I was meandering through Venice’s Castello district marveling at the detailed carvings adorning the stone archways when I had heard raucous Italian singing pouring from a window into the cobblestone street. An old man was passing out beer across the window sill to a jovial swirl of people gathering in mismatched chairs set up along the canal. Intrigued, I rounded the corner to find an open door below a familiar insignia — a hammer and sickle framed in a red metal star. I couldn’t read all the words painted above it, but one stood out, partly due to context. Comunista. A funny theme for a bar, but better than fascista. I breezed in, looking to spend a lazy afternoon the Italian way.
Jaunty piano music and an airborne wave of herbed garlic smell dominated a wood-paneled room the size of a studio apartment. Haphazardly hung communist photos, paintings, and leaflets covered the space, with Che Guevara deified in several prominently displayed portraits and a mural on the built-in bar. A gaggle of locals clinked glasses, yelling over the music and each other. The atmosphere was festive and cozy, like a gathering of old friends reunited after years. It was too personal — I was in the wrong place. But before I could back out the door, a 70-something man with a shock of unruly white hair greeted me in Italian. I smiled apologetically and trotted out one of my few phrases — io non capisco italiano. He tried again in English - happy May Day! I blinked and smiled politely. There was more lost in transition than the language, but that was about to change. The man introduced himself as Fabio, and couldn’t wait to tell me about the holiday.
Apparently May 1st is May Day, or International Workers’ Day, celebrating the history of the working class organizing for labor rights and economic equality. It’s celebrated around the world but in Italy, it’s as important a holiday as they come. Their proud tradition of strikes and bargaining deserves a party at least once a year. It’s also the only day that Venice’s communist society opens its door to non-card carrying members. But everyone here was a local, mostly members and their guests here to celebrate with the community. This wasn’t an official political wing of the national party — more of a cultural group. Less political strategy and more philosophical discussions and historical preservation, paired with a robust calendar of social events.
Fabio had once loved and lost a woman in New York, so he was happy to translate the questions of the curious, mostly monolingual locals who had gathered around me — a gaggle of old Italian men who had been active in the movement for decades. I was a specimen. American? What did I think of communism? I was the second American to ever visit their society, the first being an American professor teaching history at an Italian university, so why did I decide to come into their clubhouse? I sidestepped — I didn’t know enough about modern communism to have an informed opinion, and it looked like they were having a good time. I didn’t want to admit that I thought this was a novelty bar. In retrospect, this assumption of novelty throws into sharp relief my American-centric view of political systems. I had forgotten that in Europe, communism isn’t the same insidious spectre of societal collapse that conservative agitators use to rally their bitterly individualistic base. It exists in a variety of forms across the Atlantic, including as legitimate political parties.
Today, communism came in the form of freely offered seafood and limoncello - a redistribution of resources from the comrades. Only after toasting to the holiday, and presumably the proletariat - alla salute! — did Fabio motion to the oldest man in the room and mention that he makes this limoncello in his bathtub like a bootlegger. Figuring that the Italian healthcare system is cheaper than the American equivalent, I didn’t deny a second glass (or a third when they poured without asking). With each fluted glass came a question — did I have enough clams? Probably not. The man behind the bar continuously ladled cascades of tiny garlic and lemon-sautéed clams onto my plastic plate. I protested - this was my one full day in Italy and I had to save room for pizza later. He shrugged and said in English, “Okay, you eat pizza and clams.” Airtight logic. I didn’t have a comeback.
Satisfied that they had adequately welcomed the stranger, the hosts turned to serve some other members. An older man with a dish towel tucked into his chef’s pants, maybe on his break. A tattooed and black leather-clad young couple who wouldn’t be out of place in Bushwick. An Italian nonna. All ages and genders mingling in celebration, toasting their history of solidarity and comraderie. This was a party for the people, for anyone who valued community and mutual support. For an uninvited American, they certainly made me feel like a welcome guest.
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