John lifted his gaze from the computer screen. It was snowing lightly. It was an ideal snow -- beautiful to watch, with not a bit of it sticking to his lane as it wound down the hill.
John had a glass of orange juice while making a pot of coffee. The OJ provided the energy to do 100 situps, then rotator cuff exercises with a small dumbbell, and progressively heavier weights as he did military presses and curls. He then did another 100 situps and fetched a large mug of black coffee. At about 10:30 am, he would repeat the prior sequence of exercises and be done for the morning.
The afternoon was for pushups and hiking, but the morning was for checking up on investments. Of course, in 2022 the "dismal science" of economics (as Carlyle apparently first dubbed it) was genuinely dismal. The Keystone XL Pipeline had been halted for environmental reasons, but America was then left begging for energy from nations with far worse environmental records. The southern border was open in an era of pandemic, inflation was running wild, and it was unknown how aggressive the Federal Reserve would be in raising rates. Not surprisingly given the grim situation, the stock market was in rough shape. John looked for optimism -- some sign of hope -- and found little to encourage him.
Was it some sort of existential crisis? As John pondered his portfolio, he was reminded that he had, in a sense, lost nothing because he had sold nothing. At least yet. Did hope spring eternal? Well, maybe, but he was a long way from investment capitulation. He had been told that, in times of crisis, it was helpful to look at some history book for perspective because, even if the past did not precisely repeat itself, at least it rhymed. John tried to forget about current events and take a stroll down memory lane.
As a young soldier, John had spent a number of years in USAREUR, the Army in Europe/Africa. From northern Italy and later from Kasernes in northern Bavaria, the cultural riches of western Europe were spread before him. Although soldiers are on duty 24 hours a day and "weekends" were defined as getting a Sunday off now and then, applications for leave were granted as resources and circumstances permitted. In that event, the choices were obvious -- London, Rome, Paris, Venice, and other such glittering towns.
John had been to Venice in June and everybody said he had to return in winter. An old movie was entitled "If This is Tuesday, This Must Be Belgium" and it made fun of rapid tours of Europe. It was true that there was so much to take in that a slower pace was better. So John decided to spend a week in Venice in January, to return and see some of the sights at a slower pace, and clear his mind of all the recent negativity.
As fate would have it, a graduate student from Switzerland was in Venice on a brief break from her scholarly labors. Gisella, a slender student of 29, had come to Venice seeking solitude and rest. She sat apart from the others on the vaporetti, and had begun walking in the early morning and at dusk so as not to fall into conversation with other tourists. She gazed at Byzantine mosaics in the pale light and spoke only to the sleepy vendors who sold her cappucino. Venice had all the mystery and silence she had imagined.
Gisella glanced down her shapely legs and wondered if her high heels were the most practical shoe choice for wandering the streets of Venice. She knew they were not, but also liked how they set off her long, sleek legs. With delicate steps, she traversed the uneven stones of Campo Santa Margherita and made her way toward St. Mark's Square, resolving to switch the following day to hiking boots. Because of the season, the corners were empty of gelaterias.
In a move that, had she been anyone else, would been construed as evidence of reckless excess, Gisella had booked a room at the Hotel Danieli. Though Murano glass chandeliers and ceiling frescoes placed the hotel at the top of the luxury hotel hierarchy, she felt she had been right to splurge. Had she settled for a cheaper hotel, she would not have had the experience of Danieli's décor. She wanted to remember everything.
In the Alps where she lived, stoves and insulation made the cold tolerable. In Venice, fewer adjustments had been made to combat the relatively short winter. She found the palaces drafty and the floors icy. It seemed the only places Gisella could get warm were cafes at night. Often, shivering in the wind from the Grand Canal, she ducked in for a minute. She had begun to think having a companion might be preferable to both walking alone and sleeping alone, but no one had presented himself since she arrived.
Perhaps men were intimidated by her icy demeanor? Or her resemblance to the late Ava Gardner? Or did they simply sense her desire for solitude? She wasn't certain. But she was certain a hot cup of coffee was in order.
