The San Gabriel Writers’ League (SGWL) wrapped up its annual Essay Contest in April, spotlighting the creative talents of writers across Central Texas. Open to members and non-members, the 2025 competition invited essays of 1,500 words or fewer centered on the theme, “Turning Points.” Writers explored defining moments, unexpected detours, and life-changing decisions in pieces that were heartfelt, humorous, and thought-provoking.
Donnella Looger is the current vice president of the San Gabriel Writers’ League and the driving force behind this year’s essay contest. Having been introduced to Donnella by Linda Thornton, one of Georgetown View’s own writers, we are grateful for her invitation to participate and showcase the top writers. Her tireless work in organizing, promoting, and championing the contest gave local authors a meaningful opportunity to share their voices. As the owner of DRL Press, Donnella brings expert editing, proofreading, and publishing skills to the table—skills that have helped many writers, including several League members, experience the joy of seeing their work in print.
Second-place winner Marty McAllister grew up in northern Indiana in a lovely small town. Her interests are varied, and she participated in several extracurricular activities such as music, art, cheerleading, baton twirling, summer theater, and water sports, as she lived on a lake.
From about twelve years old, she was curious and enchanted with Europe. Finally able to visit Paris at forty she was smitten with the “bug.” She’s since traveled to Europe numerous times and written short stories of her travels.
Marty lives Sun City, is a member of San Gabriel Writer’s League, and teaches piano, paint and mosaics.
Readers can look forward to reading an excerpt from the third-place winning story in our July issue. Scan the code to learn more about SGWL.
VENICE IN THE “HOOD” • by Martha McAlister
Outside my shuttered windows is a lonely, quiet early morning before dawn; just occasional footsteps on the campo or nearby bridges that cross the small canals. No sounds of commerce. Birds sound as if they are screaming. There are no insects; I saw one fly in five days. No cars About 6:00am, I hear the sound of a few small boats starting their engines. In other areas, grocery boats, garbage, ambulance, police boats and public transportation boats called Vaporetti are doing the same. Locals and tourists alike must walk or take boats to begin their day’s activities. I unfasten the small metal latches, push open the green wooden shutters and fold them back onto themselves to see the unadorned façade of chiesa San Martino watching over my tiny second floor apartment. A footbridge over a narrow canal separates me from the campo that is home to the church and negozio di alimentari, a grocery store. I can see the yellow five-story building where my landlords live on the third floor and run the grocery store at street level. Smaller than a one-car garage, it stocks a variety of staples, cheese, deli meats, olives, dairy products, water, juices, pastas and wines.
Close to 7:00am the sounds begin: clanging, banging, opening, shutting, motors and voices. At the grocery, metal security gates roll up, followed by the spreading of large, green awnings. I hear a few footsteps, then more on the two metal bridges connecting the walkways on either side of my flat.
Delivery men, sounds of commerce, locals walking to work or tourists up early due to jet lag are all part of my morning wakeup call.
Francesco steps out of his grocery store to meet a man rolling a small red plastic crate attached to a dolly. The deliveryman stops in front and together they carry small packages into the store. Cheese delivery? A few well-rounded older women stroll by. Tourists or locals? I decide by their casual, unhurried demeanor, lack of luggage or cameras, and mode of dress, that they are locals. The putt-putt of boat engines and workers pushing and pulling containers up and down the steps of nearby bridges continue through mid-morning.
Venetians refer to the city as “Serenissima” meaning “most serene.” The ancient and modern mix in a frenzy of shopkeepers, restauranteurs soliciting passers-by, street artists, sellers of kitschy souvenirs and tour guides holding up their closed umbrellas to herd their charges through the day trip visits. Those who return to the mainland at night miss the magical evenings in exchange for a less expensive hotel.
Sometimes called the most beautiful city built by man, and Europe’s most romantic city. Venice has another side. The ancient facades have been witness to more than 1000 years of luxurious lifestyles, ruthless rule of powerful religious leaders, extensive commerce and trade as a major maritime power, as well as the lives of countless writers, artists and musicians. History is present and alive in this city of huge palaces and churches built on sticks planted into the mud of the lagoon over a thousand years ago.
I rented an apartment in the sestiere Castello, one of six neighborhoods, in an area where Venetians live and work. Just outside the tourist mainstream are quaint places with locals who are willing to offer glimpses into authentic Venetian lifestyle. This is where I spend most of my time.
Only a short walk from the lagoon, I find my way to the apartment easily now. The first time I stayed here, it took me more than a week to discover the shortcut leading me to the familiar location next to a hotel where I stayed on previous visits. The Gabrielli Sandwirth is elegant and right on the lagoon, but with less charm and authenticity than my small cozy apartment.
