My next post will include my general impressions of Venice, but here are some of my favorite things and moments from our time there...

Bells. There are lots of bell towers (many leaning) throughout the city, which means that pretty much wherever you are, you hear chiming round about the top of the hour. I say "round about" because it seemed to me that none of them were operating on quite the same time. So one bell melody would be followed five minutes later by another, farther in the distance. Lovely. And different from the bell tolls in London, which also permeate the city but ring with the singular authority of Big Ben.

Whenever I'm in a new place, I like to sleep with the window slightly open because I want to hear the sounds of the street. Our hotel was a stone's throw from St. Mark's Square, and waking in Venice to the chimes from St. Mark's Bell Tower was a definite bliss bit.

St. Mark's Bell Tower. We went to the top for a bird's-eye view of Venice. The bells began to ring while we were up there, and it was amazing. The melody starts with one bell and then another joins in and then another and another until all the bells in the tower are swinging heavily back and forth, their pendulums within arm's reach of those standing below. It was loud, but not unbearably so. There was no chance of speaking over them, and so the entire tower of people stood watching in silence, the vibrations reverberating through our bodies. And then the bells gradually ended their cadence one-by-one just as they had begun, each bell swinging less and less until its pendulum no longer struck its sides.

The Alps. They are within view from Venice. I had no idea. Flying in, we were over snow-covered mountains only moments before I saw the coast. And one clear morning in Venice, we saw the snowy peaks rising up in the distance, above the horizon of the city.

Dueling orchestras. I had read about these, and was determined to hear them. In an attempt to get business, a couple restaurants within St. Mark's Square each hire an orchestra to play at their outdoor tables. And each orchestra tries to outperform the other and win the affection of the crowd. There was a clear winner the night we were there, with people circled around and couples dancing. At one point they played "New York, New York" which felt oddly asynchronous to me. (Pictured below is the losing, but lovely, orchestra.)

Laundry on the line. Everywhere you look there's laundry hanging from the line, draped across window sills or stretching across alleys. This obviously isn't unique to Venice, but what I did notice here that I hadn't other places was the distinction of dark and light loads. We saw lines full of only dark clothing, or only light. And interestingly, it tended to apply to an entire area, not just one residence. We'd walk down a street with white shirts and sheets waving overhead, and Doreen would remark, "Today must be whites day."

Shutters. These are also not unique to Venice, but can I just say that I love having shutters that actually open and shut? Why do we attach ugly plastic fake shutters to the sides of our houses in the States? Throwing open solid wooden shutters is such a simple, but significant, joy.

Party in the plaza. There was a small enclosed plaza below our hotel window, and one night it was host to some sort of party. They had event tents set up, so I couldn't see anything, but we lay in bed and listened to the laughter for awhile. SO much laughter. Someone would speak loudly in Italian, telling an animated story I couldn't understand, and then everyone would erupt in laughter. It was so joyful and contagious, I might have even laughed myself.

Water taxi ride. We were given a free water taxi ride for reasons that aren't relevant and I'm not going to bother to explain. And IT WAS AWESOME. It was just the four of us and the driver, jetting down the canals of Venice. We had been on the waterways already, but we'd ridden in the public transport boats which are big and slow. The water taxi was fast, and could navigate the narrow canals. For me, this was one of the best moments of the trip. The drivers of these boats are so skilled, and it's amazing to watch them maneuver. And often they are going slowly enough that the motor isn't very loud, and so they all greet each other or yell curses if someone is in the way. It's like a floating street party. And when the driver cranked it up and darted us through the canals, it felt like we were in one of those Venice high-speed boat chases they always put in movies. Definite highlight.

Fresh market. I always hit up the fresh markets when I'm in a city, and Venice may have had the best one yet. There is a fish market and a fruit/vegetable market, and both are expansive and gorgeous. (Well, as much as a fish market can be gorgeous.) Doesn't hurt that it's situated right along the Grand Canal, either - I'd wager no fresh market in the world has a better location. And the fruit and vegetables were absolutely vibrant. We bought some strawberries, and I don't mean to overstate this point (and I was very hungry so perhaps my perspective is skewed), but I've never had such succulent strawberries. So red! We rinsed them under a nearby fountain spout and sat along the Grand Canal, our feet dangling over the water, as we ate them.

Evening plaza stroll. On our last evening, Rob and I took a stroll before dinner and he guided our route to a plaza I don't remember the name of that was filled with people. It was lined with restaurants and there were definitely plenty of tourists here, but there were also lots of locals. It was a long rectangular plaza, and we watched the activity around us as we slowly ambled through. Some young boys were chasing each other with water guns. Several people were carrying boxed pizzas home to their apartments. A young Italian man was introducing a young woman to an older couple, presumably his aunt and uncle or something similar. It was a fantastic snippet of local life.

Dining along the Grand Canal. Our first day in Venice, we lunched along the Grand Canal. And our last night in Venice, Rob and I ate dinner along the Canal as well. Food is pricier there, so we didn't do it often. But it was worthwhile to do a couple times. The hustle and bustle in Venice is on the water, and so it's entertaining just to watch the boats go by. Plus it's utterly picturesque. Every now and then I'd look around and realize, Holy shit. I'm in Venice. It's hard to be unhappy while sipping a glass of wine by the Grand Canal.

In my dream, he isn't there. I'm on a trip with friends, a trip that feels very much like an attempt at distraction, which isn't working since the only constant in my thoughts is his absence. In the daze of the dream, the reason for his absence isn't clear, although the pit in my stomach suggests it will be long, perhaps permanent.

