This trip to Italy was my first real test of myself: to see if I could still travel, without my husband Marvin, and still enjoy traveling on my own. Since Marvin died, I had traveled abroad to see family but not as a tourist, and this was going to be “it.”
The trip so far was better than I had expected, despite some (anticipated) moments of deep sadness and missing Marvin terribly (he should be here with me, sitting next to me on the bus holding my hand, he should be seeing this, tasting this, etc.). When these moments did happen, I’d been able to tear up discreetly and even if people noticed, they didn’t say anything.
In Venice, despite the rain, we had to do the requisite gondola ride. I was dreading it since I was the only single traveler and what would they do with me alone when everyone else was “coupled?”
They put me in the gondola with the “entertainment” — a guitarist and his accompanying singer of a certain age, spiky blond hair, heavy makeup and big earrings and clothes, a big “presence.” I figured “I’ve got this, it is so kitschy, no way I’m going to lose it.”
So, of course, from the first moment she started to sing a familiar song, and going down the beautiful canals and scenery, I started tearing up, trying to be quiet, not wanting to spoil their serenade. First the gondolier behind me: “Are you okay, signora?” Then the singer (the guitarist was facing the other way) asked, “You okay, signora?” Sniffling into my hankie, I said “yes, I am sad,” and pointed to my wedding rings and then my heart and making a “finished” sign with my hands spread going back and forth over each other.
She understood and then pointed to her own ring and signaled, “me too.” We both touched our hearts. I felt somehow a little comforted by the exchange, knowing she understood and was singing not only for me and my fellow travelers in the gondolas behind me, but also for herself.
When we got to the dock at the end of the ride, everyone got out from the gondola, everyone in a hurry. I approached the singer and thanked her very much, feeling that she had really been singing mainly for me, to try to make it pleasant and not sad for me. We hugged each other very tight, she pointed to her ring and said, “two years, very difficult.” I pointed to mine and said, “one year.” And, I know this sounds melodramatic, but for a moment we looked each other in the eyes, and then we hugged again for a few seconds.
I know something passed between us: an understanding, a sisterhood, a common language of grief and terrible loss, and also a mutual comforting and knowledge that our lives are going on and we are getting through it, she dressing up and singing and me traveling and getting through the days somehow slightly less painful as they go by.