Carnivale

This week the good Catholics of the world celebrated Ash Wednesday as the start of Lent. The rest of the world celebrated Mardi Gras because like most cultural appropriation, it’s best to take the fun parts. My understanding is that this celebration is the time when Catholics get together and party so hard that it takes the Easter Bunny six weeks to sober up and find its way home. Don’t hold me to that.  I am not Catholic so I might have that wrong but really, how else do you get from Santa Clause to Easter eggs without blacking out in-between?

I didn’t grow up with this tradition in rural Montana where the restrained Nordic influence did not lend itself to such immoderation. Luxury, travel and decadence were unnecessary. We were a practical group of people that grew gardens, hunted our dinner and chopped our own firewood. These chores were impressed upon me as necessary life skills I would one day rely upon for my survival. I am still waiting for them to come in handy. Until then you will see me boldly navigating the grocery store parking lot hunting for a decent parking space.

Montana is decades behind me. I bravely left to make my mark on the world. Since then I have traveled widely, gotten a doctorate, and made enough money to enjoy a comfortable lifestyle. I like to imagine I escaped the conservative culture I was raised in. Yet I somehow lack the imagination for the depths of frivolity that exist which leave me half a step behind so that attending Carnevale in Venice was the last thing I ever imagined myself doing. Not because I didn’t want to, I just had never known that this was a thing to do much less a bucket list event for people.

I got my first baptism into this tradition when My Man took me to Venice for Carnivale. He has introduced me to many things I didn’t know mattered like Red Sole Shoes, handbags of a certain brand or knowing how to pronounce Perrier Jouet. There is so much to learn when extravagance is unlimited by confines of budgets or common sense. My Man, an Italian with a taste for luxury, delights in taking me places that I don’t belong.

My Man was determined to getting us an invitation to Il Ballo Del Doge, a very exclusive party held during Carnivale. This is a ticket that first required presenting ourselves to a tiny atelier in Venice that produces a variety of completely unnecessary and extravagant products and purchasing an ungodly amount of velvet. Once we proved that our credit card limit was sufficiently high, we were then evaluated for how interesting we were. As a common American doctor, I didn’t pass muster but My Man did, of course. He looks like Fabio at 60 and sells dinosaurs. People just can’t help themselves. He is like walking around with a baby unicorn. Once deemed worthy of an invite, you can then fork over some more cash for a ticket and of course, a costume. This is how I, a woman from the middle of nowhere Montana, found myself dressed like a 17^th century Venetian noble waiting to enter one of the poshest events of the Carnevale season.

A week earlier I had gone for my fitting. It took place in a historic loft looking out over San Marco Plaza. Outside giant flocks of pigeons flapped their wings and cooed. Inside I was attended to by four people dressed entirely in black with thin little tape measures draped around their necks. We were in a large, bright fitting area surrounded by racks of costumes as if we were prepping for a blockbuster movie.

“Cosa ti piacerebbe?” they asked me. What would you like?

I looked around. There were hundreds of dresses in every color. These were not elegant, modern formal dresses. These were elaborate dresses from the Renaissance with lace, fur, detailed stitching and layers of skirts. I went for the one thing I rely on when there is no practical solution to my lack of experience.

“Scintillante.” Sparkly.

Fashion was never my forte. Growing up I was never conscious of being poor but I also relied heavily on thrift stores for my shopping and hated spending hard earned cash on a haircut. Of course once I could afford better, my tastes had evolved except that now it centered around outdoor gear. My idea of formal wear is REI. Now I was expected to select an appropriate period gown for an international ball. I think I am a well-educated, worldly person that is open minded and adaptable. Surely, I could figure out how to navigate one evening in the company of a bunch of aristocrats without falling over. It couldn’t be that hard. As the costume ninjas measured, debated and then presented a dress for my approval, I accepted my fate.