I do my best to play along, to go through the motions, to act in the way that's expected of me. But despite being with dear friends, I am utterly, unbearably alone. Actually, it isn't the aloneness that's unbearable, it's being without him. I see dolphins, and wrapped up in the joy of the sight is the desire to share it with him. But he isn't there, and the realization that I can't even tell him about it makes the moment suddenly empty. Every joy is enhanced by - no, entwined with - his presence and participation, and without him each moment drains of color. Life loses its third dimension; everything is flat and meaningless. I am stumbling, aching, walking wounded. The pain is piercing and suffocating, and I want so desperately to go back. Let me go back! To where he is or when he was. Please let me go back.

I wake up. And there he is. Next to me. My eyes fill with tears as relief replaces grief. I slide against him, hold him in his sleep, and softly weep because it could have been, and still could be.

Then I sigh in gratitude, as I cling to him, for the gift of another day together.

It is 8:05 am. I'm walking to my office after a coffee run, bundled up and clutching my cup of joe. A man, younger than me, is coming toward me on the sidewalk. As we pass, I mumble a half-hello and simultaneously he exclaims in as exuberant a come-on voice as I've ever heard, "Hel-lo! Good morning, darlin'!" He is grinning shamelessly and his gaze follows me as we pass. I suspect he might be drunk.

Still - perhaps due to the gusto of his greeting, the liveliness of his licentiousness - I rather appreciate his warm regards.

As we're driving down the interstate, a Nirvana song comes on the radio.

"The kids entering high school now weren't even born when Kurt Cobain died," Rob says.

"Really?"

"Well, he died in 1994, right?"

"I think it was my freshman year. So, yeah."

"Fourteen years ago. Nearly half your lifetime."

"That's also when I met you, yo."

"Yup, nearly half your lifetime ago."

I think about who we were then. We're returning home from watching Juno, and so it's perhaps easier than usual to muster a memory of our teenage selves. We were a lot like them - good kids involved in band and sports and sharing a real relationship. We weren't part of the snooty popular crowd and had no desire to be. Somehow we even managed to avoid the typical teenage angst. My recollection of our high school years is of open mic night at the coffeehouse, hikes on warm spring days, and a sense of possibility in the air that was almost palpable. We were naive in so many ways, but we also knew ourselves well and recognized something in each other. I remember we used to long for the day when we'd be grown up and sharing a life together - when we could drive home, together, after a movie.

I look at us now, sitting in this car. Rob's hands are clasping the steering wheel and mine are clutching my suede gloves. Where we are now is what once felt so far away. And suddenly I see that we are undeniably adults. All the evidence is there - the marriage, the mortgage, the two-car garage. But when did it happen? Wasn't it just yesterday that I was writing RIP Kurt on my spiral green notebook, right next to the heart encircling Rob's name?

I gaze out the car window at the unending stretch of road. There are tiny travelers far ahead of us, marked by red, and ones behind us who are penlights of white. And I realize it's been happening all along, while we've been moving. I guess I thought there would be a sign or something, a crossing of state lines, a concrete destination that I would recognize upon arrival.

We pass a tractor trailer and as I watch the continuous roll of its wheels I'm surprised to find my eyes welling up with tears. I search myself for sadness, but there is none. I am just profoundly affected by this moment of realization, of the tangible truth in it. There are mileposts along the way, some more memorable than others, but growing up, and being, and living, is happening all along the way, constant and so gradual that it almost goes unnoticed.

I'm sitting in a park downtown, waiting for my husband who will soon be hurrying down the street toward me, clutching a 3-ring binder stuffed with our account statements, tax returns, and various other financial records. In ten minutes we have a meeting with our financial advisor in the building next door.

Twice a year we meet with this fortune teller. We bring papers that represent our present and she reads them like a palm and then foretells our future. It seems as though the future is a number puzzle one can simply unscramble. Although, to me, mathematical methods are murky, a bit like peering into a crystal ball.

But we dutifully plan for the future, laboring over decisions involving mutual funds, savings certificates, and retirement accounts. We try our best to determine what we will need, what we will want, and how we will get there.

As I wait for my husband to arrive, an older couple comes out of the office building that we will soon be walking into. I smile to see that under one arm the man is carrying a 3-ring binder stuffed with papers. His other arm is entwined with hers.

I am seeing our future.

They slowly stroll down the sidewalk and into the park, towards the fountain. They walk by me, talking quietly. He guides her past the steps and over to the ramp, which they carefully start down, still clutching each other's hand.

This is what we will need, what we will want. To walk in the park side by side. And getting there suddenly seems as simple as tightly holding hands.

We have, in fact, been doing it all along.

Rob and I ate dinner on the deck yesterday evening, and I took Bridget outside on her harness while we were out. I glanced up from setting the table just in time to see her fling herself into a bush, spread-eagle and legs flailing. She came out the other side with a bird in her mouth. We were simultaneously quite impressed and rather horrified. We didn't know she was capable of this, and by 'capable' I mean both that we didn't think she had the skills and that we'd nearly forgotten that our cuddly cat is above all is a cold-blooded carnivore. We praised her dutifully while she stood there with the limp clump of feathers grasped tightly in her jaw, but when she finally dropped the bird we snatched her up quickly to allow it an escape. It immediately flew away, apparently unscathed, and Bridget proceeded to parade around the yard, immensely proud of herself.

As I stand on the sidewalk at an intersection, waiting to cross, a guy whooshes by on a bike, then pedals harder up the hill - his right hand gripping the handlebar and his left hand clutching a dozen red roses.