It felt strange. Strange, but somehow familiar.
We were in Venice, a romantic break, just the two of us doing the tourist spots. We had been sung to on our gondola ride, crossed the Rialto bridge, and taken a thousand photos.
We had visited the islands; bought glass on Murano and read gravestones galore on San Michele.
The Doge’s Palace had astonished; the paintings, the gold, the sheer scale of things, each room more stunning than the last. And then, the Bridge of Sighs. Back out into the glorious sunshine of Saint Mark’s Square.
Of course, any trip to Venice has to include a visit to St Mark’s Basilica and we were no different. As we walked through the church, I could hear the priest in one of the side altars. I have almost no Italian but mass is mass. Even without the words, the intonation was enough. I joined the small congregation. My English responses mingled with their Italian ones. It has been a while since I attended church but the words came easily and the spiritual connection followed.
Crossing myself as I left, I felt a sense of peace. A feeling that was strange, but somehow familiar.