At the end of our European trip, my seven year old son, my mother-in-law, and I spent the last of our days in Venice. We decided to do the most “touristy” of things and rode in a gondola. In the beginning all I wanted to do was hide my face for participating in this oh so typical ritual. After a few moments though, I was lulled by the comfort of the cushions, the hushed swish of the oar, and the beautiful decay that glided past. That was until, the skies opened above and large pellets of rain soon soaked us, thunder boomed, and lightning sizzled as we sat in a boat in a canal…full of water. After hiding under a series of bridges we finally got back to our starting point. Stepping off the boat, I soon discovered that the place had miraculously emptied. Everyone had scattered and disappeared inside dark doorways. After dropping my companions off at our hotel, I continued on, to enthralled by the solitude to let the rain bother me. I spent the rest of the day sloshing through puddles and soaking in the quiet history of the city’s alleyways and saturated colors. I was supremely content to lean on a centuries old crumbling wall, watch the green water edge by in a small canal off the beaten path, soaking wet, alone, in a quiet and deserted Venice.