Across the Bridge and Into the Church

Why the long silence? I was at the Venice film festival, and then having Internet problems at home. (I was almost grateful for my lack of connectivity: My bathroom is a lot cleaner – who knew scrubbing the tub could be so satisfying? -- and my shoe and handbag collections have been reorganized…)

I was anxious about Venice. Not so much for the usual reasons, which are my own appearance, and that anyone at the magazine with any question for any of the numerous A-listers at a festival expect you always to be able to reach said A-lister post-haste. (“Oh, hang on, that’s Gwyneth on the other line,” I always feel like saying. Just because I am in the same city with them doesn't mean I have acquired a magic phone with everyone's cell phone number. Or just hacked Paris Hilton's phone.

Actually, “anxious” doesn’t describe my state of mind. “Terrified” is better. Last year the Venice film festival was when I leaped off the bingeing cliff into free fall. I’d been struggling since my assignment in Africa, then thought I had stemmed the tide (hello, mixed metaphors) with my 30 Bikram yoga classes in 30 days (if you overeat before a 90-minute class in a hot room, you will be sick). But no. In Venice I had ice cream daily. Multiple ice creams. Chocolate. Pastries. It had been several years since I had lived with the fear of a dress I wore one day literally not fitting the next, but in Venice it revisited me. At the end of my week there, in desperation I bought a cardigan to wear over the only dress that fit – to hide how tight it had become.

I’m still not sure what set me off in Venice, which is why I so feared going again – because you can’t plan how to avoid something you can’t define. It’s like trying to avoid air. Instead I did the best I could. I remembered Italian hotel breakfasts can be unhealthy, and the things you can grab – often screenings are at 8:30 a.m. – especially so. So I packed a box of cornflakes and some soy milk that didn’t need to be refrigerated. I told myself I could eat anything I wanted as long as it was part of a meal with a beginning and an end. And I tried to remember the awful lethargy and misery that comes with being entirely too full on a humid Venice day.

I did well. I ate a lot of pizza – it’s easily grabbable – and not nearly enough vegetables. I had gelato most days. But no chocolate or pastries – or binges. On Wednesday afternoon, I did the unheard-of in this job and managed to sneak off to wander through churches and shops. Despite the heat I nearly skipped up steps and over bridges. The sky was blue and clear and so was my head.