I was inadvertently the cause of an international incident during a trip with my wife to Venice, Italy. The cause of the incident was gelato. While in Venice we were on a pretty strict three-gelato-a-day regimen. Occasionally, we fell off the wagon and had a fourth.
One evening, after stopping for gelato, we went to see a classical concert in an ancient stone church. Uniquely, the floor of the church sloped down to form a sort of bowl at the front where the small orchestra was setting up. Having arrived early we settled into seats mid-way back and watched the musicians unpack their instruments.
I was struck by the first violinist. He was a slender, older man with long silver hair and an air of authority befitting his position. He unpacked his violin with flair and then warmed up with some intimidating scales. He was every inch the Italian artiste, with flowing white scarf and thick, green-rimmed glasses.
About this time there came from my mid-section an ominous rumble. I locked eyes with my wife. We both knew that such a sound could only mean (a) the gelato dam was about to burst, and (b), soon. I began to perspire as I hastily arose and made my way towards the restroom, located down a passage at the front of the church behind the orchestra.
The lavatory was a small cell with ancient stone walls two feet thick. The only aperture was a tiny keyhole window, obviously designed for light rather than ventilation. But I did not have time to luxuriate in my surroundings. Evil comes in many forms. That day, it came in the form of vengeful gelato performing some sort of digestive exorcism. In the interests of propriety I will refrain from further detail. But I will add that the ancient lavatory architecture served as a pressure cooker to magnify the entire, awful experience.
Then came a knock at the door. This was accompanied by desperate pleas in Italian from someone needing to use the facilities right away. I had no options. I weakly replied “uno minuto” and began to wash up. Then, steeped in my own shame, I slowly opened the door.
There stood the first violinist. Our eyes locked. Then his arty glasses fogged up as he encountered The Gelato Death Cloud. Taking advantage of his temporary incapacitation, I lowered my head and motored past him as fast as my weak knees would carry me.
I had returned to my seat but an instant when a murmur began to ripple through the orchestra. To my horror, I realized that The Cloud was not exiting via the small keyhole window, but was rather being propelled out of the pressure cooker and into the church. Moreover, it was settling into the sunken orchestra bowl like mustard gas in a trench.
The muttering grew in intensity until the first violinist returned, his white scarf now hanging limply. What followed was an outpouring of accusation from the orchestra. The violinist responded with indignation and, though I do not speak Italian, I clearly caught in his reply the words “grande Americano”. I forgave him this slight, given the circumstances. How was he to know I am Canadian?
As the orchestra began tuning their instruments amidst gasps for breath, my wife suddenly arose from her seat. Being pregnant with our second child, she too now had need of the facilities and wanted to go before the concert began. I tried in vain to stop her but, too late to intervene, she made her way to the aisle and turned to go down the sloping floor towards the front of the church. She had gone but a few steps when she was stopped in her tracks by The Cloud. Her eyes widened. She turned her face slowly towards me, her countenance a mixture of disbelief and, dare I say, awe. Perhaps, and this may be a stretch, even perverse marital pride in a husband who, with the mighty power of gelato, had rendered an orchestra pit and the first 10 rows of a church uninhabitable.
I honestly don’t remember much about the concert. But afterwards, I do clearly remember stopping for one more gelato as my wife and I strolled arm in arm along the winding canals of Venice.