Soon we found ourselves in one of Venice's many piazzas. This one was nearly deserted except for a few straggling tourists, a few scraggly pigeons and a single sidewalk merchant. Italy is crawling with these people. There are four main choices: purses/handbags, sunglasses, watches, or miscellaneous tacky souvenirs. This woman fell into the last category. Being a woman made her stand out, but I still don't know why I stopped. I had, and still have, no desire for tacky souvenirs, so maybe it was just a slow day in Venice. Maybe it was Fate.
          At any rate I stopped and looked. Standard issue souvenir junk, nothing of interest, then something on the back corner of her display sheet caught my eye. It was just a pendant, a gaudy one at that. White enamel with a V in red and "enezia" in fine lettering. There were other colors -- blues, greens -- and a miniature gondola in the background. It was tacky, it was ugly, and it was in my price range. There was no reason I should have felt compelled to buy it, but something prodded me along. It was one of those rare times that I knew I had to buy what I had found. It's a pleasant feeling, one I've known maybe twice in my life while buying clothes.
          I cautiously asked the gypsy woman how much it was, in the traditional tourist manner: I pointed and asked "Quanto costa?" which I hoped meant "How much?" in Italian. She held up four fingers -- 4,000 lire. I had to stop and think -- I could get gelato for that price. The gypsy woman surprised my then by speaking in English.
          "This is a very special souvenir, my friend," she said. "It's one of a kind and has powerful magic. Whoever you give this to will love you forever."
          All that for only 4,000 lire? What a bargain. Of course, I figured that this "one of a kind" souvenir was cranked out by the hundreds by dozens of Chinese workers for the thousands of gullible tourists.
          But it was cool anyway, so I bought it. I pulled out my money carefully. I remembered a guy we had met in the Barcelona hostel. He told us he had been robbed by a gypsy who had sold him a flower or something. The gypsy apparently just reached into his wallet when he went to pay and grabbed the money. The guy said he got hypnotized by the gypsy. We just think he was dumb as a post. I carefully handed over my 4,000 lire and got my new pendant.
          Pete and Dean walked up and told me how ugly it was. They tried to buy one themselves, but the gypsy woman stuck to her story. No more one-of-a-kind trinkets.
          I found some string and wore the thing. It bounced against my chest to the rhythm of my steps as we moseyed through Venice. Venice, my guide book said, has 400 bridges. We were crossing bridge number 29 when Fate slapped us hard in the face.
          This particular bridge, with six steps, looked like dozens of small, concrete bridges crossing minor canals, except that Joe Montana was coming across it. That was unique.
          I was trailing at this point, which was also unusual. Pete and Dean are better at wandering; I'm more of a seek and travel person -- a man with a mission. Pete and Dean didn't give me much warning as Joe passed them. They froze, mouths collecting flies. It looked like Joe (he looks like the kind of guy you could call Joe) would blow right by us again.
          I wasn't much help either. I froze too as he brushed by me. After a second, I spun to watch him melt into the crowd. And I was standing face to face with Joe Montana, well, more like face-to-chest, and he was looking right at me.
          "Where'd you get that?" he asked by way of introduction.
          "Get what?" I managed to say.
          "That charm," he said.
          Today, I figured out the perfect witty retort to that straight line. I should have said, "It came with my poise and boyish good looks, sort of a package deal." Instead, in the heat of the moment, I spat out one syllable.
          "Huh?" What a silver-tongued devil I am.
          "That pendant you're wearing," Joe said. He seemed rather calm. Easy for him -- he wasn't talking to Joe Montana. "It's perfect. I've been looking all over for something like that."
          "You're kidding," I said. "This?" My brain shifted into first gear.
          "Yeah, I think my wife would love it. Not that it doesn't look good on you, too."
          "Well, I picked it up from an old gypsy woman a few piazzas back. But she said she didn't have any more. These guys tried to buy one, too." I gestured at Pete and Dean, figuring they might like in on this discussion.
          "That's too bad," Joe said, looking dejected.
          It's not often that a humble nobody like me has something Joe Montana would consider spitting on, much less actually wanting, so I was determined to milk this for all it was worth.
          "Look," I said. "I'd be more than happy to give this to you Mr. Montana, but the gypsy woman told me that whoever I gave this to would love me forever, and I like you and all, but I don't know if I'm ready for that sort of commitment."
          He hesitated. I worried. Then he laughed, and I relaxed.
          "Okay, so what are we talking about here?"
          "Well, we've been traveling now for almost three weeks, and most places charge you to sit and eat. We'd really like to sit somewhere and have a little pizza. Maybe a beer." I was really going out on a limb here, extorting food from Joe Montana. Needless to say, I could have been bargained down.
          "That sounds fair," he said. "Ronnie and I were doing that anyway. You can join us."
          "Great," I said. "Is that okay with you guys?" I added, turning to Pete and Dean. Only I didn't see Dean.
          "Is he okay?" Joe asked, pointing to Dean on the ground.
          "He's fine," I bluffed. "Trick knee."
          "Oh? Football injury?"
          "Drunken fall. I think it means yes."

          So we went and hung out with Joe Montana and Ronnie Lott for an hour or so. He got his charm, we got fed and all was good with the world. They asked us about our trip, we asked about theirs, and a fun time was had by all. As we were getting ready to leave, they asked where our next stop was.
          "Well, my book says the best gelati in Venice is at Gelati Nico on Fondomento Zattere. We thought we'd head there. Our train doesn't leave for a while," I said.
          Joe looked at Ronnie. We were on a first name basis now.
          "That sounds pretty good. What do you say, Ronnie?"
          "I say let's do gelati."
          Pete, Dean and I were obviously in the middle of some bizarre shared dream fantasy, but that was fine with us. Joe sprung for a water taxi to the gelati shop, but we treated him to gelati. It was the least we could do. They had to get back to their hotel, so we said our goodbyes and mutual thank-yous. And shook hands.
          We shook hands with Joe Montana.
          As the pair of football greats disappeared into the passageways of Venice, Pete, Dean and I were giddy with the day's events.
          "Wow," Pete said.
          "No one's going to believe this," Dean said.
          "Um," I said. "You know, I hate to bring this up, but we never did get a photo."
          There was a moment of silence you could have cut with a knife and served eight. Then throughout Venice, thousands of startled pigeons took to the air at the sound of our collective wail, "Nooooo....."
          We had experienced the day of a lifetime. We had no proof. As the magnitude of our screw-up hit us, we neared tears. I myself was misty-eyed. At least, we would always have Venice. We decided to drown our sorrows in gelati and beer. Gelati first. It was closer. Halfway through our second cup, we heard a familiar voice.
          "Hey, guys, am I glad you're still here." It was Joe. "I meant to get your photo before I left. No one will believe I paid for this thing in pizza and beer. Have you got a sec?"