\”blog\” ryhmes with \”bog\”…

         When most people hear the word “Venice,” they think of an elegant city, whose streets were replaced by fishy green canals, whose squares are overrun by pigeons, and whose food is legendary. But I am not most people.            

          To me, Venice is a beach. A beach with miles of white sand and grey skies, with strong waves that push you back three steps for each one you take, even when you dig your toes into the loose sand; a beach with water so cold you numb within seconds of wading in and thaw half an hour after getting out.Venice is a place where 30 or more surfers, nestled close to the pier, will pause as one to watch a kid on her first wave.           
           Venice sits close to California’s canals, which are neither green nor smell of fish, but are ruled by birds. A fence blocks off these canals due to many protests from my mother after the day I fell in as an infant. Sopping wet, I sat upon the dirty streets of Venice and cried because a duck stole my pacifier.            
            Venice is a beach with a bicycle path, upon which it is normal to see families on two-seater bikes, skateboarders pulled along by their dogs, runners in Speedos, and the occasional sunburned rollerblader playing a jazzy number on his saxophone.            
          Venice is a place with cafes and stores such as the Cow’s End Cafe, featuring a plastic life-sized cow dangling from the ceiling, or Aardvark’s Vintage Clothing, where the manikins are aardvarks.
Venice is a place where the abnormal is normal, a place where nobody looks at you twice.Venice is a colorful place, where artists run wild, and paint the very streets.            
           Venice is not a city. It’s not just a beach, either. Venice is my beach.         

            “Dad, do I really have to do this?” I was standing on our front porch, shivering in my small black dress, both hands clutching my beaded purse.             “Aw, come on, it’s just dinner. It can’t be that bad,” said my dad from the steps.             “Yes it can, and it will. Please, can’t I just stay home?”             “Sorry, kiddo,” he said with a smile.             “But why?”              “Because your mother lives in
Santa Barbara now, and I have to work tonight. Besides, you haven’t seen your aunt in a long while now.”             “And that can only be a good thing,” I grumbled.             “I’m sorry. Here she comes,” he added as a shiny silver Volvo pulled up to the curb.             “Sweetie!” Mildred bounced out of the passenger seat and came tripping up the steps to give me a hug. Underneath her too sweet perfume, she smelled like our medicine cabinet.             “Hi, aunt Millie,” I said stiffly.             She pulled away from me quickly to hold me at arms length. I took in her usual light pink skirt and matching sweater, the smile lifting the corners of her round, wrinkled face, and the lacy black beret perched atop her short fluffy hair. “You’ve grown so much!” she cried, leaning in to give me a peck on the cheek. “Gosh, I can’t believe you’re thirteen!” She giggled, still with smiling like a beauty contestant. “I remember my wild teenaged days,” she sighed, then clapped her hands and said, “Well, we’d best be going now. I have reservations at the most charming little French restaurant, and it simply won’t do to be late, now will it, Sarah? Nice to see you again, Dave,” she chirped to my dad, who stood up to shake hands with her.             “Pleasure’s all mine,” he replied. “Have fun, you two!”             “Oh, we will,” I said, trusting my aunt to miss the sarcasm. As soon as she had her back turned, I rubbed the hot pink lipstick off my cheek, and mimed retching to my dad, before I turned to follow her to her car. As she prattled on about her adolescence, I mentally prepared myself for a night of overly-rich food, smiling vacantly through her stories, forcing myself to laugh when she did, and of clinging hard to the thought of returning home.