When I moved to Venice, I was one of the many foreigners. With little knowledge of toponymy and architecture, I would say street or square when I should have said calle or campo; I was unaware that portego was not a porch, that what elsewhere is called a balcony here was a window, while pergolo is the balcony.... and I'll spare you all the differences in the food domain. I urgently needed a consultant so as not to be looked upon with pity by the greengrocer, the baker, the ticket seller (who are called differently here naturally), and I found one easily in my neighbour across the way, generous with advice even when not asked for. She was a lively middle-aged lady, of Murano origin, as she immediately told me, recently retired and eager to have a chat with the new neighbour. She gave me practical suggestions, like which was the best fish counter at the Rialto market, where to buy bread still warm from the oven, and how to cook cuttlefish in ink. To better illustrate the culinary procedures, she invited me up to her home - a great honour granted to few, especially if foreigners - and she got to work at the stove to show me how to clean the cuttlefish. On the kitchen sideboard, I noticed a pink basket with sewing threads, scissors, a pin cushion, which intrigued me. It was all made of small beads, strung on wire to form the structure, or tiny beads, strung on thin embroidery cotton for the ornaments that swayed as we walked on the floor. A true wonder. I was enchanted looking at it. And this? I asked. The lady was happy to tell me the story of the basket, a work of her Murano-born grandmother who, still a young apprentice in the bead threading art, had wanted to challenge herself and do something special for herself: this delightful pink basket, lined with pink silk. The basket had passed to her daughter and then to her granddaughter, my first and precious Venetian friend. A few years later, she had to move to the mainland (namely to Mestre) to her son's house, to take care of a grandchild, leaving behind her apartment and many dear memories. Among these was the pearl basket. On her last day, she called me, from balcony to balcony, and threw it to me. I caught it in mid-air. We both had tears in our eyes, after so much chatting, a silent but affectionate farewell.