I crossed the Rialto bridge, parents in tow, searching for the neighborhood of San Polo. The Italian had gone off on his own to hit a few of his favorite shops while I stayed, with Mom and Dad, playing the tourist guide. We had an appointment to meet in a square where we had enjoyed a gelato the night before, while watching the local life from a brightly colored red bench. I knew we were close to the rendezvous point, but when we came across an outdoor fish market I realized I had zigged when I should have zagged. With only fifteen minutes before our scheduled meeting time, I decided I had better ask a local for directions rather than figuring the path out on my own.
I spotted a young man approaching me from the opposite direction of the side walk; pushing a dolly full of boxes I knew he had to be a Venetian.
"Excuse me," I said in my best Italian, "Could you please tell me where San Paolo is?"
The young man stopped dead in his tracks and rolled his eyes, I knew then that I had made a mistake.
"San POLO!" he said, being sure to stay the word Polo much louder than San.
"Sorry, San Polo", I said with a slight smile on face.
The young Venetian then proceeded to give me directions. Though I didn't know exactly where the San Polo neighborhood was, I knew that it was close. The moment I was told to go back over the Rialto bridge, I knew the stronzo (little turd) was lying to me.
"Turn around, go back over that big bridge and then keep going straight. You will reach San Polo in about thirty-five minutes on foot".
There was no time to call the guy out on his lie. I didn't feel like an argument and, if we didn't get moving, we were going to be late.
"Thanks," I said while scanning the crowd for the next local to ask. Just behind me an older gentlemen with snow white hair and wearing an apron of the same color, was closing up his shop for lunch.
Without wasting time, I asked him where I could find the neighborhood of San Polo.
"This," he said waving his hands around " IS San Polo". Apparently we were already standing in the middle of the very neighbored that I had been searching for.
I went on to get more specific directions, asking where I could find the Friar's church which I new was near our meeting point. The kind man informed me that we had missed a left hand turn by only one block.
I thanked the elderly gentlemen and, with my parents following, headed off in search of the square with the red benches, while secretly cursing the jerk who had tried to give bad directions to the unsuspecting tourists. Fortunately THIS unsuspecting tourist knew better.
I crossed the Rialto bridge, parents in tow, searching for the neighborhood of San Polo. The Italian had gone off on his own to hit a few of his favorite shops while I stayed, with Mom and Dad, playing the tourist guide. We had an appointment to meet in a square where we had enjoyed a gelato the night before, while watching the local life from a brightly colored red bench. I knew we were close to the rendezvous point, but when we came across an outdoor fish market I realized I had zigged when I should have zagged. With only fifteen minutes before our scheduled meeting time, I decided I had better ask a local for directions rather than figuring the path out on my own.
