What's Funny about Taking Selfies (I)
Jan Hamminga
The subterranean traveller and Trandi Romantic had been visiting the eye-opening film museum inside la Mole Antonelliana, a marvellous structure dominating the Torino skyline which was once begun as a synagogue but finished without any clear function while proudly boosting to be the tallest pure masonry building in Europe (although after partial collapse concrete and steel were applied to guarantee visitors' safety). On their way out they were looking for a spot to capture the complete building from the ground up to the at 167 metre rising spire. With such streets narrow here, there really wasn't anywhere to take the desired photo from. Let's just have a selfie and move on, suggested the traveller with Trandi pushing her back up against a wall in the furthest corner of the tiny square created by lightly retracting alignment, not yet giving up on the idea.
You know I don't do selfies, Trandi said from behind her camera which was in fact an apple smartphone.
Problem is, incomplete buildings are out of style, picture wise, offered the subterranean. You might as well put me in it and once I'm there, why not join me?
I wouldn't want to be found dead with a selfie stick in my hands and my arms are too short for full perspective.
Mine are slightly longer.
You're a lousy photographer.
In the end, the subterranean traveller managed to persuade his companion. She handed him the set up camera, positioned herself nicely at his side with a broad tourist smile while the traveller was trying not to look like he were taking a picture, and told him: now.
Immediately after, a high-pitched, infuriated voice sounded: and what do you think you are doing? They turned around and saw a tiny woman in her fifties, more head than body it seemed, wearing plateau boots and designer clothes, topped off with a 1930s feathered hat.
Just taking a selfie, Trandi explained quietly, us and la Mole.
And me, for sure, screamed the woman with flaming eyes. I was walking by and you obviously couldn't care less.
I guess we hadn't noticed you, intervened the subterranean, we were concentrating on getting it right, see?
The woman looked at him with equal amounts of contempt and disgust on her face. I don't buy stupid excuses, one should always be aware of one's actions. Give me the camera.
Excuse me?
The phone. Give me the phone, so I can delete the picture.
Isn't that exaggerating it a bit? the traveller served in his most soothing voice, we weren't exactly shooting state secrets.
The woman again wasn't receptive to his proposals. Whoever I am sir, and whatever my reasons are, I strongly advise you to simply do as I tell you.
Trandi, not in for a fight, checked her picture batch. Looks like you're not in it, miss. See?
She meant to just show the screen, but the woman had already grabbed her phone and quickly deleted the picture. As I mentioned before, just do as I say to avoid trouble, she snapped. Trandi thought it wisest not to stir up emotions any further and reached out for her telephone. The other, without so much as a nod of the head, dropped the device in her hand and walked away. Meanwhile, the traveller had taken out his own old phone and quietly took a photo of the distancing woman.
What are you doing, whispered Trandi.
Look, said the subterranean, she's not in the picture, see? She should have been occupying at least half of the screen, the way I took the photo, but she's not there. She also should have been in your pic, why else would she go through the trouble of making such a fuss?
This is all very strange, Trandi managed to say.
I'd like to know more about it, mumbled the traveller.
The next morning they had mostly forgotten about the episode when they found themselves on a motorway, heading for wherever luck would take them. On a mountainous stretch they were overtaken by an open green sports car. That's her, the subterranean traveller exclaimed, the woman who didn't want her picture taken. He increased speed. What are you doing? I want to know where she's going.
Trandi's pleas to let go fell on deaf ears. They're not doing much, I can easily follow them, the traveller assured her, pulling their big slow car through curves the roadster ahead had much less trouble with. I need to know why she didn't show up in our pictures.
Makes you wonder why she was so upset by being in a photo which she wouldn't have been in anyway, Trandi offered.
Exactly.
After a beautiful if stressy drive they ended up in Rapallo on the Ligurian coast south east of Genova, a bustling little seaside resort with a legacy of attending to the privileged, those families that had accustomed themselves to enjoying summer holidays a full century ago and those who had more recently come to fortune and pretended to be of similar pedigree as the very people they emulated. Following the green open car into town, they landed right on the sea front, a beautiful rocky bay surrounded by hotels and palaces and lush green hills and a manmade beach just down from the pleasant boulevard.
The woman and her driver got out of their car, beach bag between them, he a tall and handsomely tanned Roman perhaps half her age. Trandi countered the traveller's dismissive remark that he was just a toy boy by reminding him it was her who was paying for their trip, so he could consider himself in a similar position. The subterranean, not wanting to enter a quibble he was always going to lose, changed the subject: now isn't this the perfect place for a swim.
He was wrong, though. The fenced-in beach the couple had entered charged a cool 20 euros for a two hour stay, a price well above what they were able and willing to pay for the right to jump into nobody's water. Isn't there anywhere cheaper, Trandi informed. Displaying utter rejection, the overaged voluntarian at the entrance spit out directions to the fortress, behind which the servants' beach was to be found. To the servants is where we will go, the traveller cheerfully announced. On their way Trandi seemed less willing to obey to the rules of this strangely old-fashioned place where women were innocent baby machines, three, four children per good-looking mother in a pricy station wagon was the norm, while most men were arse licking, nose kicking money makers. The traveller mocked her anger. Don't let it get to you, once in the water they will be jealously watching our poor bodies.
They found the small but sturdy fortress, of the type that can also be seen along the Spanish east coast and which were erected to protect civilians against raids from pirates and slave hunters, at the other side of the bay on a tiny slip of land. The miniscule pebbled beach was crowded with bathers, lying nose to ass, all trying to look gorgeous to compensate for their apparent lack of financial means. A single cabin catered to those who preferred privacy when changing clothes. A sign on the door told the cabin was a gift from Rapallo's private beaches to the town's underperformers.
Time for another selfie, the subterranean traveller announced once they were in their bathing suits. Trandi obliged and they each took a couple of pictures with their respective telephones. When they watched the results, again there was nobody in the photos except for themselves.
Now isn't that the weirdest thing, said the traveller, what's going on here?
Maybe the camera isn't working properly, suggested Trandi Romantic.
Both of them at the same time? The subterranean shook his head. There is something strange going on here and I want to find out what.
End of part one
