All the time.
So fucking boring.
I went to Venice at 30.
First trip to Europe. On scholarship.
In a water taxi. Speeding along the Canal Grande. From the Santa Lucia train station to the Peggy Guggenheim museum.
A glorious April day. Powder blue sky. Woolly clouds.
'How did I get here?'
Straight to the American Abstract Expressionists. The paintings and sculptures. That period in New York cultural history.
Left my bag at the coat check.
Had so many firsts.
Seeing a Calder. Amorphous puddles of colour hung like lures on fishing rod wisps of silver. The shadow-cast play on white walls.
Jackson Pollock. Willem de Kooning.
Do you know the feeling? Having an out-of-body experience. Standing in front of an original.
Something you've seen in books. Or in an art history lecture — dark room, slides shuffling in the carousel.
I cried at the Musée d’ Orsay. In a state of rapture.
Le Déjeuner sur l'herbe. Édouard Manet.
Spanish teenagers on a high school trip squeezing in on me.
Food is good.
So is painting. And pottery...music…poetry…photography…movies…theatre…family…friends…bike rides…ice cream…clouds…beaches...trees…bird song...
Where does the list end?
Spent a Venetian night in a convent.
I always thought my grandmother, Theo, made a snug bed.
The nuns made getting between the sheets a form of penance. Like putting on skinny jeans right out of the shower.
I went to markets and restaurants.
But the first few hours. I still carry in my heart.
Two new-to-me songs from this week.
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