A Dog Depp Afternoon
Johnny Depp is my neighbor. What can I say? It’s true. He’s not my next-door neighbor, nor does he live down the street, but rather across the Grand Canal, only 10 minutes away. I walked by him last week, not recognizing him for who he was, but rather for his strange attire. He wasn’t hard to miss, wearing a charcoal grey fedora hat, a tailored vest, and flashy jewelry. I do believe, if my memory serves me right (which is sometimes debatable) that there were chains involved. Yes, lots of silver chains and large, stone-studded rings. Yes, rings. He was walking with an incredibly thin woman. A waif of almost nothing, dressed in jeans and very high heels. As I passed the strangers I mumbled, “Would somebody please feed her.”
When our paths crossed again later in the day, I did a double take—could it be? I have actually stood next to Johnny, in San Miguel when he was in town shooting, “Once Upon a Time in Mexico.” I was never introduced to him; I just stood next to him for all of 20 seconds. It was enough time to note that he was my exact height, and I was twice his width. I hate to admit it, but this is also true.
Nope, not Johnny Depp. I would never dream of doing a paparazzi number on him, so instead here’s an interesting door knob.
So, in order to sate my curiosity I followed the famous couple (assuming the woman was Vanessa) down an alleyway, and then another. There was only one way to discover the truth. I had to stand next to Johnny again, assuming he had neither grown, nor shrunk and I had neither gained, nor lost.
The streets in the center of Venice are almost always crowded and on this particular afternoon in the area of San Polo they were especially full. Johnny was walking at a normal pace, his hands in his pockets, his gaze forward. By the time I decided to accept my mission, they had gotten a head’s start. I thought passing them amongst the hoards of people would be easy. I just needed a few seconds to linger at his side and I could solve the mystery.
This isn’t Johnny and Vanessa, but if it were, this would be the view I had.
I guess now is the appropriate time to tell you that I’ve always wanted to be a spy. My first job interview was with the State Department. They were seeking entry-level clerical staff with language skills; I was seeking the opportunity to cross under the Iron Curtain in a fashionable coat and stylish boots, which hopefully I could run in if ever chased by a pack of German shepherds.
“Do I get a special pen?” I wanted to ask the recruiter, knowing what he was really after—entry-level clerical staff, yeah, right. I knew it was their secret code for spy. That’s what they really wanted–new people to train a la Jason Bourne and I was the perfect candidate.
I didn’t get the job, probably one of the country’s biggest mistakes. They didn’t understand, I had it all figured out. I would put my hair up, wear only drab turtlenecks and thick, black-rimmed glasses. No one would ever give me a second look (sad, but probably also true.) If questioned, I would eagerly reply I was a botanist with eight cats and they would quickly turn away.
My undiscovered and unappreciated skills are rarely put to use, but they do come in handy when tracking suspected stars in a maze of narrow streets.
I followed Johnny at a discreet distance, summing up the situation before making my move. My conclusion—they were two people, maybe Johnny and Vanessa, maybe not, taking a leisurely walk.
One of many adorable Venetian dogs.
We passed ancient churches, and modern bars, as well as many of the well-groomed dogs that inhabit our island. They were everywhere: in the street, tucked inside small balconies, riding by in boats, continually distracting me with their cuteness.
Concentrate, you’re on a mission.
Doggie driveby
Just when I was about to make my move, a yellow umbrella appeared high in the air—the inevitable sign that the Chinese were coming. They travel in large groups, with an umbrella-toting someone always leading the pack. Johnny escaped me for a few seconds, lost in the throng of chatter, bland clothing, and telephoto lenses, but he appeared again, right before turning a corner.
I managed to catch up and take the corner at rapid speed. I looked left then right to make sure I wasn’t being followed. (You know, maybe he has a bodyguard.) I was only a few feet behind them when they hesitated by a bridge and started to talk. I abruptly stopped and looked into the window of the nearest shop, a bakery full of Venetian specialties: bite-sized cookies, some dipped in chocolate, others blended with lemon and orange, torta full of spices and nuts, and puffy clouds of colored meringues. Johnny was slouched over the rail, loosing inches off his height. I would have to stall until he straightened his spine and proved to me that he was actually 5”9”.
Venetian Bakery
When their conversation continued, I couldn’t resist the temptation of the sweets displayed before me. I popped inside for a cappuccino and coconut macaroon. It was light and airy, loaded with flavor and the perfect size. If I had ordered a slice a cake, I couldn’t run out the door when duty called.
Cappuccino break
And then he was on the move again. “Ciao, grazie,” I told the women behind the counter, handing her a few coins. Luckily Johnny’s hat separated him from the masses.
When he entered the large campo of Santa Margharita, I finally had the space I needed to circumvent the crowds. I quicken my pace, strolling past the university students who make this place their home, sitting in cafes and standing around with friends.
Campo Santa Margherita
When I saw my opportunity I took it. I inched myself right next to Johnny, and yes, it was him. He was still my height, and I was still twice his width. Mystery solved. And to think, I could have been gainfully employed by the State Department this entire time.
Dogs in Campo Santa Margherita…every day, same place, same time
Dogs in Campo Santa Margherita…every day, same place, same time
Tags: campo santa margherita, coconut macroons, delicoius expeditions, dogs in venice, johnny deep venice, kris rudolph, venetian bakeries, venice expat blog
