We spent enough time in the Veneto Region to say we know what it feels like to live local. We passed on opportunities to drive the anxiety inducing roundabouts or F1 autostrada. Instead our feet were in concert with the SVT bus lines and Trenatalia rail lines which helped us tune in to what in means to be Vicenzan.
It’s buying a 2.50 euro bus ticket at the tabbacheria and sitting on the bench across from the framing shop waiting for the #12 into the autostazione. Since it’s running late, we giggle at the children crossing Via Italia with senior citizen help at the roundabout; debate the merits of the tiny cars vs the bicycle, scooter and luxury sedans that move at a frantic pace while the sidewalks and storefronts sit idly by; watch the owner of the frame shop in the bottom of a two story apartment building walk back and forth between his two separate storefronts, locking and alternatively opening each one in the process. There is no business signage to know he’s there. Just an 8×10 frame in the window that loosely translates “Bring me your most cherished memories and I will frame them to share and your heart will smile.”
There’s usually a seat on the morning bus from Sovizzo. We pick up a curious regular on the stop after ours. This tiny elf keeps the silenco by shushing anyone who dares speak then giving them middle finger. We wonder what’s in her backpack and where she goes as she gets off at different stops each day then pops up on other buses when we transfer. The passengers wax and wane in the +/- 15 minute ride through the commercial corridor, scrolling on phones or staring into space. Out the window we hold our breath around the turn circles and through the narrow streets, wondering how the driver isn’t losing it. We notice the outdoor tables are filled with patrons drinking coffee from thimble sized cups and long for a mug of Maxwell House with a splash of 1/2 and 1/2.
From the autostazione we catch the Trenatalia to Venice or Verona. We could get to Milano if we wanted, but mostly we walk the streets of Vicenza to see what people are doing that day. We were there long enough that the novelty of old and ornate became part of the backdrop. The new parts of town look like any other city block in America. The old parts of town look like a movie set. The places the tourists go are filled with panhandlers, hustlers and everyman Italians trying to eke out a living in a place that needs tourism to survive. It’s a city divided by high end retail and restaurants, and off the books stalls and flea markets. The taxing authority disincentivizes an earner mentality, with a 46% income tax on 50k+ a year jobs and a 22% sales tax on any goods not made in Italy. We weren’t Redfinning this one.
You get three hours on a bus ticket so after scouting the city and using the restroom and wifi in the library, we head back to the autostazione where the teenagers take over around 1pm, scanning their phones for entry. It appears that public transit is the school bus system. They are the opposite of the morning crowd … lively, chatty, not at all concerned about the two old Americans standing in the aisle, holding on for dear life as the driver corners the roundabouts. The ticket police enter every afternoon to make sure everyone has paid their fare, unlike the trenatalia or vaparetto where none of our tickets were ever checked. We get off at the stop closest to Stella’s supermercati, buy a fresh baked baguette, soft cheese, olive mix and $3 bottle of bardolino for a cicchetti happy hour. We know all that cheap delicious wine is bad for our bodies, but we can’t help ourselves. Take us back to the things we can resist.
Our Vicenza finale took place at Teatro Olimpico, the oldest indoor theater in the world. It’s like time traveling to 400 BC, to a tiered semi circular arena under fluffy clouds painted on a sky blue ceiling to give the open air amphitheater at dusk vibe. Careful on the steps. They are super steep with slack rope for handrails. No ADA compliance here. Sitting on the stone benches with crushed red velvet padding, the backdrop of the stage is a giant triumphal arch decorated with columns and statues of classical figures that a certain world leader we know would immediately add his likeness to.
Father Palladio designed this scientifically accurate indoor version of a Greco-Roman theater in 1585 to give thespians the perfect stage to deliver dramatic debate just as the ancients did. In a showing of Love vs Tyranny, which was advertised as a silent interpretation by actors wearing oversized masks was actually spoken in Italian with no subtitles. Luckily we had just dined on an American style smash burger at Busa di Brigante with locally crafted Belgian triples to ease the pain.
And now here we are, back in our High House, seeing doctors and grandkids, trying to recover from 27 hours of transatlantic travel. We can read again. Drive again. And the only place we don’t speak the language is the nail salon. There’s no place like home.