John stopped on the Bridge of Sighs. Contino's bridge over the Rio di Palazzo was erected in the year 1600 to connect the Doge's prisons, or Prigioni, with the inquisitor's rooms in the main palace. The name "Bridge of Sighs" was invented in the 19th Century, when Lord Byron helped to popularize the belief that the bridge's name was inspired by the sighs of condemned prisoners as they were led through it to the executioner. The days of inquisitions and summary executions were over by the time the bridge was built, and the cells under the palace roof were occupied by small-time criminals. However, when reality conflicts with the legend, print the legend as they said in the old movie "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance."
John wanted to forget the global economy, stroll the streets of Venice, and lose himself in its history. He found the weather soothing, and the cold kept the tourists away. He found himself walking, lost in thought, hands jammed in the pockets of his cashmere topcoat. As he pondered, he was not really thinking of Shelley's "Stanzas Written in Dejection, Near Naples." Perhaps he would be able to find some ember of hope. After all, his paper loss could be regained with a few good months and his situation was vastly superior to people who had real problems such as the poverty in Africa and Asia. After all, he had the financial ability to stay at the Danieli and not blink at the cost.
As he walked, and the wind whipped his hair into disarray, he recalled that old movie about a last tango in Paris. Were his market concerns akin to that? No, they were not. Alexander Pope, Jonathan Swift, and Benjamin Disraeli were all famous. History had taken note of their abilities. Yet Pope, Swift, and Disraeli had speculated on stocks and lost. Even Newton had gambled and lost.
After the astronomer Eddington used the 1919 eclipse to measure the position of Mercury, he informed the general newspaper-reading public that Einstein's General Theory of Relativity was correct. Einstein with his wild hair became what the public thought of as they imagined a scientific genius. Even Einstein dabbled in the stock market, and was unable to become rich as a consequence of investing.
If such towering intellects had trouble tackling what Ben Graham called "Mr. Market" in his 1949 book The Intelligent Investor, why should John feel bad? Perhaps, as Mill suggested in Principles of Political Economy, the seeds of each boom were sown during the preceding crisis? Rescued somewhat by this perspective, John paused while passing a shop window. He noticed a photo of a svelte model wearing a lace bra, garter belt, and thong. As he gazed, he felt a familiar surge of lust overtake any investment concerns.
Lust? He had to confess to that. In recent years, the National Cancer Institute reported that men who had more than 21 ejaculations per month were at considerably lower prostate cancer risk than men who only had 4 or 5. Of course, this merely gave those like John another rationale for the theory -- not original to him -- that "An orgasm per day keeps the doctor away." And, calculating a margin of safety, John preferred more.
John paused. Had animal instinct begun to rescue him from situational depression? These were his thoughts as he arrived at the Danieli, a masterfully restored 14th Century palace. It was steps away from the Piazza San Marco and its Basilica. The Danieli was a gothic landmark with pink marble and stained glass.
In the lobby, with its soaring open space, John turned. Jet-lagged, he was not yet sleepy. Despite the darkness, despite the drizzle which had commenced, perhaps he would stroll to Florian's, the celebrated cafe under the arcades of the Procuratie Nuove in St. Mark's. Opened under another name, it was a big success and became one of the most famous coffee shops of the 1700s.
Since its opening, Florian's had been frequented by an illustrious clientele. Nobles, ambassadors, and merchants patronized it. Because it was then the only coffee shop to admit women, Casanova went there in quest of new female companions. John's motive was simple. He wanted a clean, well-lighted place, as Hemingway said, but mainly to sip a cup of coffee and contemplate his destiny.
As Gisella sat at her small table, warming her hands on a coffee cup, she noticed a man writing energetically on a piece of yellow legal paper. His hair was windblown, and fell slightly over the collar of a topcoat. Was it cashmere or lambswool? She glanced at his shoes. Black wingtips, and utterly boring. Perhaps a local businessman? Or perhaps he followed the vanishing custom of dressing for first class on a flight? He had stopped writing and gone to browse at the newspaper and magazine stand.
But what had he been writing? The Great American Novel? But perhaps he wasn't even American? He didn't seem sufficiently pale to be from the UK. Perhaps he was writing a billet-doux? She rose, took a step, and looked at it. It was in English:
