Every single thing about Venice is memorable.

Imagine boarding a plane in Atlanta and sitting in a really uncomfortable seat for 9 hours on your way to Italy. Finally, you land, staggering with an army of fellow travelers at immigration and customs, looking for the exit and a way to get to Venice.

You look for a machine that may or may not work to purchase a ticket on a ferry to Venice. You find one, and unfortunately, the instructions are in Italian, and the machine only accepts Euros. The signs point in different directions, and you hope to see a boat somewhere. None of this is familiar to you, even with your guidebook.

You persevere and find a boat that appears to be heading in the direction you want to go. Hop aboard and squeeze into a tiny space, and soon your boat races across the water toward the city. You aren’t sure where you’re going or where to get off, but this is one terrific ride, just like you imagined. You hang on and try to use your iPhone to take photos, all the while hoping you don’t drop it overboard.

Suddenly, the boat pulls in near Piazza San Marco (if you’re on the right boat), and you’re where you’ve always wanted to be. I took the image shown here while standing at that very dock, so if it looks familiar to you, great. You’re in the right place.

You’ll be surrounded by hundreds of fellow visitors. Since the streets of Venice are narrow, you’ll have to navigate (lugging your heavy bag) like salmon fighting to get upstream. It’s a challenge to see street signs, and GPS signals are unreliable, so you’ll need to stop about every 10 feet to ask where you’re and how to get to your destination. Don’t be concerned. Everyone does this. You’ll feel like you accomplished something extraordinary when you reach your hotel or destination. My advice is to take a brief rest and then head out into the city.

Now the fun part. Even with the zillions of people around you, there are countless places to visit, eat, and enjoy. Walk till you drop. Then stop for a snack and a drink. Repeat. Forget the tours and guides waving flags for you to keep up. Venice is a walking town, and literally around every corner is something to discover.

Buy an all-day ticket for the Vaporetto (which arrives and departs from docks throughout the city) and enjoy the ride. At some point in the trip, you’ll think you’re a bit player in the movie “The Talented Mr. Ripley.” When that thought strikes, immediately hop off the boat and head for the nearest bar for a Negroni. Now that’s being a Venetian.

Around dusk, the lights surrounding Piazza San Marco (the Heart of the city) come on, and it’s a spectacular sight. The square is enormous and surrounded on three sides by lovely old buildings with shops and cafes on their ground level. The beautiful St Mark’s Basilica faces the court, and the Campanile di San Marco towers over everything off to the side. It’s an incredible light show in a beautiful town.

Whether you’re in Venice for a day or a week doesn’t matter. It’s impossible to stay still. The sounds of Venice begin before dawn and continue until late in the evening. Whatever your interests are, there’s something here for you.

I always, always hate to leave this magical city.

Not long after we moved to Bangkok, Thailand, we bought a dog from one of my work colleagues. She was pretty small at the time and of dubious lineage. However, she grew to be a 60+ pound powerhouse, a mama of eight puppies (which she inconveniently gave birth to under our bed.) Our friends had named her Shaytoon, which meant something in another language, and rather than change her name, we kept it.

She immediately became one of the most fantastic family companions ever. When our youngest daughter was born, she fiercely guarded her, to the point that when a visitor bent down to touch my daughter’s hair, Shaytoon moved near the person and gently put her open jaw near the person’s arm. She didn’t bite our friend, but made it known she was there to protect our daughter.

In another memorable incident, a grocery delivery boy taunted her on deliveries to our house. One day he stood before our front screened door and started teasing her. To everyone’s surprise, Shaytoon charged at the screen door and went completely through it, racing towards the boy. He took off like a rocket, and when he returned another day, he made sure not to bother our dog.

A few years later, we moved to Hong Kong, and due to their strict animal quarantine laws, we had to keep her in the shelter for 180 days (yes, 6 long months) before she was allowed to be released back to us. We visited her regularly; however, this was a very long separation for all of us. Soon enough, she was home with us in our apartment, sporting a new tattoo inside her ear attesting to her British good health certificate. 

