The following is an excerpt from my journal. This isn't all I felt and thought, so take it with a grain of salt . . . : )

that night
laundry room of hotel

Alright:) More comfortable now--at least my writing surface doesn't move all that much as the train did.

So . . . Venice.

Cold, wet stone and bricked, walled passageways, lost British tourists.

Coldness, seeing my breath in the air, wishing I was alone. Odd, isn't it? I wondered when it would hit. The same feelings I've been trying to grow out of. I mean, I've been trying to grow out of the selfishness of the etiologies. The feelings themselves have naught wrong with them--t is the actions that I took based on fulfilling those wants. Needs? Wants?

All I wanted was to be solitary. I want, still want to be in solitude. To be quiet in a quiet place, to want so much an inner peace . . . to feel real by feeling silent. To feel claustrophobic! Venice is not the place for such feelings. I could nearly hear Fortunato's voice echoing through the streets: "For the love of God, Montresor!" and dying screams. What a strange city.

Walking to San Marco's Basilica was like walking into a cave; deep, dark, glittering with hidden things, presided over by a thousand High and dusty ghosts of empty people. Stern and orthodox. But the candles were warm. Suffocating marble, wet and colorful; like thousand-year-old mathematicians' secrets of alchemy flower-pressed into stone . . . Gold on the ceilings. So high, so tall. Saints must have to peer out of there to see small, distant souls. It felt very impersonal.

We chased pigeons outside, and decided that "the rain in Venice stays mainly on the terrace" was enough of a rhyme to satisfy Mr. Higgins, drat him. We also thought that the slushy-rain could be abbreviated to "slrain", but came to the conclusion that it all sounded a bit obscene.

Spent a lot of time walking on small wet stones on the pavement, feeling wet and cold and claustrophobic--saw markets and expensive restaurants, tourist shops, and a thousand glass beads.

Dad's heart was set on riding in a gondola. Can anybody tell me why? Don't answer that.

I had an odd premonition about the whole gondola thing--I didn't want to go. Not sure. No logical reason. I was persuaded to go, stomach-flipped every second. Got back fine, tho. I still don't like gondolas.

But I forgot to mention the gondoliers. Those who weren't calling out for people to take them out and earn lots of money, were on their cell phones. Gondoliers on cell phones--this was not something I added into my calculations, even with all the modern things I expected that didn't turn out to be present in Venezia:)

had a half of a gondola-race! Well, we tipped our guide 10€ if he could get ahead of the gondola right in front of us and he did! The guide of the other gondola looked at us oddly while Morgan pretended to paddle with her hands.

"What're you doing?!"

"Racing!" and a grin.

"Ok . . . "

"Ciao, Stefano!"

And we did tip him. Offered five more if he could pass a motor boat but he declined . . .