The Life Aquatic

I spent Sunday afternoon asleep on the stern of a tugboat. The Captain Bruno and his rather robust wife Bruna (it's almost too good) served us cappuccino and spoke over the loudspeaker, ignoring the yawns and hungover expressions of their passengers. As I dozed, I imagined myself in a striped shirt and woolen cap with a pompom atop it, reading my geographical scrolls and drinking tea with lemon. Then I awoke and had to acknowledge that I don't know how to read maps.

The point is, the Life Aquatic will do this to you. You will find yourself dreaming of rowboats and candlelight and mysterious messages sent to your watery doorstep. Let me explain. I traveled to Venezia this past weekend on a school trip and fell in love. If Rome is blistering and hot, raging and sultry, Venice is crisp and tranquil, lovely and unassuming. It's perfect.

In Venice:

I saw the golden ceiling of San Marco, ate some sweets in the Jewish ghetto, and was swept along to the islands of Murano and Burano, known for glass blowing and lace making respectively. I saw the Villa Vildmann, drank some birra at Venetian Oktoberfest, and slept in a bizarre lovenest with a 'shower' that was solely a drain.

Venice is a gangster's paradise. It has a curious yingyang: dirty graffiti on a Shakespearean backdrop, the saltiest seafood in a backdoor restaurant. If all goes well, I will write to you next from my tiny little tugboat, quill pen in hand, B.I.G blasting. If not, I will just have to return.

A presto and book your flight.