Dear Mother:
The excitement and romance of Italy are hardly to be tolerated. Our first day in Venice, and already a dark little man with a headful of intricate ringlets has leapt from a gondola and plunged a long dagger into our breast, to the hilt. We tussled, spurting dark arterial blood, while some Japanese tourists took photos that should turn out nicely, what with the Bridge of Sighs in the background, until finally the dark little man with the ringlets fell into the canal. You should have heard him, swearing like a miniature Fabio.
Here in the hospital, somebody keeps pushing burning gondolas past our window, with an effigy of us in the back, burning too. The thing the Baedeker fails to tell you about Italy, Mother, is the sheer number of people who listen to smooth jazz all day long, yet are not ashamed. You would like it here. Our nurse is a hairy nun with one human foot and one hoof. Her malevolence is hardly to be credited. Doubtlessly, her parents took one look at that hoof and said, "This one's marrying Jesus!" Whenever a burning gondola goes past the window she points to the burning effigy in the back, then points to us, and says something in Italian that sounds like "Burn baby burn, disco inferno."
Mother, we are sending the dagger, which is nicely ornamented, home as a souvenir of our trip. You might want to hang it above the fireplace. The doctor who removed it informs us we are sure to die because he is incompetent. He says this with a cheerful shrug, as if to say "What are you going to do?" You would never find such refreshing honesty in an American doctor, that's for sure.
As we write this, another gondola floats past our window. This one is not burning. You are sitting in it, and the dark little man with the impressive ringlets stands behind you, rowing. He wields the long oar with impressive authority, this little Fabio, and appears to be serenading you with song, yes you Mother, who warned us from the time that we were a small child that we would be killed by a dark little man with impressive ringlets, which look so like our impressive ringlets that he could almost be our father, this murderous Fabio, who has now reached out to take your hand, his mouth open and emitting opera, as the gondola bears you both away to some dark and infinite palazzo.
