The little blak smock in Venise . 1. Chapter. The first day of school.1

1. Chapter. The first day of school.

It's me that little boy with a round face, slightly protruding cheekbones and a line on the right side that divides his thick brown hair.

It 's the first day of school, I can not take it easy that day, although, to tell the truth, it is my mother never to be ready. Way sent on the steps of the Rialto bridge.

"Hurry up Nicheto". My mother keeps repeating.

This sudden change of habits left me especially perplexed.

I don't understand way: I can't wake up as usual with convenience, I can not stay there to play with his grandfather Nicola to convince him to buy the new toy soldiers.

I can not go down on the street to find friends forever, but on the contrary I have to rush to run up and down the bridges and the streets of Venice to arrive on time.

What a dog's life! I'm only five years old and I did not go to kindergarten.

I'm a little worried because I have to stop at school for breakfast too. The nuns prepare the first one, I ardently hope that the institute's cook will cook well. I'm fond of pasta, as my chubby cheeks show.

I am used to a Venetian meal: spaghetti with clams or with black, risotto de bosega, and sometimes even lasagne maybe even the fish pie. How will I give up all this for a whole week? Luckily, I eat at home in the evening and on holidays.

My mother carries a wicker basket with the second plat.

It's too big and too heavy for me.

I wear a black apron with a white collar, like all the children attending the Institute.

From Rialto the road is long, if there are also heavy weights to bring I can not do it right.

I quickly descend the irrational steps of the house and I look surprised at my new uniform in Calle dei Cinque.

Will my acquaintances of the Ruga Rialto recognize me?

Nicola the baker is the first to greet me "If you work still?" He asks me laughing.

The smell of baked bread for a few hours awakens my appetite.

I am immediately distracted by the salesperson's greeting that invites me to spend the afternoon to see the latest arrivals.

The noise of Ruga shopkeepers' voices distracts me.

It is the echoes of bargaining that the stall merchants, placed in the front line of the shops that border the Ruga, do with customers.

 It sells all linen, shoes, Burano lace and Murano glass, but above all fruit and vegetables.

The noise, the colors and the aromas of the Naranzeria constitute the best testimony of a vital Venice that finds its fascination now in danger of extinction in the serene repetition of the colorful daily representations of its inhabitants.

Without the everyday stories of the Venetians, the city is destined to become a museum with many, many tourists who emulate the barbarian invader, gradually tearing the lifeblood from the city of the lion.

We cut through the most hidden alleys that wedged next to St. John the Elemosinario where fewer people pass to go more quickly

Halfway through the Ruga degli Orefici at the church of S. Giacomo di Rialto. We have just left and we have already passed two churches where I punctually mark the cross following the example of my mother.

Before crossing the bridge, I immediately suggest to my travel companion a stop at the bakery in Lino; there he sells the sweet bread with raisins that I eat for snack at five.

Lino, the bread retailer, has a little shop located in a 10-square-meter at the Rialto bridge.

It is so tight that customers can enter two at a time but there is a smell of really inviting freshly baked bread.

"Stop here!" I beg my mother pulling my skirt.

"Yes, but I'll be late."

Lino quickly understands our haste and needs us in a flash: "good scholl" encourages me.

The steps of the bridge are many. The white border is slippery due to the humidity of the night which has not yet dried out.

I go up that imposing climb. There are no alternatives. It is a real demanding climb for a child of six years.

You can not even take the ferry because the gondola transport is an alternative to the lack of canal crossings and here is the bridge. The gondoliers have not thought of us little school children !!!

The bridge stands on the canal at the height necessary to allow boats to pass; the two wings of botegas that accompany it only apparently disguise the real elevation.

The architect Da Ponte has certainly thought of all this overcrowding. It should not be so different from that of the late sixteenth century when the first of the Venetian bridges. It was built to connect the two banks of the Grand Canal where the life and commerce of the thriving city took place with greater intensity after Lepanto.