Did it get better than that?

Joy used her phone to pay for the vaporetto then hopped onboard with many other tourists and headed along the Grand Canal. As she watched the cityscape transform with the changing light, she and other tourists drank in the sunshine warming the skin and calming the soul. The scent of the salty sea air invigorated her.

The boat passed under the Ponte dell’Accademia, the famous bridge near the art academy. Various sites including the dome of the Santa Maria della Salute, the home of Peggy Gugenheim, expensive hotels, and waterside restaurants appeared on her left and right sides. Joy leaned on the rail in the bow of the boat, taking photos and videos along with the other tourist.

Each photo could be a postcard.

Each video, a dreamscape.

In Venice for a few minutes, it had already left an indelible mark on her heart. The ocean air, the scent of the water, and the enchanting scenery had not only awakened her soul but had also woven memories that would stay with her forever.

Every canal they passed, every bridge, every narrow alley whispered stories of a rich and vibrant history unlike any other. A profound connection with this place emerged within her. It’s almost as if I’ve been here before in another life.

Now she understood what Claudia had meant. Venice was an experience and not just a destination. Much like Rome, it was a journey into the past while living fully in the present. But with canals where streets should be and boats where cars should be.

Its intoxicating charm overwhelmed her.

The boat docked near the Giardini Reali, not far from Piazza di San Marco, filled with boutiques, plein air artists, and shoppers.

“Too many tourists,” one lady remarked as she disembarked.

But the bustling docks and sidewalk didn’t bother Joy. People watching remained one of her favorite pastimes.

The boatmate helped Joy disembark with her bags. “Arrivederci,” she said.

He smiled. “Grazie.”

Joy pulled her luggage along the sidewalk toward the

the famous piazza, heading toward her hotel, but hesitated. A gondola ride along a smaller canal appealed to her. What better way to take in the quaint views of the city than by gondola?

Several gondola service ports lined the Grand Canal, so Joy paid the fare and climbed aboard. As the boat glided under a bridge and along the canal, Joy relished the sights and sounds. Gondoliers weren’t singing songs, but they did explain the sights along the way and whistled a famous Italian song instead. Or they simply greeted each other as their gondolas passed. Their voices echoed in the distance and laughter rose from nearby windows, along with the sound of music from pubs and restaurants.

But it was the windows that intrigued Joy.

The windows . . . Joy sighed. They’re so beautiful.

There were so many kinds of windows. Byzantine and Gothic styles as well as more modern-styled windows welcomed her. Some had balconies with baskets of geraniums, while others had clothes dangling from lines strung across the windows and balconies.. The architectural style of the buildings varied as much as the types of flowers displayed throughout.

Bright red geraniums, freesia, purple petunias, yellow lilies, and alyssum as white as snow filled the baskets. Joy knew flowers. She loved gardening in her backyard in New Rochelle, but working in a florist shop back in New York was where she had learned the most about flowers in all their varieties.

Flowers were like friends. Each day, they greeted her with bright smiles.

A woman waved from her balcony, so Joy waved back.

“Buongiorno,” she said to the woman.

“Giorno,” the woman replied with a smile.

Joy was glad she had accepted the challenge to travel alone. She had arrived in Venice.

Alone.

Wow. She giggled and shook her head. I still can’t believe it. Who would have thought I could be brave enough to do this?

When the boat stopped at a sidewalk near her hotel, Joy disembarked and made her way to the lobby, passing tourists, locals rushing to work, and restaurants. Many restaurants, each one so unique. Waiters set up small tables outside with tablecloths and salt and pepper grinders.

Finally at her hotel, with its pink stucco walls, she inhaled.

Here we go. My home for the next couple of weeks.

The lobby was decorated with tapestries and framed paintings of Tuscan landscapes, which along with a wrought iron staircase, created an old world feel to the lobby. Crystal chandeliers dangled above her, and the light reflected off the polished marble floor.

“Oh, this is lovely,” Joy murmured to herself.

“Benvenuto,” the hotel manager said, waving his arms. “Welcome to Venezia, the city of love.”

“I thought Rome was the city of love,” said one American tourist. She nudged her husband, who attempted to tip the bellhop when he loaded their luggage onto a cart.

“That’s what I heard too.” Joy shrugged.

The manager shook his head and ushered them to the front desk. “Roma . . . it is the eternal city. But Venezia”—he gestured toward his chest—“Venezia is the heart of Italy. The city of love. You’ll see.”

“It’s already won my heart.” Joy smiled.

“Signora.” He handed her the key card to her room. “Your room is on the fourth floor. Breakfast is served daily at eight in that room there.” He pointed to a hallway behind her.

“Sounds wonderful.”

Once she had her room key card, Joy rode the elevator to the fourth floor and located her room. When she opened the door, fresh air hit her nostrils and cooled her skin. The window had been left open by the cleaning staff. A light breeze animated the lace curtains. Chatter and music from a restaurant below rose to her ears.

The soundtrack of the city.

She wheeled her bag over to the bed and leaned out her window. It overlooked a small piazza decorated with trees and potted roses, small tables, and vendors. Joy craned her neck left and noticed a bridge over the canal. Shoppers overloaded with bags scurried by while others sat at the small round tables in the piazza, sipping coffee or cappuccinos.

Joy removed her phone from her purse and took photos of the view and then of her room. A queen-size bed, side tables, and framed replicas of Renoir and Bosschaert hung on the wall. In the distance, the tip of the Campanile Tower rose above the buildings before her. The famous tower provided the best views of the city, a friend once told her. I’ll have to take the elevator to the top. She opened her phone and scheduled it on her calendar. There. Now I’ll get a reminder.

After taking dozens of photos of her view, she sent them to Jaime for a surprise in the morning.

The sun hid behind a few clouds in the sky, cooling off the breeze that chilled her bare arms. The weather app on her phone predicted rain later in the day, so Joy unpacked, put on her comfortable walking shoes, and headed to the piazza.  She wanted to capture the sunset before the rain, and before her first day in Venice was over.

The streaks of pink and violet tones gliding across the sky left her breathless. She walked through the piazza toward the Grand Canal. The view of the canal left her breathless. Vaporettas and speedboats passed by, leaving their foamy wakes behind. Seagulls fluttered through the air, searching for food. In the distance the dome of the Punta della Dogana, highlighted by the setting sun, greeted her. She took more photos and videos with her phone, hoping to capture the glorious scene for Jaime, but knew her camera couldn’t possibly capture the details that the human eye could. The vibrant colors, shadows, and sparkles dancing on the surface of the water.

As she leaned on the railing, cool air rushed over Joy, and she rubbed the goosebumps off her arms. Her hands on her arms were all too familiar. She couldn’t remember when her arms were last touched by someone other than herself or Jaime or her doctor during an exam.

Joy rolled her eyes. How pathetic is that?

She longed for the touch of someone special. Would that ever happen again? She blew air between her lips.