We enjoyed the traditional New Year’s Eve meal of cotechino and lentils rather more than last year’s. It might have been the quality of the sausage itself, it might have been the fact that we knew we wouldn’t have to eat another one for twelve months, it might even have been the negroni we had beforehand. Whatever. It was better this time.
We half-considered going down to Piazza San Marco, but decided against it. The fireworks aren’t as impressive as those for Redentore, and only last about fifteen minutes anyway. We decided to give it a miss.
Then, just after the bells, Caroline came back from the kitchen to tell me that somebody was setting fireworks off in the street. There were three people, a young boy, his dad and grandpa who was entrusted with firework duty, possibly due to past experience in lobbing Mills bombs at fleeing fascists.
As we watched, he moved slowly and purposefully around the street, oblivious to his own safety and, indeed, the safety of anybody else. Spent fireworks were examined at arms length. Live ones were lit within inches of recently extinguished ones. A small rocket pinged off a neighbour's balcony, fortunately without setting light to anything, at which point we thought it prudent to close the window.
Caroline wondered if perhaps we’d seen enough by now, but I thought we should stay and watch just in case we were needed to make an emergency phone call.
He finished up by gathering together the smouldering remnants and placing them in a bag of live ones. Then, without even turning his head, he insouciantly tossed a banger over his shoulder and they were off into the night.
We went up to the altana to watch the fireworks above San Marco. Fun, but to be honest, they weren't really able to compete.
Buon Anno everyone.