Venice is slippery. Until it rains, the maze of stone tiles
and the rise of shops and homes piled upon each other into the sky seems like
it could last forever, hand painted by street artists with tiny plumed
paintbrushes and pastels. Then it rains, and people pour onto vaporettos to
escape the beautiful sinking city. Bright green canal water laps onto the
streets and ancient stone steps leading down into the water wave with seaweed
and algae. And even though Venice is crammed with people, English, German, Russian, Italian rebounding off the stone, skidding the water, the city is quiet, confident, its own. Even when you're not in
sight of a canal, you know you're in Venice. A bookstore, closed for lunch, is its own Venice of decaying paper and bruised book covers. A money box, inscribed with Italian instruction, swings from the door handle. Outside, books are stacked on books, two euro. Wooden stands bend under the weight of so many Italian words.
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