Being given the scarf: or Oy, it's too hot to be appropriate

Last night, Nora and I watched the Redentore fireworks from her rooftop. While I do realize that we missed some of the exhibition that was along the canal, I have a hard time regretting watching it from the roof. It was beautiful, quiet, warm . . . and the fireworks were the most amazing I have ever seen. For 45 minutes, we took pictures, movies, and just enjoyed being up there in that wonderful place.


I think it fitting that on my last day here, while visiting three synagogues in the Jewish ghetto in Nora's neighborhood, I didn't get the paper, but I did get "the scarf." I hope it is clear that I am an equal opportunity defier of propriety.

Let me first say that I knew I was running a risk of "getting the paper" when I chose to wear a sleeveless dress, dress # 2, for those keeping track. However, dress #2 has wide straps, and since it is horribly hot and humid once again, I went for it and decided against carrying around my only possible cover-up, a silk sweater. So once again, I found myself being told to cover my incredibly attractive shoulders. From the basket, I chose a lovely beige-merging-to-brown scarf, as the men without hats chose yarmulkes.

I did note that the large French man sprouting curly black hair from his back, armpits and shoulders (beneath his sleeveless tank top) was NOT given a scarf. His yarmulke did nothing to make his torso less offensive, unfortunately, and I spent the rest of the tour trying not to look at him.

Unfortunately, he and his wife had chosen a tour given in English despite the fact that they could not understand it. They continually made their presence known by taking illicit pictures, forcing our tour to stop while they asked our tour guide to recap her presentation in French, and generally leaning on and touching everything that was forbidden.

Please note that this couple's internal obnoxiousness forced me to comment on their physical obnoxiousness.

The holocaust memorial in the campo

Several Americans were equally obnoxious, especially one youngish man who asked whether the campo had ever had more "stuff" in it, that is, had there ever been buildings in it. Our tour guide answered no, since the campo was a gathering place, a place to get water, and for the cistern to collect water. The obnoxious American needed to say, "Yeah, but it could have." At this point, Nora and I contemplated wrestling him to the ground and beating him to a red, white and blue pulp. However, we restrained our more animal instincts, and I casually disengaged my lovely borrowed scarf from the film of sweat across my lovely shoulders.

Oy.

Me in the campo, in dress #2, looking pensive, I think. Since I don't have a picture of just the campo, I must include myself. Oh well.

As I have been writing this, Nora has surreptitiously (she thought) taken a picture of me at her kitchen table, writing (or blaaaaahhging, as she says). In my defense, I write only when it is siesta time anyway, to entertain myself. Nevertheless, she has taken what she has determined to be a "typical" picture of me at her table.Later, we will try to cross the pontoon bridge to the Redentore, and probably have a spritz, our last one together here. This has been an amazing, wonderful chance of a lifetime trip, and I am so grateful to be able to have done it.