The Ford Journals: 1.1

Episode 1: Shadows in Venice

Venice has a way of making the extraordinary look effortless. Tonight was no exception.

I met Elise at a bar tucked away from the tourist crowds, where the sound of glasses clinking mingled with the soft hum of a piano. She was striking—confident in a way that made you want to sit a little straighter. We traded stories over Negronis until she finally said, “You’re coming to my gala tomorrow night, right?”

“Your gala?” I asked, feigning ignorance.

“The art event everyone’s talking about,” she said with a sly smile. “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard about it.”

She didn’t give me a chance to answer before slipping a sleek black card across the table with the address. “Be there.”

THE ART GALA

The event was everything Elise promised: elegance, intrigue, and a guest list that could’ve funded its own museum. As soon as I checked in, my name on the list held by the man that looked like a giant, he stood about 6’7” with hardly any fat on his body. Intimidating. 3 women handed me a masquerade mask, I guess more than your run of the mill art gala. A masquerade ball, with art being auctioned off for more money than I could round up if I sold everything I had ever owned in my entire life. Conversations danced between brushstrokes and investments, and every handshake felt like an unspoken agreement.

As the night wore on, I met many affluent and powerful people. It was a night of the fantastical, one of these nights I would never forget. I made my way to the open bar, to grab myself a negroni, as another gentlemen leaned against the bar next to me, a little bit closer than someone should, if they aren’t trying to take me home for the evening. He introduced himself with, not a name, but rather a question. “Negroni?” He asked. “Monkey 47 as always” I responded, which is my favorite gin. His gaze lingered too long on me, made me feel a little uncomfortable, not saying anything, I got my drink, tipped the bartender, and said: “Have a good night” with a nod, and made my way back into the buzz of the party.

As I walked away he said, “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again,” his tone as measured as his tailored suit.

Before I could ask what he meant, Elise reappeared, pulling me toward another conversation. By the time I turned back, the man had vanished.

Throughout the night there were some beautiful pieces of art, and I am no art savant, but I can appreciate a good work. I moved my way through the room, taking in the ornate painting, sculptures, and sketches lining the walls. The air buzzed with anticipation. Conversations in hushed Italian, French, and English wove through the space like a carefully orchestrated symphony.

And then, the auction began.

The first few pieces went as expected—100,00 euros for an 18th centruy portait, 220,000 euros for a sculpture rumored to have belonged to a fallen European dynasty. The numbers barely made anyone flinch.

Then the final item was unveiled.

A single sheet of aged parchment. A sketch.

The auctioneer’s voice carried through the room.

“Lot 37: An unsigned Renaissance-era unfinished painting, attributed to an unknown master. Theories suggest it may have originated from the notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci, though no official record exists. Starting bid: 50,000 euros.”

Silence. A flicker of interest.

The, the first bid. €50,000.

Another followed: €75,000.

Within moments, it spiraled into a full-fledged bidding war.

Two collectors. An anonymous phone bidder. Another masked figure from across the room. The tension thickened, each bid sharper, more aggressive.

€500,000.

€850,000.

The auctioneer’s hammer hovered. Then, a final, decisive bid rang out.

€1.2 million.

A few moments later, the auction house assistant approached the winner. It was the masked gentlemen from earlier at the bar. He simply nodded, and I swore he glanced over at me, but of course I was thinking that because of our initial encounter.

Now my senses were heightened. Who was this guy, and why did he bid so high to get that piece. And that was what bothered me.

Not the price, not the secrecy, but the painting itself, and the masked gentlemen.

He seemed to leave before the paperwork was finished. I immediately tried to seek out Elise to find out more about the guy. She was tied up with all the donors, auctioneers, and guests.

It was time for me to leave. I was able to catch Elise eye and gave a wave and a nod, and headed out.

THE DISCOVERY

The night ended with a gondola ride back to my hotel. The mist was heavier now, and Venice seemed quieter, as if the city itself had fallen asleep.

Halfway across the canal, I adjusted my coat and felt something strange in my pocket. An envelope.

It hadn’t been there before—or had it? I pulled it out, revealing a wax seal with a familiar emblem: two intertwined circles and a lone star.

Memories of Manuel Antonio came flooding back—the emblem I’d found in the rainforest, half-buried and forgotten until now. I stared at the envelope as the gondolier’s voice broke through the silence:

“Bauer Hotel, signor,” he said, gesturing to the timeless facade before us. It was a Venetian masterpiece, elegant and storied, now shrouded in the mystique of restoration.

In my suite, with a glass of Amarone in hand, I broke the seal and unfolded the note inside:

The message was cryptic. What did it mean? Clearly Venice had been just the beginning.

That night I went to bed. Woke up the next morning to a text from Elise.

“Coffee?’

I replied. “Name the place.”

We ended up at the Caffe Florian. One of Venice’s most famous and undeniably popular cafes. Established in 1720, it was the kind of place that hadn’t just witnessed history- but also served host to it.

Names like Casanova, who once charmed his way through these doors. Lord Byron, Charles Dickens, even Hemingway supposedly. The same marble topped tables.

As I walked up, she had grabbed us a table.

She smirked.

“So how was the end of your night?”

Before I could answer. “Who did you wake up next to? It wasn’t me, you left me.”

I leaned back and tapped the pocket on my coat. “First off I didn’t leave you, and I woke up next to nobody. But I did walk away with something unexpected from your event…”

Elise tilted her head. “Do tell.”

I pulled out the folded note, now slightly crumpled.

Elise’s brow arched as she read it. “Someone really went all in on the theatrics.”

She studied the riddle, absentmindedly stirring her cappuccino. “Through walls that twist and shadows run tall."

She continued. “I mean that is some sort of slot canyon right?”

“A path once carved by flood and sand.” —I interjected. “Erosion of some sort.”

Before she could begin reading the next line aloud.

It hit me.

“I got it.”

“What?!” She responded.

“Buckskin Gulch.”

She looked puzzled. “Buckskin what?”

“It’s the largest slot canyon in the Western Hemisphere. It’s in southern Utah. That’s gotta be it.”

She then proceeded… “And so what? What does it mean?”

“I think I gotta go, right? I mean there are too many questions as too why someone would go through the trouble to slip this ridiculous riddle into my coat.”

I said my goodbyes to Elise, thanked her for the invite to her event, and maybe we would run into each other at some point down the line. Although, as much solo traveling as I have done, I know a lot of times these are just pleasant exchanges to leave on the not of potential, rather than reality.

I don’t know what I’m going to find, if anything, but I know I can’t just leave this without at least trying to see if it leads me to something, right?

FORD’S HOTEL JOURNAL ENTRY

HOTEL BAUER ESSENTIALS

• Rooms: 137 luxurious accommodations, including suites with canal views.

• Star Rating: 5-star luxury hotel

• Awards: Consistently ranked among the top luxury hotels in Venice by travel magazines like Conde Nast Traveler.

• Unique Feature: The hotel is to reopen this year (2025) under the prestigious Rosewood Hotels collection.

• Amenities: Rooftop terrace with panoramic views, waterfront dining, and private dock access.

ON THE HORIZON…

Always seeking the extraordinary,