Voices on the Wind Voices on Journey
In the Piazza San Marco by Wilda Morris which Napoleon called the finest drawing room in all Europe, I drop into an empty chair amid scents of cappuccino, garlic bread and wine. Live music spreads a layer of tranquility over conversations in languages as varied as the architecture of the basilica. Pigeons—hoping for corn from the little packets peddled by old vendors— drop into the patterned courtyard. On every balustrade, twenty-somethings on their way around the world gather, chat, laugh. Two gunmetal Moors strike the gong atop the clock tower. The 1700-pound horses— replicas now of those stolen from Constantinople by Crusaders—stand guard. I could sit here all day watching, waiting, almost expecting the horses to snort, break loose, gallop out of the Square in search of their long-lost chariot, like drays heading for the barn.