Confessions of a Venetian Queen-for-a-Day
Part I
I arrive at Marco Polo airport, a world explorer in a warm coat and waterproof boots. Sergio, my driver is holding a card with my name. He takes me to a water taxi where two men hand me down into the boat and we speed to Venice on gray choppy waves. The Italians drive boats the same way they drive cars—fast.
We dock at the opulent Europa-Regina Hotel and I walk into a fantasy of Cararra marble floors and Venetian glass chandeliers. I am steeped in Old World splendor and handed an electronic key with a heavy silken tassel to room 637.
My room, arranged by my Italian publisher, Longanesi, is actually four rooms: a vestibule, a walk in closet, an elegant old Venetian bedroom with high windows that look out onto the dome of an ancient cathedral. In the foreground I see a satellite dish on a nearby roof and am struck by the collision of the Old World and the New. There is a small dressing room with more tall windows and a completely modern five star bathroom carved entirely of Carrara marble. The walls are pink and heavy with Venetian glass sconces.
My God. I am in Venice.
I unpack and then the 18-hour trip from San Diego plus the 9-hour time difference hits me. I sleep, heavily and dream of secret places in Venice.
It’s difficult to wake up, almost painful, but I must meet Valentina, my escort, and Chiara, my interpreter. I dress quickly and get down to the lobby but there is no one there. I’m 20 minutes late. Rude. I ask at the desk, they call Valentina, and she comes down—a charming, smartly dressed woman with a big smile.
Chiara (Keeara) arrives for my radio interview—tall, slim, blonde, and sweet. We sit in a small telephone booth off the lobby and conduct the interview. They ask Chiara the question, she translates and I speak the answer into the phone, hand the receiver back, and she translates. She is fast and accurate and quite lovely.
Then we walk to the Atelier of the famous Venetian designer Antonia Sautter. We hurry through the darkening narrow streets past well-lit windows featuring Italian shoes and bags and chic clothes. We all agree Italian shoes are the best, and Chiara tells me that she and Valentina both bought red shoes in a nearby shop that morning.
Antonia Sautter creates elaborate costumes for the annual Doge’s Ball, and her Atelier is a fantasy world of period costumes, racks and racks of silk and brocade and velvet embellished with pearls and sequins; gold masks, embroidered hats, and feathered headpieces. There is to be a fabulous dinner the following night in a private palazzo, and I will be dressed as a Renaissance lady. One of the great chef’s of Venice, Irina, has recreated one of the dinners in my book and she will dress as a Renaissance cook.
The first dress is pink and beautiful but too tight and I feel fat. The second dress is bronze and beautiful but too big and I feel thin. The third dress is royal blue and beautiful and it fits; I feel like Goldilocks. It’s made of deep blue velvet with white satin trim, heavy with pearls and glass gems, and it has a train. The pouffed sleeves taper to tight wrists also embellished with pearls. Someone puts multiple strands of twisted pearls around my neck and a rhinestone tiara with a long silver veil on my head. The women stand back to consult in murmurs, and the veil is replaced by an upholstered and beaded halo that matches the dress.
The Longanesi photographer starts shooting. He has a wide friendly smile and makes it easier for me to smile back. They hand me a dainty velvet purse on silver rope and say I can put my cell phone in it. I feel alternately foolish and regal. Irina is dressed in a plain skirt and blouse with a muslin apron. They twist a long length of white muslin around and around her head like a turban, and then she too is ready for the camera. She is a good sport, posing with me as a servant with her mistress. Everyone is in high spirits, and the camera keeps flashing. It’s exhilarating, almost overwhelming, but not quite real. It's a relief to get back into my own clothes.
We walk back to the hotel through a drizzling rain and then more sleep. Again it’s painful to rouse myself for dinner, but they have considerately arranged for dinner in the hotel for my convenience. The food is magnificent, of course, and we eat and chat leisurely from 8-11. The consensus opinion is, “Obama, bello.” I kiss the women on both cheeks, go upstairs and fall into bed. I try to read and wake at 7 a.m. with my glasses still on my face. I take them off and go back to sleep.
At exactly 10 a.m., as requested, a maid wheels in a table covered with crisp white linen and a continental breakfast with a cappuccino. I eat facing the window, looking out at Venice and listening to church bells.
At noon I meet Valentina and Chiara in the lobby and we catch a water taxi to the island of St George. There is a medieval monastery on the island, which is now a school for aspiring publishers. We lunch with Stefano Mauri, my publisher, and eight young women who ask questions of Valentina about publishing, and of me about writing. Chiara translates as quickly as they speak. After lunch, I walk with Stafano in the cloister and on the grounds of the monastery. He tells me it was a place where monks once restored books, a fitting place for a school for publishers. We walk along a gravel path to the water and stand looking across the lagoon. Venice is magnificent even under a low gray sky.
Back at the hotel, Valentina reminds me, “Someone from Antonia’s Atelier will come to your room at seven to dress you.” It is not possible to put the blue velvet dress on alone.
At six I shower and put on my makeup. I look closely in the mirror and put on more makeup. I remember that there will be cameras; I put on more makeup. At seven Marissa arrives with the dress. It’s so heavy she needs two arms to carry it. First I step into a stiff crinoline underskirt, which ties behind me at the waist, and on top of that comes another skirt, deep blue silk, which closes at the waist with Velcro.
Then comes the dress. Marissa slides the pearl and jewel encrusted velvet over my head and I slip my arms into the enormous puffed sleeves. The tight wrists have been altered for me, as has the hem of the skirt. The bodice is so heavily studded with large pearls and glass jewels it is as stiff wood. I stand, holding onto a chair back while Marissa, behind me, hooks and laces and tugs and pulls until my breasts are flat and my waist looks four inches smaller than it really is. She says, “Can you breathe?” I gasp and she loosens it a bit. We decide the wider waist is preferable to fainting at dinner. At last, the fabulous dress is on and I feel a bit foolish.
Next comes the stuffed and tufted velvet tiara, embroidered in tiny pearls and having the single tear drop pearl hanging over the spot where my third eye should be. While I watch the pearl swinging on my forehead, she twists ropes of fat pearls and fastens them on my next with the ornamental clasp on the side—“Venetian style.” Finally, she hands me a bejeweled blue velvet purse, and I am a queen.
I still feel foolish.