Sixty Two

The guest house/management office sat a reasonable distance from the road. The first thing you see is this very nice pond, or small river, sitting right in front of the guest house that was made of timber beams, glass, and stone. He opens the door to the house. It was stuffy and stale from being closed up, so he walked straight into the living room, opened the sliding door, and let in the fresh but cool air for only a few minutes.

Then he immediately saw the view from the window: Venice unfolded like a dream painted in soft pastels. The sun casts a golden sheen over the shimmering canals, where gondolas glide slowly, their oars slicing through the mirror-like water. Tall, narrow buildings adorned with colorful flower boxes lean into the canals, their faded facades whispering stories of centuries gone by.

The air is fragrant with the scent of salt and fresh seafood from nearby markets. In the distance, the imposing silhouette of San Giorgio Maggiore towers against the sky, its bell to