tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-769865399556724717.post-79572276108459569112007-06-22T06:17:00.000-07:002007-06-22T06:37:35.336-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_u6W_OVsAUnQ/RnvQEJwKssI/AAAAAAAAAAc/tmr4sPHan3s/s1600-h/PICT0006_1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_u6W_OVsAUnQ/RnvQEJwKssI/AAAAAAAAAAc/tmr4sPHan3s/s320/PICT0006_1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5078881774546367170" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:verdana;">June 22<br /><br />The pervasive tone of Venice is liquid and old. She rocks in motion even when she is still. From the canals and waterways which wind through her veins, she is threaded with bridges, churches and plazas.<br /><br />The tourists, like us, try to hold all the images in their cameras but it takes time, years perhaps, to absorb the nuances of each path that winds through Venice.<br /></span></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/769865399556724717-7957227610845956911?l=orseckblog.blogspot.com'/></div>Ellen Orseckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15791905686248673343noreply@blogger.com2