I have come to suspect that Venetians hang their laundry out purely as a public service — a courtesy extended to tourists who arrive expecting something picturesque and are rewarded, always, with sheets.
It is eternally laundry day in one calle or another. Turn down an alley hoping for a quiet canal and you will find instead a cheerful disorder of shirts and pillowcases strung between opposing windows like festive bunting, a domestic alphabet swaying in the lagoon air. The washing machine, it seems, never rests in Venice — which is remarkable for a city that otherwise moves at the pace of water.
Between the Lines 
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