The Truth About Visiting Venice, Italy
The roads are always flooded
I had to cash in an insurance policy to buy a beer.
Not a big beer. Not like the pints we serve in Scotland. It was an eeny weeny tiny bottle of beer — three gulps (two with a thirst).
I resolved to take my time, forget the price, soak up as much as I could of Venice and enjoy the culture. But…
My spidery sense went on high alert.
Thirty years of policing doesn’t leave your veins when you retire. I still choose the chair with its back to the wall and a view of the door. I might be chatting with my companions or completing a crossword, but part of my brain remains on alert.
Vigilant. Not like a vigilante, just wary.
I’d hardly had a sip of my beer when an argument flared two tables away, an Italian couple. Voices raised, arm movements, finger-pointing.
I’m watchful.
The man is animated, he leans forward, brow furrowed. His voice rises above the soft hum of conversation. She talks over him, expressive, gesturing with her palms facing the ceiling.
The exchange is too fast for my limited Italian, but I get the gist, this is a full-blown domestic argument.
