a seven minute scene

Any other night I would be conjuring up some name-savvy, industry-worthy article about fashion, food, film, or philharmonic while scoping out the alleys between Venice and Milan. Tonight, I have decided to take dark turn and cover some raw material which I’ve collected while off the beaten path. And let me start by pointing out that the writing here this evening is type-speak where I type as though I were speaking (gritty, informal, and appalling to British).

I took a train to Italy from San Francisco (yes, choo choo across the Atlantic) to A. skip out on America for hot year B. see what love had in store C. um….go to Italy and live another life. Oh, but you see, part of what paved this Old Country path was the adventures of my beautiful and intelligent an oh so humorous beau. The Padovano. His ernest and trying career brought him, and us, back to his home.

This image is completely irrelevant to this article.

Apart from frequenting high life, low life, highs and lows from prices to emotions I have found a polished and native glory in the “days of the lives of others” as I like to call these experiences (often inflated by beers, wines, and select libations). Thus, begins the story of an evening on the outskirts. The day in the life of a place where cards and wallets fly.

THE MOOD: A chemical combustion of felicity, I’m celebrating some good news for a new article and the Boy’s new career status – passed a once in a lifetime exam. Nebulous is the future, the present nothing short of sublime. The music is a heartbeat from cloud 9, something from Florence + the Machine….oh! “Cosmic Love” – perfect. The scent is somewhere between Kung Poa Chicken, licorice and stale cigarettes…

THE SCENE: Sitting at the bar outside of Venice, very outside of Venice where an elite group of Chinese operate a clean (minus the scrambling crickets below and lipstick-stained glasses) and partially legal poker room.

PREVIOUSLY: Post Moretti and peanuts, boy and I decided to ditch the local river banks over populated with locals and the 24 year old college freshmen, to engage in a few rounds of hearts and spades. Hauling home for a bowl of tomatoes and liquirizia (the late night binge post beer), we changed shoes, and headed off to play some friendly “FIFA on the neighbor’s Wii” – aka, hit the freeway for the countryside tables.

So here I am (having just received an email full of original runway shots for a new article in progress!!) sitting next to a fake cactus, a cylinder of beer, a stash of almonds, my ’99 Samsung, and Mac laptop, I write my article for a New York fashion magazine. Lip singing to emo-pop while sporting my new M. Jacobs bangle, an Italian Miami Vice blares through the tube, a Mandarin bartender pours, 3 young handsome german alcoholics pace the hall, a round of retirees fumble through hearts (tripping on their scotch-infused phrases)and my pocket-wise, number-savvy, seductive partner in crime rings in the full house.

The clock ticks passed a slightly illegal 4am. No telling what will happen within the next few minutes, the next hour, nor 5. But within 7 minutes, men have gone in and out of the curtain covered room – bumming my lighter, counting bills, making calls, clutching fists, sipping draft, and stumbling over dialects. The 7-minute creative session. Sometimes the most opposing situations are the most fruitful for breaking creative ground.


About Angela Gleason

visual designer | writer | pianist in the basement | painter in the night | fashion critic | lush | Italian savant check me out: www.taxisandwalnuts.com