Fast forward to our return to San Francisco, our home. Of course, Shaytoon made the trip and quickly adjusted to the life of a City Dog, enjoying rides and walks everywhere. We were never apart, from picnics on Stinson Beach to runs on The Marina Green. I’m sure she didn’t think of herself as a dog, just another enthusiastic family member. 

Years passed, and like many dogs, she became ill and suffered from hearing loss and mobility issues. This is a horrible time in every family’s life, and we were faced with the prospect of having our veterinarian put her to sleep.

One day, when our daughters were at school and my wife was out, I took Shaytoon on her very last ride in our Volvo, sunroof open, and as usual, she had her head out of the passenger window. We went to the Marina Green for the last walk before heading to the Vet a few blocks away. It was time, and I was the only person in the family who could do this. It still hurts my heart to think about that day.

As I led her into the doctor’s office, I bent down to nuzzle the soft blond fur around her neck, something I’d done thousands of times over the years, to give her one last mighty hug. I removed her collar and San Francisco dog license before letting her be taken into the inner office; in seconds, she was gone. I was heartbroken and drove home without her in a daze, realizing we’d never spend another moment with her again.

I’ve kept the license tag all these years (it’s the image in this posting.) She was a valued family member for many years, and I’m delighted to have this reminder of our time together. Thanks for everything, Shaytoon.

I know you’re having a lovely time in Dog Heaven.

Before I moved to the South, I had no idea that the State of Alabama had terrific beaches. Although people often think of other destinations, I’ve come to love Orange Beach, Alabama. It’s a bit of a drive from where I live; however, we don’t need a Passport, a plane ticket, or anything else to get there.‘

Once there, you’ll discover wonderful beaches (I took this photo early one morning). The sand is like talcum powder, and while the surf isn’t pounding away at high tide, you won’t miss it. While the Gulf Coast offers many, many other beaches along the way, this, my friends, is my favorite place. Give it a try; perhaps it’ll become your favorite as well.

It’s inevitable that the older I am, the more I think back to memories that have disappeared before my eyes. Not long ago, I read an article about how few children today know the words (or the meaning) of our national anthem, the Star-Spangled Banner. Even more troublesome to me is the thought that children likely don’t know who Francis Scott Key is. 

Our church has a weekly discussion group that ostensibly serves as a Bible Study group; however, we stray far and wide with the topics we discuss. Except for one young man, we are all ancient. This week, we began discussing the Bible for about five minutes, then transitioned into how children were taught in the 1950s, which consumed the remainder of the session.

Next week, I plan to steer our conversation toward events that occurred in the 1970s. How exciting.

We began our journey with chunky wooden pencils and a lesson book where we traced letters. I always loved the smell of those pencils (and still do), and I kept asking for a new one more frequently than probably was fair! Luckily, in 1946, the San Francisco school system had an endless supply of them.

When I was a kid, cursive writing lessons began in kindergarten. Every school set aside time to learn this skill – if you were left-handed, too bad. You did the same sessions.

As I moved forward, we used real pens that needed to be dipped in ink, which is why there was a hole in the desk. Our classes were called penmanship, and I truly loved them. To this day, I still avoid using ballpoint pens; instead, I have a collection of fountain pens and Japanese-made felt-tip pens. Young Japanese students writing in Kanji or Katakana with a pencil just doesn’t seem right.

Students all over now write in a kind of printing that feels a bit strange to me. It all looks quite similar, no matter where I see it. I suppose they think my use of pens and ink is old-fashioned. I wonder what my family will do with them when I’m no longer here.

Each year, I angst about whether hummingbirds will return to my feeder. Around the time they are supposed to be in our area, I put the feeder out; this morning, I saw the first one of the season. It’s a small thing, but it gives me great joy.

Welcome home, little friends.

By accident, I found the only photo of me, dressed perfectly in a tuxedo (rented for the occasion) and bow tie, heading to my junior prom. At the time, everyone was listening to the song “a white sport coat and a Pink Carnation.”

