Claxons

Thwack, thwack, thwack… the sound catches my attention. I look up; the overhead fan is off-balance but at least it produces a slow, soft breeze. I turn my attention back to my drink and my companion. Mr. Hemingway is telling a tale about a fishing trip to the waters around the Dry Tortugas with his pal Waldo Pierce. I’m certain that he’s embellishing, but I don’t mind – the story washes over me in a warm comforting wave, not unlike…

I’m immediately jolted by a violently deafening noise. It’s mind-numbing; almost as if every synapse in my brain has been momentarily scrambled.

What a glorious day -- the cool sand, the warm breeze… I can feel the sun’s rays enveloping me like a hug. I stumble as I run down the beach, but I don’t care - I don’t even bother to look down. I watch my kite, flying high in the sky. It’s a nice strong wind, pulling my kite ever higher in the sky. I don’t think I’ve ever flown one that high. I glance down the beach at my friend whose kite is just as high. I wonder if it could go so high that…

Again with the deafening noise! My brain goes into shock momentarily. What is that??

The train almost seems to move in slow motion as it pulls into the Santa Lucia station. The air is brisk; it’s exhilarating. I take the water bus; the one that stops at every station along with way. I may decide to get off and poke around the back streets a bit, besides there’s no better people-watching opportunity than Venice during Carnevale. After a few stops, and a couple of glasses of good cheap vino I’m back on the water bus. A thousand images flash through my brain as the Basilica di San Marco comes into view; it’s almost as if…

The claxons sounds again. I want to poke my eardrums with an ice pick – what the hell is that???

Oh wait, it’s my alarm. Damn, it’s time to get up.