The canal is lined with boats—travelers from afar—and Michael has made dock-friends. The men talk of many things, but one woman tells him of a wonderful gourmet store on the other side of the canal full of imported goods—I saw it when I explored Google Maps looking for grocery stores within walking distance—and because his new friend exclaims about how wonderful it is and how they kept giving her samples of things, he thinks walking over there is a good idea.

Entering  through the front door we walk straight into a six foot tall aisle of gourmet vinegars and olive oils.  I am super excited because the brands we purchased at Wal Mart aren’t the greatest.  I check all of the bottles of balsamic, turning them upside down, testing the viscosity of their contents.  They all lose. I mention my problem to the proprietor and am shown a small-round, tall-thin bottle that seems perfect.  Forty dollars.  I can’t bring myself to do it. I know I can get twice as much at half the price from the Texas Olive Oil company in Dripping Springs. I’ll just have to make do.

I look at everything twice, at the least the grocery items. My fingers itch—I want to load up on everything— I want this store in Wimberley. I walk back to the front, turn a corner, and am lost in a world of imported dishes.

“Look Michael, there are Vivian’s dishes.  I LOVE her dishes.”

“NO.”

I knew that. But still, I look.

I walk to the register, paying for the cheese and salami and olives and kitchen tools I accumulated, grab my bag and we walk to lunch. On the canal. By the bridge.

It is late in the afternoon, the breeze is surprisingly cool, and I suggest a walk—exploring the town on this side of the canal. The old town is compact and church filled, but the streets where we walk seem to be the heart of Fairport. We turn left, discovering a residential area…my favorite streets to walk down.  We see a very old cemetery up ahead. I confront a sign that says Burying Ground—Google tells me cemetery is from the Greek, meaning sleeping place—I guess the settlers of Fairport believed in calling a spade a spade. I take a picture of the sign, but between the shade of the trees and the darkness of the sign, all I get is a black void.

Heading back to our floating home, we pick our way above the canal stumbling upon a construction site. We don’t turn around, but continue on, making our way through torn earth, machinery and a half-finished, multi-storied complex.

“I’m not sure we can get out of here,” Michael says. I’m just not sure how we get ourselves in these fixes; maybe because he hates backtracking?

We skirt weeds at the edge of the water, carefully walking up a small incline, stooping low to get to the other side of the fence and chain barring entrance.

Dinner is at Donnelly’s Public House; the harbor master says it is the best restaurant in town—at least his favorite. There is a crowd, and once inside the noisy din of talk and laughter is deafening. I tell Michael that this is what restaurant owners strive for, the sound of laughing talkative people having fun; if we were young and drunk we would love it.

He asks for an outside table.

Surveying the town from our high perch—overlooking a full parking lot with thick telephone wires in my face—I tell Michael, “Look…the town is all new—built to look quaint! At least the buildings that edge the canal…this one, and that one and that one and that one over there, and that one.”

“The smoke stack is old.”

We are the only patrons up here on this high perch, and our waitress arrives breathless each time she comes to check on or serve us. Guiltily I request salt for my peach and whiskey glazed salmon—telling her I will go get it myself. Smiling she tells me, “It’s no problem…it’s right here.”

She delivers. She leaves.

I shake…nothing comes out.

I twist off the dented silver cap, turning the shaker upside down. It is a solid mass. Nothing I try will dislodge the stubborn white crystals. I leave the shaker turned upside down on the table, hoping the restuarant will get the message.

We sit on the bow of the barge, wine glass in hand, enjoying the evening and reminiscing.  Even though sleep beckons, I don’t want the day to end.

Waking at five-thirty, after a quick cup of coffee Michael starts the engine, using the bow thrusters to push away from the dock while pushing the tiller to the extreme left to make a right turn, we head down the canal on the hour-and-a-half cruise to the marina where we picked up Harriet Wiles.

I stay below and sort and clean and pack.

And it’s over.  Too soon, it’s over.