Behind the hotel, a walkway winds into several turns on unmarked paved paths between buildings. Around a corner, down a narrow walk and over two bridges brings me to the large green door where I use the first of two keys. Once inside, I walk up the ancient stone stairway and use the second key. The one-room apartment has three large, shuttered windows. I would grow to love the glimpses of life they would offer of the Campo San Martino and the narrow canals that run alongside the buildings. Rustic wooden beams stripe the ceiling above a double bed, a small kitchen area, and a table with four chairs set in the corner between two of the windows. The bathroom is just behind the kitchen with shower and bidet, along with sink and toilet. A built-in closet along one wall and some small antique furniture pieces complete the comfortable accommodations.
Due to fear of being lost, during my first stay I used the well-traveled route to the lagoon, finding it infallible. My wariness was partly due to observation. From my window I had witnessed several frustrated tourists studying their maps, irritated with each other for getting lost and wondering how to get back to familiar territory. I would lean out and politely ask, in English, “May I show you how to get back to Piazza San Marco?”
Startled, they would look up and nod.
“Ökay, I’ll be right down.”
Occasionally I was stopped as I walked and asked in halting Italian, “Dove’ il……? (Where is?) I would answer, “Do you want me to tell you Italian or English?”
Invariably the response would be, “Ënglish,” except for one time when the women were French, in which case I answered them in French to the best of my travel-talk recall.
Tourists don’t know this hidden enclave and can’t find it, or at least can’t find their way out, so they seldom venture there. I found it because I attended a language school that assigned me a living arrangement for two weeks. Luckily, I have returned many times.
After a restful morning, I venture out to buy groceries. At the nearby alimentari, I buy fruit juice in a box, wine, water, taleggio, pecorino and gorgonzola cheeses, along with fresh olives in piquant oil mix. For bread I wander down the narrow walkway to the pane negozio and for produce to the frutta e verdure. Tourists who are not aware of the de rigueur at the fruit and vegetable stands are quickly admonished if they try to select produce by actually picking it up. The customer points as the shopkeeper places selected items in a paper sack, weighs them and then accepts payment. The tiny shops are sometimes crowded but one must simply wait in turn for service. Rushing is not in the vocabulary.
After dropping off my groceries at my apartment, I venture off to revisit some of my favorite areas of Venice. On my way to the lagoon, I stop at a neighborhood café for a quick espresso; three Euros cheaper here than in Piazza San Marco. I stand at the counter to drink rather than sit outside at a table because sitting is more expensive. I politely greet the server in Italian, using basic words that every tourist should attempt to learn.
“Buongiorno Signore. Come sta oggi?”
“Bene, Grazie.”
“Ciao. Buona giornata.”
“Hi, how are you? Fine, thanks. Bye. Have a good day.”
Along the lagoon I see Chiesa San Giorgio, set on its own island. Its campanile (bell tower) offers a spectacular view of the entire area, especially of Piazza San Marco, the San Marco campanile, Palazzo Ducale, and the Basilica. It’s a quick vaporetto trip and memorable view.
Napoleon described Piazza San Marco as “the finest drawing room in Europe.”All other open spaces in Venice are referred to as campos or piazzettas; only San Marco is a piazza. The enormous trapezoidal space is enclosed on three sides with a several-storied arched colonnade. Shops, resaurants and cafes line the covered walkway, tempting tourists as they pass. Several famous cafes space themselves along the gallery walk, with tables and chairs arranged to feature a small stage for the ensemble of musicians. The Café Quadri opened in 1775 and sits across the piazza from the Caffe Florian, which opened in 1720. Small ensembles entertain passers-by as well as those seated at tables arranged near the stage of each café. At times, the musicians cooperate and take turns playing selections. Other times it is more like a battle of the bands.
My personal favorite is Caffe Florian, named after the first owner, Floriano Francesconi. The Florian has a rich history of wel=known writers, artists, philosophers, and musicians as regular patrons. Goethe, Goldini, Byron and Casanova are just a few. I was invited to an after hours birthday party for one of the musicians, and met a self-announced descendant of Casanova, who was attempting to prove his bloodline to me, rather unsuccessfully, although he was marginally entertaining.
The public boats called vaporetti are readily available, but if time permits, I prefer walking. It is easy and fun to get lost in Venice but helpful signage does exist, to a limited extent. On the corners of some buildings, above the large shop windows, there are yellow signs with relevant locations along with an arrow pointing the way. San Marco, Academia and Rialto are the main directional indications. Maps are only marginally helpful. I walk toward Accademia, the only wooden bridge in Venice. After crossing over to sestiere (neighborhood) Dosoduro, I wind my way toward Campo Santa Margherita and to my language school.
On the way I stop at the “veggie boat.”Always at the same footbridge, the long slender vessel sits loaded with carefully stacked produce of every kind and color. One man sits on a stool near the boat, next to a barrel filled with water. He grabs and artichoke from a large pile, begins hacking away at the leaves and in less than a minute has the perfectly shaped heart ready to throw into the barrel where it floats among parsley leaves and lemon slices until purchased. Amazed at his speed, I watch for a few minutes before heading to revisit school where I’d studied Italian. I will certainly stop back by on my way home to purchase a few. As I have done in the past, I will boil these luscious artichoke hearts until tender, then toss them with the oil from the olives I bought from the negozio earlier. The sliced garlic and spices in the oil, salt, pepper and a little balsamico vinegar combine to make the perfect taste, finished with a light broil.
