It's Monday, people, time to be up and at 'em. Yeah, I don't feel much like it either, but I'm trying to paste a smile on my face and pretend like I do because pretending you're happy makes you feel better, even if you know you're only pretending. I did more knitting over the weekend (yesterday) than writing but that's okay at least I was doing something, not sitting on the couch, frowning and pouting, right? Right.
July 18--San Giorgio Maggiore, Venice. "That island's all church," Sam said, reclining on the hard wooden bench of the tour boat, his arms folded across his barrel chest. The boat rounded the north side of tiny San Giorgio Maggiore and he saw the rest of it. "I take that back," he said, "it's church and marina. I suppose that's Venice's answer to a parking lot." He flung back his head and roared with laughter at his own cleverness. The rest of the passengers around him smiled a bit. They had spent more time than they cared to playing straight man to Sam's heavy handed, American-centric opinions of what they saw. "If he's so in love with the States, why'd he come?" more than one of them had asked Pat, their long-suffering escort.
Ah, the ugly American, a well-loved literary device. Talk among yourselves.