Venice

There's a scene from The Simpson's Movie: the infamous Dome is coming down over Springfield and one man is under the shadow of the descending edge, darting back and forth, desperately trying to decide if he wants to stay within or without and of course as he's jumping around, undecided, the thing comes down and squashes him flat.  His dying scream is: "I never saw Venice!"

Does that mean I can die now because I've seen it?  At least I know what my dying words won't be.

But we almost skipped it because I didn't feel like going there.
Oh, did I just type that out loud?
It appears I did.
Right now you true Italy devotees are wiping the spray of Montelpucciano off your computer screens.  Let me give you forewarning: do not take another sip until you've finished reading for I've always maintained that confession is good for the soul though you may think it won't be enough to keep me from burning in the Italian Tourism hell.

I can redeem myself by pointing out that we did go.  But it was a near thing.
I hear your wails and groans of disbelief even from my little room in Obedin.  Why?  What could possibly have made you hesitate? you cry.  You think it must have been nothing short of a severed limb gushing liters of blood per heartbeat or maybe even a case of diarrhea so unrelenting that even diapering was ineffective.
No, I just got tired.
We were all tired.  And kind of getting on each other's nerves.  It was obvious we'd reached the downward slope of nerve-getting-on because every sentence began with a tell-tale exasperated "could you just..."
As in:
"Could you just put your pajamas on and go brush your teeth?"
"Could you just stop walking so fast/slow/into the back of me/off where no one can find you?"
"Could you just stop snoring for one night?"

I don't care what sort of al fresco, tuscan, bellisimo, pesto, vino or other Italian-type thing you're doing or seeing, after a while you get tired of hearing yourself snapping at your family members in that waspish voice that haunts your dreams and makes you wonder what you'll be like when you're seventy.
The only solution is to go home and sleep in your own bed and wash your clothes in something other than a bathroom sink.  And that's exactly what I wanted to do as soon as we left Lake Garda.

Problem was, we were driving within 50 km of the city and every time we brought up the possibility of not stopping, we found we couldn't quite look each other in the eye due to the guilt.  One time we actually whispered to each other: "What will people think if we don't?"  That's when I knew it was a lost cause for normally I put very little stock in the opinions of others, but I knew that one day we would have to face Tony Dean and explain just what in the world happened.

So to Venice.

About that I will only say that our lunch was so-so but the shopping was actually pleasant which coming from me says a lot.  As for the rest, the photos speak for themselves.

One of my favorite things was the hotel where we stayed not because it in itself was spectacular in any way, actually it was probably the dumpiest of all the hotels so far.  But I was won over entirely by the staff which consisted of a man named Marco.
Marco's job appears to involve making coffee and then spending the rest of the day sitting in the dining room talking to his guests about the pros and cons of Facebook.  A case might be made that I didn't love Marco so much as it was that I coveted his job but regardless, we spent many an enjoyable and relaxing hour in the dining room with Marco. We were outside of the main city of Venice and within easy walking distance to several grocery stores so in the evenings we feasted on fruit, cheese, salami, wine, and other bits of Italian deliciousness.
Another part of Marco's job involves partaking of whatever groceries the guests bring in but the price he pays is washing our plates so we can't say he doesn't earn his keep there.

I didn't get any photos of Marco.  Once again photo ops came and went while I was stuffing my face.
At some point I said to Mihai, "Could you just go upstairs and get the camera?"
To which he replied, "Could you just go get it yourself?"

But I never did because I was tired.  Bone tired.  The kind of tired where you want to curl up in bed and never get up. But I was I worried about dying of exhaustion?  Not really.  I'd seen Venice.