Near my language school, I stop for a cappuccino, order at the counter inside and then sit outside, as I did with my school friends during the pause between classes. I reflect upon the memories of the school and the friends I’d made from all over the world. On the first day, although I had not studied Italian formally, I was placed in the intermediate group. I thought it was okay, but obviously I didn’t understand everything because, instead of taking the break at the café I mentioned earlier, I thought the class was over and left for the day. The next day I understood. This neighborhood is another where few tourists venture. Everything is less expensive and the ordinary Venetians go abut their ordinary day.
I wander back along the lagoon and stop into the Hotel Gabrielli for a favorite salad. I visit with Sante, the head waiter and friend, and order the insalate di gamberetti (salad with shrimp in olive oil/lemon juice dressing). I’d ordered this several times when I stayed at this hotel on earlier trips. As usual, Sante invites me to return later when he is off work to join him for Prosecco and happy hour. I decline – again.
In early evening I return to Caffe Florian. Seated on one of the brown leather settees positioned against a gallery arch, I see clearly the discolored stone façade with the top layer peeling and I am captivated by its old world elegance. My half bottle of Da Vinci Chianti sits politely on the white marble top of the elaborately carved wooden table, along with a complimentary dish of cocktail nuts, olives and pretzels. I gaze at the decorative lettering above the door, gilding long since worn off, and at the aged mirors and windows standing witness to times and visitors long gone.
As I have done numerous times, I ask Claudio, my waiter and friend who has worked at the Florian for over 30 years, if he can somehow get me a couple of the cherished etched Florian wine glasses. They are note for sale, and I want those instead of the others sold in the shop. He says he will try. On my laptop, where I write as I travel, I open a file to show him some photos from previous visits. One is of Claudio and me standing in front of the Caffe. Another is of me posing coquesttishly in front of the stage with musicians playing. Several others showing the Romanian musicians that I got to know.
Tourists crowd into the tiny café, both inside and along the covered gallery outside, while tables and chairs surrounding the canopied stage fill quickly. I move to a table on the Piazza facing the stage. The ensemble begins its first set of the evening while a shadow of melancholy creeps over me as I recall the faces and names of those I knew from other times.
The music varies but is mostly classical with a strong gypsy influence. At the break, I chat with the clarinet player and ask him if they would please play my favorites as the Romanians had done. After the first couple of times I had requested the same music, when they saw me sit down, they would gesture to me, while saying “Per la Signora.” It was so amazing and memorable. “Oblivion” by Piazzola and “Concerto di Araquez” by Rodrigo. As I listen, frozen in time, the blue sky blends gently to black, in contrast with the golden glow of the softly lit Basilica. The music continues. Claudio brings my check, cover charge for music deleted, also with a small Caffe Florian sack. In it I discover my coveted wine glass. Another magical evening.
Further along the lagoon, I stop at the Hotel Danielli for a nightcap. Formerly a luxurious palazzo, the five-star hotel is not only elegant but has a stylish piano bar. I imagine myself as the chatelaine (lady of the castle) descending the red carpeted staircase backed by grand arches, into the area that must have been the grand ballroom, and moving gracefully through the elite envitees, uttering the most charming of greetings. Fantasy is alive and well here.
This evening, the performer in the piano bar is an extraordinarily handsome, forty-something man with dark, distinguishingly greying curly hair, sensitive eyes and an enchanting voice. His mellow style blends perfectly with the ambience of the Grand Salon. My waiter suggests a chocolate martini that was pefetto. I lingered for one more, sketching patterns from the walls, windows and delicately carved bench nearby. Columns, painted ceiling, marble floors, tapestried walls and enormous glass chandeliers combine in old world timeless perfection. A magical evening alone. I didn’t need anyone or anything else. Elegant surroundings, beautiful music and my notebook complete me. Oh, and a beverage or two.
Seems so simple really.
Back in my apartment, voices and footsteps echo against the tightly nested buildings. The sounds of night come with mystery and slight surprise. A motorboat turns the corner in the canal below my window. Partygoers are celebrating riotously as their boat continues into the neighboring canal. I am relieved that their destination is somewhere else. Several people walk past as the boat disappears. Their steps echo and their voices sound louder than necessary. Innate ambience notwithstanding, there is little regard for personal quiet here in the “hood.”
Small groups and couples happen by late at night. Occasionally someone is pulling a heavy suitcase across a bridge, clunking loudly with each up and down step. Stereos and televisions can be heard, along with a rattling of dishes at mealtime. Sounds travel sharply through open windows and crack into otherwise silence. The same sounds that made me lonely on the first night are now part of my routine. Comfortable and like home. They are now my sounds.