I felt an odd connection to the place.
Changed trains in Mestre, and the lack of wind there
made the generally forlorn and grigio place seem peachy this time.
A quick ride west to Verona, through a largely flat Veneto,
then a a cab to the hotel and hit the busy, busy
evening streets, crowded with locals and tourists alike.
Somewhat too much for me: trinkets and unabashed consumerism
without the grand, watery backdrop of Venice.
We passed Juliet's house, and I thought I recalled
reading somewhere it's not her house at all,
but something that is marked as such, and thus
has nonetheless become a tourist hotspot.
Just walking found a great wine bar -
(aren't they all?) A wild scene there,
inside and out, a superb barman who educated me
about the excellent local Buglioni Valpolicella wines,
which are luscious and delicious.
Pressing ever onward, toward home today,
to Milan, to stay the night there, and
await an early flight out tomorrow to JFK.
And so another tiny, precious velvet box
of fond remembrances closed and tied
with a thin slip of finest silk ribbon
and tucked away on that high shelf, amongst the
others, of my consciousness. . .