One morning I woke up early and decided to go for a quick jaunt in the light rays of the dawning morning sun.  The air was brisk and my mood eager. I walked around observing the the activities of the “real people of Venice.” The people who make it run, the behind the scene engineers if you will. Essentially the same guys who’d be the ones to fix a broken animatronic figure on a Disneyland ride.  They were sweeping up the streets and large squares, delivering crates of wine to restaurants via boats, picking up trash, and grooming building fronts for photo opportunities.

I walked on a bit further and saw a line of shop owners waiting to choose the fresh produce from the small boat bringing it in. I too merged into the line and bought some lovingly ripened nectarines. Still a bit further on I saw a small bakery getting an early start on making their pastries. I bought way more then I could eat, partially because they were fresh and partially because I wanted to try them all.

I sat around for awhile in the warming air, enjoying it all, taking it all in, when I heard the faint sound of men singing. I went to investigate.

Around the corner, in what appeared to be a tiny furniture repair shop, three Italian men were working hard, singing boisterously along to the radio playing Mambo Italiano. You don’t get any more iconic then this.

I savored the privileged happenstance moment in my very privileged life.

This is what traveling should be. Simple pleasures, new routines, local flavor, and loved ones.

As I walked on to meet up with three friends I love, I considered how spoiled I have been and hoped that the acknowledgment of this fact would make a humbler future-me rather than a pretentious “oh yeah, I’ve been there before” ascot-wearing-story-killer.