So I entered a castle dressed in a baby pink dress looking something like an oversized cotton candy confection. It was not nearly as light and fluffy. I felt giant. I did not just take up real estate.  I was my own zip code. It would have made Scarlet O’Hara proud. The hooped skirts extended beyond my wingspan. It was covered in what felt like miles of heavy drapery. The weight of it made friends with gravity and they threaten to run away together. There was little to combat their combined strength. The corset waged a heroic battle by clinging mightily to my diaphragm making it nearly impossible to breath. When I had mentioned this at the fitting, the women dressing me had giggle and nodded as if this was exactly how miserable it was supposed to be.

I wore large gaudy costume jewelry I would have mocked in a past life but somehow paired with the elaborate dress seems perfectly appropriate. The whole effect had a gravitational pull on people which was a terrifying side effect. Attired in a dress that was impossible to miss, men rushed to hold doors for me and attended to my every request. Strangers stopped to take pictures of me but I was uncertain of the protocol. Should smile or pout? Never before had I been asked if I am a duchess. I was not sure where that ranked in the hierarchy of things but declaring myself a queen seemed a step too far. But then again, if we have a leader that can declare himself king of a democracy, maybe the bar is low for claiming royal linage.  I did feel a bit like a princess. Really, this could be fun after all. I had come a long way from someone that couldn’t get invited to prom.

Once inside we were immersed in what looked like a Baroque sex show. Men and women in elaborate costumes writhed on the stage under glowing red lights while smoke covered the floor. Haunting music throbbed and for the next several hours, there was an endless circus of music, dancing, acrobatics and theater. I felt as if had not taken enough drugs to be there but there was unlimited champagne to compensate. The din made it impossible to talk but it didn’t matter as we were sitting at a table full of Russians who seemed completely uninterested in conversation. As far as I was concerned this worked out perfectly. I have never been good at small talk and the threat of making a cultural faux pas felt imminent. I will offer a hand when an air kiss is more appropriate or go in for a full body hug as they bow so that I bulldoze them over. The terrifying possibilities to fuck up felt endless. I am sure this is why they provide masks so that in the morning when they are talking about the woman in the pink dress who spilled her drink, tripped on the stairs and asked an ambassador if his toupee was part of the costume, I could feign ignorance.

            At three in the morning, we decided to find our way back to our hotel. My Man had wisely reserved a water taxi in advance as he knew full well we would be far past my expiration date. I was just congratulating myself on managing the evening so well when another man came up and greeted My Man. 

            This handsome stranger with a French accent asked if he could ride with us as we were all going back to the same elegant hotel. 

“Yes, of course,” My Man replied, as he is always generous with such connections.

            “Wait for us. I have to get the princess.”

            Wait, like a real princess? I thought.

            Yes, it turned out. She was a real princess. She was a guest of the Frenchman and his wife. The princess was tall, gorgeous and wearing a white, tulle dress fit for a royal. And she was there with her father who is a real king because her mother, the queen, isn’t really into such parties. In the wee hours of the morning, I felt a pang of envy as I imagined the queen getting a full night of sleep. The Frenchman owns a champagne house in France and he was there with his very beautiful wife Sofia. All the women in this world are so elegant. I wanted to ask if going to a salon is their full-time job or they keep a closet of severed heads to switch out like the Wizard of Oz. This is why I avoid small talk.

We women did not sit so much as lay propped up against each other in the back of the water taxi.  The semi fetal position that one must fold into to ride in a water taxi was rendered impossible by the dress. The princess pouted that she wanted to stay longer as the dancing had really just gotten started. The Frenchman’s wife assured her that it would have been a very long walk home and she already had blisters on her heels. They proceeded to discuss how they waxed their eyebrows and looked at me as if expecting a contribution to overcoming the challenges of getting the perfect arch. It only takes one look at my face to know that wax has never touched my brow line. 

As we motored along through the dark and deserted waterways, they moved onto the next big party that is being hosted at their vineyard in France this spring. I listened in as they listed the models and celebrities that would be attending. Clearly, I had much to learn to fit into this world. I consider myself a very accomplished person. I save lives. I speak several languages. I can back a camper. I am a woman that rises to the challenge. Sure they could walk in heels but really, what did these women know about carting firewood or dressing a deer?

Never underestimate a woman from Montana. I pulled my feet in and adjusted my dress to hide my tennis shoes. Some people call me doctor, but you can call me princess.