Last Night In Venice: Is This “The Night”?
Sunday, July 12, 1964, Venice. No camping in Venice, so a hundred strides off the Piazza San Marco, we had found a tiny pensione with finely carved furniture, a canopied four-poster bed draped in antique organza, and private bath, with breakfast—all for a hair under five dollars a night.
This evening, after two full days of sightseeing, we wound up at the Lido, a slender barrier island between Venice and the Adriatic Sea, where we ate on the beach and watched the dipping sun paint the clouds gold and black over Venice.
As we cuddled on a dawdling vaporetto en route back to Piazza San Marco, tenor gondoliers materialized from the dark, serenading the lantern-lit lovers in their holds. The melodies seemed more romantic wafting across the water at night.
Back at the pensione, the two small lamps with old-fashioned lampshades cast our room in a cozy hue. Jack wrapped his arms around me and whispered, “You know, Venice is the most romantic city of cities. Tell me that tonight’s the night.”
I wanted to say yes, but I couldn’t. “Let’s play it by ear,” I said. “Better yet, by touch . . .”—Ann
Politics In San Francisco: Ho, Ho, Ho, Barry Must Go
Sunday, 12 July 1964, San Francisco. After breakfast, CBS Channel 5 announced a protest march against a predicted win for Senator Barry Goldwater at the Republican National Convention, set to open Monday at the Cow Palace, San Francisco’s convention center.
Cousin Paula and I glanced at each other. We couldn’t resist.
Mom shook her head. “You kids are nuts.”
An hour later, Paula and I plunged into a river of Blacks and fell in behind a guy with a four-year-old on his shoulders and a pregnant wife at his side. We weren’t the only Whites—there were scores—but Whites were clearly a minority.
I’d seen protests only on TV, and in photos of the 1963 March on Washington: Being inside a protest was a new world for me. There were no Blacks in Center—not one. In high school, no team in our league had Black athletes. None. At CU, we only occasionally saw a Black person on campus. A handful starred on the football and track teams, but the basketball squad had only one.
That first step onto Market Street was tough, my heart racing. I glanced furtively at the faces around us. No one frowned or snarled or called me a honky or flipped the bird. This was a meandering crowd of like-minded protesters, nothing to fear.
Paula and I strode along, waving her calligraphy signs like beacons. Hers read “Civil Rights in ’64/Ho, Ho, Ho, Barry must go.” Mine was less flamboyant: “Civil Rights, Yes/Goldwater, No.”
I took Paula’s hand and squeezed it. She beamed and squeezed back. “Me too, cuz. This is great, isn’t it?”—Terry