-- Sunday, March 5, 2000 --

12:03 a.m. Nothing like a stack, a tower, a shish-ka-bob of books to stop a couple of writers dead in their tracks. The lovely heyoka and I were slowly making our way around Venice today, snapping the occasional perfecto photo, when suddenly we came upon this literary topiary in the archway of Beyond Baroque.

The weather earlier this morning had been just dreadful (that's a proper British term, I believe). Dreadful. Buckets dumped on an already drenched town, and the cracked and uneven sidewalks could only puddle up and helplessly mirror the turbulent sky. Today we definitely had some weather.

We also managed a certain amount of tripping and various other forms of self-inflicted mayhem. I found a fabulous painting in the garbage and it may or may not turn out to be haunted. I gashed myself on the leg with a nail from the edge of it and bled a fair amount, so only time till tell. I've always wondered if lockjaw literally locks up your jaw. I hope not.

The high point of our walkabout (another British term) was the dazzling, theatrical ocean. It was very, very windy. My anniversary boater's hat was jammed way down, and I had to hold it on with one hand and clutch my inadequate jacket together with the other.

The wind. You could actually see it weaving the sand. It was blowing hairballs of sea foam right off the edge of the water, skittering them over our shoes. The wind was fierce and cheek-reddening. Blowing down my neck.

I have to admit I enjoyed walking and bowing into the wind. I'd tried to buy the heyoka off with some dandy postcards in a clean, well-lighted store that was conveniently stocked with a revolving rack of every imaginable beach scene. Plus, the store was warm and shielded from the raging wind.

But the heyoka is, by nature, authentic.

My leg is aching and throbbing a little as I sit here and type. Burning, a little. I have no photos of the ocean because I was too intent on keeping my shoulders hunched and my eyes half-closed against the stinging sand fog. Instead, I only have words to describe the scene.

The words. Sometimes they fail to contain the color. Sometimes they fail to keep your book from getting staked through the heart and mounted outside a used-book store.

We went to a restaurant with white-paper tablecloths and a red crayon next to the water glass. Wine is served on the honor system; you fill your glass from a large jug with a twisty spout on it. Every time you have a glass, you add more features to the happy face the waiter has drawn on the tablecloth.

Our waiter's name was Quoint because he was the fifth-born in his family. By evening's end, our happy face had a beard and teeth and several handsome sprouts of hair.

A tablefull of writers, all professional. No words were necessary.