meanwhile, here in Venice

Venice creaks awake: Shutters squeak then clang; the big bells ring; boats are released from the chains of their mooring and seagulls herald the morning. A pigeon shits on the windowsill, blood-fat mosqitoes fly, tired from a summer of feasting, into the day, and the water continues, as it has done for all time, to lick the stucco from the bottom of the building.

The razor clams are still in the market and we have them for dinner. As they meet the boiling water they split from their shells, their engorged tips poke out, and they waggle like small excited members.

Umbrellas protect the figures as they move accross the bridges like silent shellfish.

The fennel boat just misses the rubbish boat and almost bumps in to the post boat.

I made three jokes in Italian.