in venice, i remembered anthony bourdain’s advice and got lost, turned opposite the arrows painted on the buildings. and there were endless crooked alleys and scaffolding with blue tarps, like giant forts with cafe chairs tucked between metal pole legs. we drink black espresso standing by the window in the wall that is also the door. i find a shop where an old man makes fantastical things out of single pieces of wood–giant paintbrushes leaning against tubes of paint, a broken down shoe taller than you with laces in a knot, a trenchcoat with gloves stuffed in the pocket. he says i may take just one picture, so i turn in circles and finally i just close my eyes and press the shutter. click.
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