I can walk by tourist crap without a second glance. Fridge magnets, plastic fans, and I Heart T-shirts don’t do it for me.
But, give me a story. Throw in a bit of history, polish it with the patina of time and romance. Tell me something is rare and I’m reaching for my credit card.
There’s a small vineyard in Mazzorbo, Venice.
The sales presentation is flawless; crisp white linen and crystal wine glasses. The story is exquisite; a grape thought lost to history, a wine the Venetian Doges drank. The wine bottles themselves are works of art, the glass made in Murano, and the label wrought from paper-thin gold leaf.
Did I mention the bottles are numbered by hand, and the wine comes in the cutest little wood crate?
Was I aware I was being taken in by a fantastic sales pitch? Vaguely, but— Wine the Doges drank!
Was the wine even good?
You’re asking the wrong person. I don’t like wine.
Suckered in. Hook, line, and sinker 🙂
When you’ve seen enough museums, castles, and churches. When your feet are killing you and you can’t access Google Maps because the battery on your phone has died. When the clouds open up and you left your umbrella in the hotel…
Something familiar. Some place that’s just like home.
Don’t think I don’t see the irony here.
We pack our bags and hit the road because we want to see new, different, other — and then all we want is the same old, same old.
Because being a stranger in a strange land is exhausting. Also interesting, exciting, and amazing, but it fries the brain.
For most North Americans, that little bit of home is a Starbucks or if we’re really desperate a McDonald’s. For Canadians though, nothing says home like Tim’s.
In Belfast, a block or two away from their incredibly beautiful city hall … could it be? Nah. No way, not here.
But, yes. There it was, as Canadian as the Maple Leaf — Tim Hortons in Northern Ireland.
Did I go in?
Two words for you — French Vanilla 🙂
Window on Time
Walk with the Eternal.
Wishes over water.
All pictures: Pont du Gard, France.
Watching with care,
Waiting in welcome,
Windows of the soul.
You’re late. Where are you?