Venice is a muse, a grand lady, lifting her skirts high above the rising water.  She is at once ancient and contemporary, graciously welcoming to endless visitors and carnivale revelers each year.  Each turn of a corner, each bridge crossed is a revelation, each view an inspiration.  The stores are filled with Murano glass, masks, and Fortuny replicas, and the streets are filled with Venetians.  Even in the winter, bundled-up natives sit in outdoor cafes and sip scalding macchiato and cappuccino, steam from their breath mingling with steam from their cups. Wandering the streets of Venice with a camera, one runs the risk of becoming lost.  Could that ever be considered bad?

Portogruaro, on the Po River, is one of Venice’s suburban sisters.  The thousand-year old town is built around a tower that leans to rival that of Pisa.  The Po flows through the center, at one point churning through twin mill wheels straight out of the sketchbooks of Leonardo DaVinci.  I was completely smitten at once by this village and its people.

The Amalfi Coast, Napoli, Capri, Portofino, Procéda, and of course Pompeii, stretch like enormous tinted pearls in an extravagant necklace.  The houses, boats and hotels reflect the hues of the sunrise, the sunset, the crisply clear skies, and summer warmth.  The people are passionate and welcoming, the sea vibrant and romantic, and the night, seen from any of the harbors, is as magical as anything I have seen.

Colors of the Amalfi Coast

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