I had a whole entry of chatty b.s. ready to schpiel, but really, that's just not me. I think its the endorphins from working out this morning. I am an endorphin junkie. Someone should bottle that shit. Its all I would do.

No. Today, while the endorphins are wearing off a little bit, I do want to write about one of my favorite places on the planet. Venice, Italy.

Something tells me I found my soul in venice, and another whisper on high says I left it there. I must go back. Soon.

Forget about all the bullshit you think you know about Venice. A man could spend his whole lifetime there and not really get to know it all. There is simply too much. And there is nothing at all analogous to this city in America. It really gave me a sense of the whelp country we are. Not that I don't love America, first and foremost, and would die for my country if called on to serve out of duty...and sense of adventure. But Venice is so goddam old it will blow your fucking mind. You can literally see the thousands of generations that have washed over the city and worn the cobblestones of Plaza de San Marco (St. Marks Square) smooth to the touch.

*sigh*

I can almost smell the balmy Medeterranean breeze right now.

Forget the canals. I've been in a couple of places where cars are simply banned, and really, you adjust quickly. I really didn't think of it.

And the people take a little effort to get accustomed to. Forward, fashion concious, Italian men and women. Women mostly in my case. I know a smattering of Italian, and its easy to pick up. That, and with non-verbals, you really can communicate(Except with the Turks. Nothing personal, but your country SUCKS) Italian men would try to make friends from the approach of 'ball-breaking'. And if you don't know what that means, well I guess you're slow and will be taken out of the gene pool by a city bus at some point as you try to cross the street w/o looking.(Okay, I relent. I was kinda' kidding anyway. Sort of. Ball breaking is where male bonding takes place. It comes from trading friendly derogatory statements in a way of taking the measure of the other guy, and his willingness to banter and ultimately stand up for himself...I'm pretty good at this exchange. But I digress...)

Italian women were so beautiful. Oh. And somewhat forward. Most of the conversation concerning me revolved around two things. 1) My physical size. I was weightlifting and eating steak at least twice a day...they called me something like el brute'. I liked it. Every other country I've come across seems to be somewhat emaciated. But that's my American bias.

2) The fact that I was circumsised.

But forgetting all of that for a minute...Venice is awesome. There's the major attractions, the Bascilica de San Marco, the Plazo Ducale, and the Plaza de San Marco.

There's also, quite literally dozens of old bascilicas that, were they in the U.S., would be the oldest thing around.

I had jet lag pretty badly when I first showed up. I thought I slept in way late, but ended up leaving my room by six a.m. their time. There was hardly a soul awake, except for the square sweepers, and a noisy japaneese tourist group who's sound echoed through the narrow streets for blocks.

I wandered those streets that morning alone, hungry as hell, awestruck at all the beautiful history. Streets like mazes, but its impossible to get lost. I perched up on a thick stone carved railing, propped open my note book, fired up a Dunhill Light, and watched the sun rise. Slowly the city awakened. And I prowled in search of food.

Rule #1 When travelling: If you have a pocket full of twenty dollar bills, no matter where you are, you are okay. (at least one twenty will get you by. A pocket full, and you're GOLDEN)

So I wandered the streets, as the bakeries and corner shops opened up. Old men ran those stores, and I'm willing to bet their families owned them for generations. And I followed my nose to the first bakery I could find, with a pocket full of Italian money...2100 lire to a buck. Fucking awesome. As I walked in, there was no one up front. An old man, sixtyish, with a balding head, peeked from the back and motioned me to wait. So I did.

He came back with the most tasty honey glazed sticky buns I have ever seen. We communicated non-verbally, and I got some.(hand gestures...this much? No. THIS much.) And some weird soda I don't remember and have never seen again.

"D'lire?"

"Three-THOU-sand one a' hunnred"

"Gratzi"

I didn't even think about how he knew english. It was pretty bad, so i think I played it right.

Anyway, I walked through the square to a porch of a palace. I don't think it was the Doge's palace. Maybe it was. But I can't be sure. Like I said, I need to go back.

And I saw with my sensitive eyes, finely tuned, what it must have been like, thousands of years ago to come from some mud, thatched roof hut to this burgeoning metropolis, and see the princessess courtesians lounging on this porch in diaphonous white gowns, giggling at the approach of the dirty wanderer.

Then I looked again, and i saw as the invaders raced through the town, slaughtering indiscriminantly, the alleyways echoing with screams of the innocent, the streets being washed red with blood. It overwhelmed me. I had to sit down, then go inside.

I found a library, where I clearly wasn't supposed to be, grabbed some texts, which were as old as dirt, and glanced at them. Nothing. Impenetrable. So I went down the hall, opened a door, and there was a canal right in front of me. Some old professora type came out and gave me a dissapproving nod...."Move along, American." it seemed to say.

I went back to wandering. I went towards the water, in between the palazzo ducale and the building with the marble porch.--its really starting to bother me now that I don't remember the name, I think it was the doge's palace--- The blue, blue, blue of the medeterranean, and the hot sun was intoxicating. A brace of what must have been high-school girls started following me, hooting ,"El Brute'! El Brute'!" giggling the whole while.

*sigh*

I can feel the sun, and hear the murmur of the crowd. What I would have give to have my guitar with me. I'm sure I left a corner of my soul there, if not the whole damn thing. Me and millions, to be sure.