"Ah! Sunshine!" I smiled, as I rolled my Louis Vuitton suitcases across the dusty Venice streets. I had recently left the crammed train, and even though I had skipped the touristy gondolas found all over the watery green-blue streets, I could still feel the beautiful charm of the city. It was so peaceful, yet so hot outside!

Time to find my apartment. My grandfather, who was a reowned musician in Venice for a while, helped me find a small yet exclusive place to live in. He claimed that Venice was full of lots of different people; rich people dwelling with the poor. I hated that idea, but I would have done anything to live here, even if it meant sharing a building with a bunch of filthy toilet-cleaners downstairs. I told him to get me the best apartment possible, and his assistant brought in photos of a gorgeous peach-colored townhouse with lovely architecture, overlooking the blue waters. The rooms were antique, filled with architecture from all over the centuries. There were four other people down stairs. There was only a tiny kitchen, a parlor, a living room, a bedroom, and a bathroom, quite different from the Estate. But it was perfect.
 
“Ciao!” I smiled at the Italian man who was sweeping the front of the apartment with a straw broom. He had blue eyes, the same colors as the waters, and a gentle calmness. The wind blew softly, and his golden hair ruffled a bit. I paused, taking in his looks; he looked like the men Michelangelo painted... except he wore shorts, a pair of worn leather sandals, and a white shirt.
 
"Hello. (he said in English) You must be the new tenant. Here, let me show you your room." He said, breaking the silence. 
 
I smiled, as he led me up the airy, spacious staircase. It was alot better than the wallpaper-peeling apartments up for expensive rents, to trick tourists into buying " a real piece of Venice". "So, where are you from?"
 
"Munich, Germany. I'm here to study music. Well, and to take classes." He took my bags. We kept on walking. Above the staircase was an ornate dome, with a strange painting of a blue eye and sea-shells and Aphrodite. He looked at my battered cello and flute case, which I had troubles carrying along with me to the airport. "Ah, I see." I simply nodded to myself and moved on, up the steps to the 5th floor. "So, what do you do?"
 
"Well... I'm a writer." He paused, like it was a joke. He looked up to the sky.
 
"Really? Can I like, see some of your work?" My eyes glittered up. A writer, huh? To fit into a stereotype: most of the self-proclaimed writers I've met were never really good at words.
 
"You wouldn't really like it. Besides, my writing is in English." He gave me a grin.
 
"No, I'm sure I would. And I can speak English, you know. Come over some time, for some tea or something. Bring your latest work." Normally I wouldn't say that, but he had this sort of mood that made me less anxious. Like everything was relaxed and such. Maybe it was just Venice. But certainately I hated everyone else. I couldn't really explain it. He didn't respond to this for a while, but just said, "Yeah, sure. I'd love to." Kind of contrived, if you'd ask me. I ignored this. We finally stopped at the cherry-colored door. He took out the silver key and opened it. I didn't look inside, instead I kept my focus at this strange man. 
 
"Wait.. I don't know your name?" I asked at ease.
 
"David Holloway. I came here from London two years ago."
 
"Ah. I'm Elise Engel."
 
"Well, see you around."
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