For some reason, this afternoon is punctuated with exclamations coming from the houses ’round back. I can distinguish two.

Imagine a stout British biddy. She lives by the sea, has rosy cheeks and thick ankles. She smells of lavender, maybe, she is soft, and her grandchildren love her. She is visiting Venice for the first time, the trip a gift from her sons. She is with a small group of British biddy friends, one of whom is named Margaret, and likes a spot of whisky in her late-night coffee. Just past noon, they have stepped into a restaurant on the Piazza San Marco for lunch. They found the listing in their Fodor’s guide. (The black ink risotto was especially recommended.) One of the waiters—he has the eyes of a young man—used to the summer rush of tourists, has just come up to this group of biddies, and has reached out with a theatrical cheekiness to pinch Margaret’s bottom. Her eyes widen in surprise, her hand goes up to her mouth. She exclaims. That is one.

Imagine a pirate. Not Johnny Depp—an older one, a less dapper one. The stubble on his chin is white. His parrot has just leaned over his shoulder and pecked the last bit of mackerel off his plate. He exclaims. That is the other.