That's Amore

I had asked for a room with a view of the canals, and I hurried to the window when we entered. I opened the window, threw open the shutters, and gasped when I saw the intersection of canals. Rolf's smile was as big as mine. Then I saw the gondola gliding out from under a foot bridge toward me, and I bit my lip as tears caused the whole scene to look like a watercolor impression of Venice. Rolf was standing next to me at the little window. He smiled and me, gave me a hug, and we had a good laugh. . . and then another gondola, and another gondola, and then I heard music.

It could have been classical guitar, a tenor singing "Volare" or "That's Amore" as the gondola passed our window. Well, at that; I burst into tears. I was laughing and crying, and unable to stop. Rolf was laughing and hugging me. I got myself together, and then I'd hear more music on the canal, and start crying again. I thought I was going to have to be committed.

I have great pictures of the view from our hotel. And I'll share them as soon as I can. They're digital, yes, but I'm having a hard time dealing with the technology. It's just not transfering right now.


I think that moment is the most memorable of the trip. But there is much much more.

We'll Have a Barrel of Fun

We landed in Venice, after taking a water-bus from the airport down the grand canal, at the Piazzetta dei Leoncini. It is a waterfront carnival of souvenir kiosks, gondoleers, confused and frightened tourists, and pick-pockets. Rolf and I, needing a shave, shower, and a nap, had our passports, money, and credit cards in money belts underneath our clothes, our Rick Steves' guide book in hand, and led off pulling our new baby blue luggage right through the heart of Venice, past the Doge Palace toward Saint Mark's Square, through crowds of laughing tourists and pigeons, (and probably pick-pockets.)

There was a tiny orchestra playing in a big outdoor cafe, while a man and his family readied pigeon feed and camera's with fear and excitement. Then he stood in the middle of the Piazzetta, put his arms straight out palms up with bird feed, and the pigeons landed from wrist to wrist like sparrows on an electric wire. The two trying to sit on his head were hindered by his lack of hair, and fluttered their wings . . . as we marched on through St. Marks Square, around the basilica crowned with the huge bronze horses, and funneled into the "lanes" of Venice; ally ways filled with elegant shops of the most gorgeous colored glass vases, chandeliers, and statues, while we were looking for a sign on the ground, a blue mosaic that was to say "C & C Glass", which was our landmark to turn into another ally.

We laughed when we found it, and plunged onward and right up a bridge over the first canal. Where we stopped for the most beautiful sight. It was an intersection of canals, tourists on the footbridge, gondoleer's on the water "road"; and our hotel's front door was all part of the post-card perfect scene.

Pure joy.

Volare

There was a lot of laughter.

Puck drove us to the airport for our 10PM business class flight on Air France.

We'd had drinks in the business class lounge.

Then I tried to bribe a bookseller to sell me The End: Book the Thirteenth, the last of the Unfortunate Series of Events by “Lemony Snicket.” I'd been trying for two days to get a copy to take with me, but that didn't work either, because it wasn't supposed to be released until Friday the 13th, and this was Thursday the 12th, and those booksellers are just mean.

"On Friday the 13^th, I’ll be in Italy!”, I told them all.

Funny: how unsympathatic they were . . . "Aw how terrible, in Italy without Lemony Snicket. . . how ever will he survive."

Now, I just knew they were in a box in the storage room of the airport bookstore. But she wouldn't go for it. Rolf was laughing, while hiding behind a rack of books, pretending that he didn't know me, while I pleaded with her, offered her cash, under the table. I suggested she just ring it up in the morning. Rolf was dying of embarrassment.

At Dulles Airport, business class ticket holders get to board the plane first, and from the lounge besides. Once we were on the plane and settled into our Barcaloungers, the flight attendants brought us champagne!

Flying off to Italy on a trip we'd dreamed of for seven years (which had been long planned then abruptly canceled just a week before,) holding hands and toasting our 25 years together as the plane was actually preparing to take off; we were the happiest people aboard.

I laughed, cried, or smiled at everything; it was all wonderful. When I realized that the flight attendant was snapping open a white linen table cloth in order to dress my tray table, my guffaw made him jump in alarm. I had to motion an apology (because I just can't speak when I get overwhelmed lie that,) besides, I can hardly speak Italian, much less his native French. I motioned to the table cloth he was still holding, shrugged my shoulders, and made an "oops" face. And I laughed.

I don't know what he was thinking when he smiled at me and laid the cloth out. Maybe he saw us holding hands. Maybe he could tell that this trip meant the world to us.