When we decided to get tickets to a masked ball for Carnivale in Venice, I didn't really know what to expect.
We had decided to take another big trip. It had been a while, and we wanted something fabulous.
So we made a plan to go to Italy in February, over the week of my birthday and, coincidentally, over Venetian Carnival, which I didn't ever know was the OG carnival celebration.
The plan was Venice, where I had never been (Greg had, of course). Skiing in the Dolomites, which I had never done (Greg had, of course). And then impromptu tooling around for a couple of days without a set destination (which is the way Greg prefers to travel).
Carnival meant we should try to attend a masked ball. I had visions of elegant people in fabulous costumes in opulent rooms with plush furniture and a buffet that looked like something out of a movie about life at Versailles. Dancing a quadrille. Maybe to the music of a string quartet.
And given the price of the tickets, it was not an unreasonable notion.
We bought clothes and wigs. A big dress and a big crinoline for me. A coat (I don't remember what you call that kind of coat) and pants (I don't remember what you call those kinds of pants) for Greg. We got the masks in Venice. It was quite fun and exciting.
Dressing up is fun! Costumes are fun! Venice is fun!
It felt very appropriate. The night we arrived, we checked into our hotel and strolled around the beautiful rainy streets of Venice, and were delighted by all of the people walking around in extraordinarily beautiful, fancy costumes.
Back when Venice was its own republic, it's official name was La Serenissima de Venezia - the most serene. That's what it felt like on that late night stroll after an extremely long day of travel.
Our costumes were cheap ones we ordered on Amazon - it didn't make sense to pay hundreds of dollars to buy them ((even renting the fancy ones was crazy spendy). We still looked awesome, as far as I was concerned.
On the night of the event, we first went to hear some classical music - Vivaldi's Four Seasons, which was lovely. Then we went and got some dinner. We were fully in costume, which many passers-by found charming, and then headed over to the venue.
It ended up being enormously entertaining.
We walked in and up a very wide, grand staircase. So far, so good.
Then we walked into a grand room. There were very few people, most of whom were not talking and were sitting on sofas on the side of the room. Occasionally some would get up and walk around in a very stilted stylized way. The vibe was weird.
As you can see, in the far corner there was a sad clown jester. He was weirdly dancing and keeping time by hitting a tambourine that appeared to be hidden in his pants over his groin.
Oh, and all of this was happening to the piano accompaniment to ABBA's "Chiquitita."
It was at this point that Greg and I started laughing hysterically.
Immediately people started looking at us as if we were the most vulgar, inappropriate people they had every seen. We tried to laugh quietly, but they continued to be very disapproving.
After a while, I had a realization.
"I think I know what's going on," I said to Greg. "I think these people are participating in this unironically. They don't see what's so funny or bizarre about it."
We tried to stifle our laughs.
Over time, the room, which did not have open windows or any other discernable ventilation, began to heat up. It became quite oppressive.
Which is when they brought in the next episode of entertainment - a belly dancer who played with fire. Exactly what you want in an unventilated room that is eleventy-billion degrees.
We watched (and giggled) for a little while, then I got to the point of being so seriously overheated that I needed to get some cooler air.
Downstairs we went out on a little landing that was right on a canal. The air was cool and the lights were shining on the water.
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