Sunday, April 19, 2019
Layover in Zurich, too short to sleep without fear of oversleeping, too long to power through. On the plane, on the third or fourth coffee pass of the morning, a middle-aged stewardess with a high, caressing voice said—to no response—“Coffee, tea or me? Coffee, tea or me?” Or maybe that’s the jetlag talking, this time with a German accent.
Then to Venice in a small plane that shuddered violently over the Alps and deposited us in Venice on a day that veered sharply between sunshine and rain. My hotel—a convent, actually—is along a quiet canal in Santa Croce, on Fondamenta Rizzi. It's raining when I head out over the Accademia bridge to Campo Santo Stefano and the vintage flea market at Campo San Maurizio. Everywhere, the city frames for me familiar views, as though nothing has changed in four years. I walk, my feet remembering the city, until I worry I'll fall into the canal in a dead sleep.
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