It's been 3 years since my last time with old Venice. It's time to go back.
Venice is like an aging prostitute. The kajal around her eyes is bleeding and her dress is tattered, but her sensuality and bohemian manner are intoxicating still. I am a slave to her hypnotic charms. Getting lost in Venezia's sage-green fog, winding calle alleys and mysterious secrets is exhilarating.
Venice is a reward for the senses. Her beauty is breathtaking, decadent and Byzantine. And then there is that smell. The smell of Venice is like no other place in the world. One needs to get used to it, then it becomes a drug. The best season in the most beautiful city made by man is winter. No crowds, no tourists, no noise. Just the sound of languid canal water lapping the sides of the gondola, the distant wailing horn that announces high tide and the mystique hidden inside the fascinating buildings lined in frayed rich damask brocades.
A brisk morning walk across the Accademia Bridge, a long glance from la Salute, taking in the lagoon and a few minutes spent watching a man repair a boat on the side of a hidden canal are enough to replete lost bliss. All I want is simply walk and walk, lose my direction and then relax with a couple of ombre (shot-sized stem glasses of chilled dry, white wine) in anticipation of one of the day’s multiple delicious meals. The most common feeling in Venice is that of a mild inebriation: a full scale city-induced Stendhal Syndrome. Too much beauty can do that.