After a week of sailing around Sicily and the Aeolian Islands, a long journey home awaited us. That’s why making a short morning stop in Venice—with espresso and a croissant—sounded not only logical, but necessary. We arrived just before dawn and by 5 a.m., we had already parked at Tronchetto. The €24 daily parking fee didn’t bother us. What lay ahead was a silent city—one you rarely get to see.
A grey dawn stretched above our heads. Mist hovered over the lagoon, promising a mysterious day. We set off down narrow alleys, our footsteps echoing against ancient stone walls and the faint scent of the canals. Then, suddenly, a dead-end—the first of many small detours that morning. We turned around and let the city guide us through its labyrinth.
A Tribute to Visconti
Mahler’s Fifth Symphony played in my mind, its Adagietto rising over the mist like a quiet prayer. I wasn’t sure whether Venice was singing to me or I to it. Either way, Visconti would have found enough material here for another masterpiece. We paused by the Bridge of Sighs, imagining the footsteps of those once condemned who crossed it long ago.
Hotel Des Bains on the Lido was too far, but every alley instantly brought to mind Death in Venice. We imagined Gustav von Aschenbach sitting by the sea, contemplating absolute harmony, captivated by the fleeting beauty of life and the human form.
Everyone raves about the Venetian Carnival, but it was this somber, reflective mood that accompanied us as we slipped deeper into the city’s alleys. Every canal, every bridge seemed soaked in melancholy and grace—just as Visconti and Mahler had captured so powerfully. The streets were deserted. Venice revealed itself like a city suspended between dream and reality, between life and death.
Piazza San Marco
We passed old palaces with gothic windows, many of them now luxury hotels or rentals. The weathered walls whispered stories of doges, merchants, and secret lovers. Each street revealed a new mystery; each canal reflected a different shade of history.
Finally, we emerged into Piazza San Marco. Before us, the basilica loomed—wrapped in the morning fog. Not a soul in sight. No water either. Just empty chairs and a solitary street sweeper who might have remembered Casanova’s rougher mornings. The bells struck five. And in that moment, Venice revealed its greatest gift: the power to transport you through centuries in the span of a single magical morning.
We stood there, surrounded by the silence of the empty square. And as the bells tolled again, we knew—Venice had shown us something rare. Not just its beauty, but a piece of ourselves reflected in its timeless waters.
Naturally, espresso and a buttery croissant wrapped up this brief but unforgettable Venetian episode.
Italy has many faces
