Mumblings

A last look at Venice

Verona shadows

I have little to say or show this week. I’ve taken nary a photograph since returning from Italy. That’s not quite true. There were wild horses near San Luis, Colorado. So, I’m going to let the keyboard take charge and see where it leads me. I’ve had a story about Lenny Levenson, my friend and co-worker from the early 80s on my mind since we reconnected in Treviso, Italy in November. His story is a book waiting to be written. I’ve encouraged Lenny to write the book but like me he doubts that he has the drive and discipline to do it. But he knows more Levenson lore than I could ever learn. He should decide which secrets to reveal. Besides Lenny’s a natural storyteller and a fine writer. At worst my questions have bamboozled him into doing the research for a lousy blog post.

Italians smoke when they kiss. Bologna.

And vape. Florence.

Italians serve the best steaks in the known universe. Roberto Martone's dry aged steaks at La Trattoria da Olinda in Favaro were unbelievable. Roberto, in his words, works 26 hours a day. He cooked our breakfast, worked the grill at his restaurant till 11pm then drove us in the van to the Venice airport the next morning. The steak was top fiver. Ever.

Want a cab? Bring lunch. Florence.

This isn't Venice anymore, Toto. It's mustangs along the highway in San Luis, Colorado.

In the meantime, here are random musings and images from the barrens of my brain.