It was a travel day. I'm leaving Sicily.
From car to plane to bus to train to boat. My suitcase got tagged as heavy. I saw Ed several times giving a glance to the canal then to the suitcase, then to the canal. I know what was going through his mind.
We pulled into Venice late, just before 10. By the time we got off the Vaporetto and walked over to the little hotel on the “left bank” (Dorsoduro) of Venice, it was well after 10.
Ask someone where to get dinner as the clock ticks past 11 p.m. in Venice. Go ahead, ask. You’ll get an answer, sure. And you’ll go there, and it will be closed. I’m going to guess that Venetians are ashamed of their early closing times and so they pretend they don’t exist. But they do.
Eventually we did find a little Sardinian place where the cook did not throw down his spatula at the stroke of twelve. We sat, we ate, we drank, we took in the warm night air. Venice can change rapidly from lively to quiet. From bustling and bright, to moonlit and quiet. Just turn a corner, or move the clock forward.