries of financial upheaval. Italy's fractured and violent history — with city-states fighting each other, the Church and international foes — proved socially and economically damaging. The waters that once protected Venice now threaten it. Acqua alta (flooding) is happening more frequently and more severely. Today's mass tourism puts at risk a delicate ecology and is measured against the economic benefit it brings to the city.

So Venice is no stranger to disruption.

It has been seeing off challenges to its existence for a thousand years. It will again. Venice will continue, and then I'll tell my stories.