Boy, I look great. The photo is in terrible shape, but my smile, crewcut, and cummerbund are visible. It was a night to remember, even though it was decades ago.

My date, Diana, and I went to dinner beforehand at A Sabella’s restaurant on Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco. She looked terrific; we were the perfect prom couple, sitting by the window, looking as grown-up as possible while clearly teenagers.

Two especially memorable things happened at the restaurant. One, Diana ordered mahi-mahi fish as her entrée. When our meal arrived, she looked at her plate and asked me: “Is this the same fish as Flipper”? I said it wasn’t, but she wouldn’t eat it, so she ordered some other local fish and was happy again.

The second thing happened as we were leaving the restaurant. The entry (and exit) involved a kinda’ long stairway. Being the polite date I am, I was behind Diana as she descended. She slipped about a quarter down, sailing down the remaining steps to land at the entrance.

It was a spectacular sight; fortunately, the only damage was to her pride. Yet, through her tears, she blamed me for the accident. Probably because when she slipped, I confess: I burst out laughing. That was not very gallant of me.

We got through that incident and had a super time at the prom and throughout high school. We’ve been in touch a few times over the years through that dumb site “Classmates.” I guess she’s forgiven me; she told me that she told her granddaughter about the entire event and how much fun it was.

Thanks, Diana.

I’ve been fascinated by AI and how this will impact people sooner rather than later. I am particularly drawn to ways AI will change how we write. To test this, I opened one of the most popular AI applications and asked what some of the most prevalent challenges of Old Age are.

Wow, nearly instantly, the application gave me 3 paragraphs of examples. It’s an amazing tool, and had this been available in junior high, I wouldn’t have worn out the encyclopedias at our corner library (although they were very effective.). Here’s a sample of the first paragraph’s advice: “As the sun sets on the horizon of life, the journey into old age presents a unique set of challenges.”

Gee, I already knew that.

So, while exploring AI applications was (and is) fun, I’ll continue my journey to older age with my best efforts to embrace and enjoy my twilight years with limited use of technology.

Buenos Aires was always at the top of my bucket list, and one weekend, I flew down from Miami to see why. When I landed, I fell in love. As my taxi moved towards my hotel, I couldn’t wait to see, smell, explore, and enjoy a city I’d longed to visit. Every moment of the taxi ride was magical, and I loved it; I felt I was somewhere where I belonged, even in an earlier life.

I arrived at my hotel, and within 20 minutes, I was walking, exploring, and enjoying. I chose a familiar path for part of my walk, the area in Buenos Aires known as San Telmo (I bought the ceramic piece in the photo there). Everyone who sees Evita will recognize this immediately. It’s the heart and soul of old Buenos Aires, and I felt entirely at home. Mind you, at this time, I’d been in the Country for about 90 minutes,

I walked down an ancient street and saw the open door of a bar welcoming me. I hadn’t had breakfast, but this was the perfect location for my entry into Argentina. The bar was long, shining, and accommodating. I sat down, and the bartender, without a word, went to make a cortado (like an espresso with a bit of milk) and brought it to me with a small glass of a liquor I didn’t recognize; hey, this was no time to reflect, so I immediately drank both. I instantly felt like a local.

A few minutes later, an older couple moved to the dance floor. With a soaring tango playing in the background, they danced like they were soulmates. Sweeping, dipping, turning, all in perfect time to the Tango beat, at that moment, I wanted nothing more than to be a Tango champion myself, turning to the lovely older lady for a turn around the barroom floor to the beat of the music.

Alas, it didn’t happen. However, it was a marvelous, perfect welcoming present for me, a first-time visitor to an incredible city.

Not long ago, I was in Arlington National Cemetery celebrating the services of a family member. As I walked through the cemetery, I felt a sense of calm; all around me, more than 400,000 people were resting. Their grave markers tell who they are, yet not what they did. No matter the case, these are the true Champions of our Nation. They share a space with no bounds of discord, only a lovely, peaceful home where each one is honored and respected. It’s a powerful place. It was my honor and privilege to be there with them.