The,hallowed,ground,Venice,Ven travel,insurance The hallowed ground of Venice

Torres del Paine is among the biggest of Chile’s national parks, occupying almost 600,000 acres (242,000 ha) of land in the south on the border with Argentina. It is also among the most important, receiving a significant proportion of domes Like any American, traveling occasionally is just what I love doing and I bet you share the same stuff with me. But traveling does not mean that you would be safe. Escaping from our job and other stressful activities is just something that w

Venice is a wonderland of history and amazing windingcanals that take you back in time. It takes different eyes to truly seeVenice, eyes that see through the throngs of people, past the vendorsselling masks made in China and people, so many people. Onehot day in July I had the day away from my group, they were offexploring the museums and shopping for the perfect piece of Muranoglass. For me this was my time to explore. I thought I would ventureout of mainland Venice on the number 42 heading toward Murano. The sunwas hot beating down on my skin, making it feel warm to the touch as ifI were in front of a winter fire. Boats zipped, sloshed, and trudged their ay past our slow floating people mover known only as Vaperatto number 42. Ihad been to Murano many times to stroll through its small windingstreets whose storefronts glisten with fresh blown glass. I was hopingthat Murano would show me something new this time, but I was not sure. Theold 42 stopped many times along the way. The ropes would be thrown anda painful creek would be herd as they stopped the boat for passengersto venture off and on. Stop name, stop name the boats gatekeeper wouldyell in the most routine of voices. My destination wasMurano but when the waves lapped, ropes moaned at the stop cemintario;I was pulled to disembark. I had never been to this strange walledisland so I thought I would take a break from the known and examine theunknown for a while. What is this place? I thought as Iventured from the dock bobbing in the surf. With my feet on solidground I went forward toward the large wooden gate open and inviting infront of me.A graveyard, oh wow a graveyard. This islandthat is just another stop for the many tourists heading to Murano waswhere Venice buried its people. Well not the next happy day trip destination to show my group but I will check it out anyway. Theentrance was non descript, just a few rose bushes and buildings; its sohot, maybe I will just go back to the hotel and take a nap; no I willcontinue. As I ventured past the arches gravel pathways Iwas suddenly surrounded by thousands of plots. This place is big,really big; I just start walking. The first thing that hitsme like the pungent flavor of fresh basil of my first place of caprasieach year is the silence. Where are the sounds of the tourists; themuffled roar of life is absent. The silence embraces me, relaxes me,slows me down; its wonderful. I start to explore thishollowed ground surrounded by water just off the edge of Italy's mostvisited city. Unlike in the United States where we mark our dead with amarble headboard, I see hundreds of stone, marble and granite boxesabout five feet by 3 feet, each with a matching billboard that displaysthe typical graveyard scribble. But wait, something catchesmy eye, something that is different, yet all around me. Photographs,not one or two but thousands of photographs. Photos of the dead intheir time of life. The face of Venice's past lives greeting me withsmiles, happy eyes and proud stances; I am amazed. Itbecomes obvious that Italy has a tradition of placing a photo of thedeceased on the plot so the living may see them as they were. theexperience is not morbid but joyous as I wind my way back and forthpassing the markers. Mario, enzio, Maria, Gloria, Luigi all greet mewith their best poses. Big smiles, bright eyes and serious gazes. Thisplace is full of life, the life that each one of these people lived andtheir personalities shine through in the candid photos surrounding me.Enzo with his boat, marias proud smile, one you can imaging she hadwhile serving her prized pasta sauce to her family on Sundays. Everyso often I pass the living with a pleasant smile or polite "hello" thewind passes through the Cyprus trees; I can't hear anything but thewind and the gravel crunching under my feet. I am drawn to see the nextphotograph; will they be laughing, look mean or content, the suspenseof who these people were is electric. I try to imaging who they were,what they did, who whey loved and it becomes apparent with each photothat passes by. Gentle Italian faces, many black and white but some incolor which bring to life the persons image even more.As Icontinue on, deeper into this vast island of the dead I find myselfamong huge mausoleums. These structures contain the most privileged offamilies, each boasting gold leaf writings, glass ceilings and modernentrances you would now find in any fine home. These structures aregrouped together in this vast metropolis. I have wondered into theuptown, the park place of the dead where its tenants surly adornedthemselves with Gucci, Prada and Araimani's latest offerings. Despitetheir past lavish lives, they now share the same destiny as even thesimplest of plots bearing only a faded photo and weathered stone. Were they Venice's founders, businessmen, wives, husbands, thieves orlovers; yes they were all that and they gave me the opportunity to meetthem in the most relaxing and inviting way.