A Postcard from Venice

There’s a quiet, hidden elegance to Venice that makes you feel like an intruder. Not the kind of intruder that causes alarm, but the sort that tips their hat as they enter an old world that’s seen more than its share of time’s heavy hand. Venice has always been like that, an enigma wrapped in canals, a place where the grandeur of its past drips slowly into the water. It’s a city that’s paradoxically both timeless and ephemeral, clinging to history in a way that only the truly ancient can, swimming in its own secrets.

I’d always heard Venice described as a "romantic" city. No, Venice is something more visceral: a city that rings with age, something that’s been loved for so long it can’t help but show signs of wear. There’s an honesty to that. Nothing about Venice tries to be perfect. Its beauty is bruised, worn down by the salty, murky tides and the heavy footfall of tourists, the latter a constant reminder of the delicate balancing act it must perform to survive.

But that’s the allure, isn’t it? To be here, to walk these winding alleys that refuse to adhere to the rectangular grids of more modern cities, to get lost in the labyrinth of old stone. Each corner, each twist in the road feels like a secret waiting to be uncovered. You can almost hear the whispers of Venetian merchants, once lords of trade routes stretching across the Mediterranean, their fortunes tied to silk and spices. It’s a city that swam in opulence once, but now its treasures are scattered among crumbling palaces and the delicate mosaic floors of churches that no longer ring with the rush of pilgrims.

Wandering the narrow, winding streets of the Castello district, you come upon a modest, slightly inconspicuous doorway. Inside, books are piled high in wooden boats, tucked into bathtubs, and scattered across the network of shelves and cupboards. There’s a wonderfully chaotic aspect to it all. Liberia Acqua Alta - literally the high water library - speaks to the city’s transitory relationship with the water. Floods, high tides, and the passage of time shape this city, and this humble book shop is a testament to that ongoing process of adaptation. 

In a city of canals, gondolas, and enough tourists to drown a flock of pigeons, there lies a place, tucked into the quiet corner of Dorsoduro, where the city’s old soul still beats. A workshop that’s been crafting and repairing gondolas since the 1600s, a place where wood, sweat, and tradition meet. 

Anyone can tell you that in any given city in Italy, everything from construction sites to the changing of a bus stop ad are often closely spectated by the local umarell, hands on hips and full of beady-eyed epicaricacy, however, in the Squero di San Trovaso, this close observation is well and truly deserved, it really is something to behold.

The squerarioli, Venice’s gondola builders, are artists, not just mechanics. They use tools that haven’t changed for centuries, handcrafting each boat with obsessive care and skill. By law all the gondolas are now black, but this workshop would have once seen colourful creations to rival even the costumes of the Carnevale di Venezia. It’s a living testament to the real story of the city: its connection to the water, and the ebb and flow of life itself here.

The food in Venice isn’t a story of haute cuisine, but rather of survival. Venice’s beauty is in simplicity. It’s in the fish, fresh and slick as the canals themselves, in the sauce that clings to the spoon as if it’s not quite ready to let go. There’s nothing glamorous about the seafood, really, it's just fresh, straight from the lagoon. The flavour is briny, a sharp reminder that this city was built not just on commerce, but on the water that surrounds it.

The famous cicchetti are served in dimly lit bars, and the experience isn’t one of white tablecloths and wine pairings, but rather standing shoulder to shoulder with locals who’ve had their own tumultuous history with the floodwaters and the tourists. If you’re lucky, you'll get to try sarde in saor, fried sardines pickled in onions, vinegar, and raisins. It’s like tasting Venice’s very soul – sweet, sour, salty, all tangled up in history and necessity.

Of course, there’s the Venice you’re supposed to see: the grand palaces, the majestic town squares, the gondolas that float past like staged figures in a museum exhibit. But if you want to find the city beneath the veneer, the Venice that doesn’t care if you ever find it, it’s in the quieter moments: in the late afternoon light that turns the canals into mirrors of the old city, or in the sound of water lapping against the walls of buildings that seem to teeter on the edge of the abyss. It’s in the unceremonious slip of an old man into a tiny trattoria, and the way his face softens as he exchanges stories with the bartender, both of them reminiscing about a Venice that isn’t quite gone yet but will inevitably fade.

Venice is both doomed and alive, living in that contradiction with grace. It’s a city that doesn’t pretend to be what it once was, but it still holds onto its heartbeat, even if it’s growing faint. It’s that mix of history, of grandiose decay, and of strange, beautiful simplicity that makes Venice the chaotic, beautiful mess it is. The tourists can crowd the piazzas, take their photos by the bridges, but the truth of Venice is found in the small things: the fleeting taste of a fresh fish dinner, the sound of a boat gliding past a quiet alley, and the feeling of standing on the edge of a city that’s both sinking and standing still at the same time. That’s Venice, a beautiful tragedy, a drowning city with a pulse, still fighting the tide.