On the train to Venezia! We're passing through the countryside outside of Milano, which is eerily beautiful in the winter. The frosted fields are full of stubble, and are criss-crossed by rows of elegant bare trees, canals full of silvery ice, and hedges protecting stubborn bits of snow from the weak sun. This morning, a mist hangs over everything, and the new rays transform the scene into a study in pastels. We're sitting across from three people who seem to be going home to Venice. Their Italian is softer, full of sussurating z's, not the hard explosions of Milanese. Erika gets a text, and they smile at each other, indulgent of the American students, when I whip out my dictionary to translate "augorio." (Wish, as in "best wishes.") ... Morning after arrival. Yesterday: Stopped at a
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