We almost cancelled this trip. My health improved, though, and I wanted to make what may be the last trip that involves any serious walking. People thought we were crazy to travel during the war, but war or terrorism were never an issue.

As it turned out, I didn't do that much walking. The vaporetto system and strategic rests and naps in the afternoon helped a lot. But most of all, it was Carol, putting up, as she has for so long, with my handicaps, my irritability, my weirdness (I still think she secretly likes my weirdness, though she'll tell you I go too far). Without Carol, this trip would not have been possible. Without Carol, nothing would be possible.

Thanks to friends and relatives who shared their experiences and recommendations and literature from past trips to Venice.

Every day was gorgeous this week. There was not a drop of rain or cloudiness, and, thank God, no acqua alta. This is a safe city. You fell comfortable walking down any alley at night.

Venice is a wonderful city. Florence is all gold and glitter, shining in the sun, flashy, high-style, arrogant--wonderful in its way. Venice is a decaying, declining, sinking city, It reeks of mildew and death. It's gray. It recalls its days of greatness, when it ruled the world, but cannot seem to recapture that greatness. It's like New Orleans, which floods, decays, and mildews, with secrets around every corner, recalling its days of greatness on the river. Maybe Venice is like Providence was when we first moved here, gray, dingy, without an opera. Maybe, like Providence, Venice will be reborn. There are plans for gates to hold back the ocean, an entryway designed by Frank Gehry, the rising of La Fenice opera house from the ashes this coming December.

We had planned a couple of train trips, each for a day to Padua and Verona, which are nearby, but we could barely see the Venice we did in one week.

Finally, a word about this web page and pages that have gone before it. Many a person has told me to stop writing about my life and just live it. Writing these pages is not tiresome to me. I seldom read them again once they are published. They are the slides I used to take that I was excited to get back from the drug store, after which they would go in carousels, never to be viewed again. They sit now in the Brier's garage, growing mildew like Venice. I love to write. When I tell my stories, exaggerated or not, people tell me I should write a book. This is it. This is my book. There is so much in my life that I don't write about and never will. But these pages reflect a good piece of it.