This morning Anna and I went on a gondola trip, which we had won in a surprise lottery. We were not a little embarrassed, among the other gondolas carrying tourists taking selfies and videos.* Still, as yer man steered us past taxis and buses and boats laden with supplies, through quiet narrow passages and under bridges, we marveled at the crumbling palaces, all that ancient wood and marble barely pinned into place by long iron bars here and there, as if they could burst, spilling the contents of centuries into the lagoon.

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Of course, I managed to visit an Irish bar called ... The Irish Pub. A provincial rugby match was on the telly, but the clientele was mostly English and Italian.  At the hostaria next door, a bride and groom visited, greeting the staff by name before heading off to see more neighbours. Watching them in their happiness, I thought of how I missed the familiarity of neighbors, of knowing everyone's names, customs, and quirks; perhaps this longing propelled me to find an Irish pub in even this scintillating gem of a city.

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On Sunday we visited the island of the dead by waterbus. The recently buried lie in plots leased for twelve years; afterwards their bones are interred in an ossuary. Igor Stravinsky's grave is bedecked with fresh flowers, coins, and seashells. A makeshift shrine adorns Sergei Diaghilev's grave: decaying ballet slippers surround the plastic figurine of a ballerina. I took a photo of a rack of green watering cans, a reminder of the continuity of familial and communal care.

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The writing of this entry was interrupted by two mosquitoes, which were immediately stalked and dispatched by newspaper from this earthly realm.

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* In the busiest parts of the city, nearest the Rialto and San Marco, you are constantly dodging people aiming cameras at every goddamn thing. Often, to avoid these crowds, we choose longer, more circuitous routes through quieter areas.

Once we missed a waterbus because we were behind a man who had stopped to take a photo just as he was about to board. The waterbus glided away, to the dismay of ourselves, the man, and his companion who had already boarded the bus.

And, yes, I might have also reached for my phone mid-walk, especially if I saw a cat sleeping on a table outside of an osteria, or one of the many fantastical creatures draped willy-nilly about the city. I only ever take photos of cats and flowers and buildings while travelling.

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