The Venice Sketchbook

by Rhys Bowen

tramezzini:

billowing

ubiquitous

spinster.

prim

frills.

quay

throttle.

swatting

the Festa del Redentore. My

Dorsoduro to the waterfront known as the Zattere. It

dais,

crept

unbidden.

clammy,

bobbed up,

revved

threaded

sooty.

gaunt.

dire

cuttlefish.

Bovril

haughty,

horsey,

Florian’s. Come with me.”

Florian’s café

had told me it was the oldest café in the world. The contessa seemed to have no

Dorsoduro exists.

glass-blowing on Murano or the lacemaking

Vignole.

“St Martin’s Day,” she

the Calle Larga XXII Marzo, the main street heading to St Mark’s Square, and there was Leo, walking towards me.

Festival of the Madonna Della Salute and

church of the Salute, of course. You know it. The big church with the white

Giudecca

San Maurizio and Santa Maria del Giglio and came on to the Calle Larga leading to St Mark’s Square. Then

Church of Our Lady of Health. Lights

Campo San Polo,

Santa Lucia’s donkey,” he

Giorgio Maggiore and even around to the St Mark’s Basin.

disquieting.

eiderdown.

overawed

Shrove Tuesday,

swell

saddled

impending

faring.”

bawled