My tiny apartment is perfect. It’s luminoso abbastanza and tranquil during the day, and off the main tourist drag, so I donâ€™t have murmering throngs streaming by non-stop (although the new, sleek, chic restaurant across the way is one of the few in the city open until 2a. Beato me…lucky me). I only wish there was a small terrace for plants and such. Piano, piano).
But the sound. All sounds, transported along by water, stone, plaster, and tile, with barely a shread of fabric anywhere to absorb any of them, are effectively endless…and make the confines of one living space and another seem very, well, indefinite.
I can hear a lyric soprano practicing from up the way, footsteps, dogsteps, greetings (Ciao vecio) and conversations in all languages, arriving and departing, singing, humming, whistling (In the halls of Mon-te-zuuu-uma…), yeomen calls (o-ii!), deliveries being hauled, loaded and unloaded, gondolas and their charges, O Sole Mios envolving into sleek, chic dinner music accompanied by the clinking of bar and dinnerware…itâ€™s grand.( I keep a set of earplugs on the nightstand, just in case things get out of hand.). When itâ€™s quiet, my brain regularly mistakes the sound of an approaching water taxi for wind whipping in a rainstorm. And in silent, wee hours, when the windows are open, the nearby rio carries the distinct grinding and whining of the #1 vaporetto, maneuvering itself in to position to rescue a few late-night revelers (Valleresso? San Giglio?). It puts me right back to sleep.