I stepped off the boat in Venice and marvelled at the empty streets. It’s January and there are few tourists to speak of. I waited, scanning the skinny streets in all directions.
It has been a long year since I’ve been, and I’ve missed it. Especially when the cold scratch of stone against heel can be heard echoing upward for a lack of life, or sign of it.
Hair bright as the sun emerged suddenly as my friend ran toward me. It felt good to see him again, his Parisian moustache twirled under horn-rimmed glasses.
Bien, et toi?
Si si, everything’s great now that you’re here.
And so begins the delicious melting of culture, language and art. An intensity you know is so hot it will burn you if you’re not careful, but will warm you like nothing else if you let it. So mysterious. Like Venice. So beguiling.
Let it begin.