chapter  9
Acqua Alta
Pages 10

We checked into a hotel that had once been a convent-an old facade with an interior now overdesigned and seriously hip-on a side street near the Accademia bridge on a stormy day in June. They gave us the key, number twenty-seven, up two flights and around two corners. After struggling to line up the eye of my fish-shaped electronic key with the green dot on the wall, I entered the room and immediately approached the windows to see the view, a reflex of travelers entering hotel rooms around the world, anxious to fulfill the expectation that the time away from home-the two days, two weeks, two months of reprieve from regular daily life-will pass like a dream.