Yesterday, the sandolo flew, and so did I. It had been in the workshop for a couple of weeks, recovering from time spent largely submerged. My father and I walked the long oar across town, carefully navigating the crowds. My mother took the vaporetto, with a cart full of floorboards. The board was perched near the entrance, ready for its departure. The crane took it up into the blue of the sky above, a flying boat, before depositing it on the edge of the north lagoon. My father rowed me home, my last moments in Venice spent on the water.
Earlier that day, we caught "Venezia che spera", one of many exhibits on the 150th anniversary of the unification of Italy. Highlights included Ipolito Caffi's sketchbooks; a number of stereotypes which I was successfully able to resolve with my eyes; a fascinating group of images portraying Venetian professions (including the professional cat-castrater); mid-nineteenth century maps, with Palmanova on the border between the Veneto and the Austrians; and photographs of churches, now long-since destroyed. After spritz with a friend and a quick lunch at home (featuring very fine chicken broth), we were off to collect the boat, and then I was off to the airport, and back to the UK once more.