Fantasmi e Nostalgia nella Città Fluttuante

“My first impression of Venice was that it might be hard to make anything happen there. Everything seemed to have already happened. Venice seemed like a kind of exalted remembering.

She leaned against the bridge’s warm marble balustrade, and looked as far down the darkening canal as the setting sun would allow. She wondered if others appreciated Venice’s beauty and fragility as deeply as she had come to or if, like a raging fever, the city infected some while avoiding others. She sighed at the grandeur and at the resilience that surrounded her, and she promised herself she’d try to be more like Venice.” 

My grandfather took the second photo above when he and my grandmother were in Venice in 1993. They traveled throughout parts of Europe by camper van, and ever since I was little, I would trace my fingers over their photo albums, mesmerized by all their adventures.

I dreamt about going to Venice for a very long time after seeing that photo of Saint Mark’s Basilica, its grand façade towering over Piazza San Marco. The image felt like something out of a dream, a place suspended in time.

This summer, when Mama and I wandered into the square by accident, chills ran down my spine as I realized—I was standing exactly where they once stood.

They took that photo two years before I was born—before I was even a thought in the universe—and yet, somehow, here I was, all this time later, seeing what they saw, walking the same stones beneath my feet.

Little did I know then, flipping through their photos and asking them endless questions about the world, that I would soon set off with my family and see more of it than I could have ever imagined.

I don’t remember his name, but I remember his voice, and I will always remember this moment.

He came stammering down the tiny wooden spiral staircase, calling out, “Come in, come in! We are open all hours of the night! I live here, this is my home. Upstairs, I sleep and I eat, and even at night, when we drink, people can come and see the art. All the days I spend drawing, and my days are this.”

As he spoke, he stretched his arms around the room as if he could pull in the very walls for a hug. I loved that—the notion of having your door open to everyone.

The entrance to his studio was also his home.

While he spoke, he smudged some of the already-done chalk sketches, correcting something in a way only an artist sees. Dry paint clung beneath his fingernails, and the way he leaned at the entrance felt as though he were standing in front of his whole heart—a beating, living studio.

It was as if he were saying, “Come in, share this with me, be here.”

He told me he had traveled around, but somehow, he always found his way back to the floating city.

Everything about him radiated contentment—I could see it in his eyes.

I didn’t want to leave that little studio, but I don’t think I could ever find it again even if I went looking.

But then again, isn’t that how all treasures are found—and left?

It was the end of the day, and the maze of streets was becoming quieter.

The echoes of conversations drifted farther and farther away, and as the sunset deepened, the tiny streets fell into shadows.

I loved the way the inside of some homes glowed warmly, welcoming in the cool evening.

Down one particular street, lost (as ever), I found myself drawn to an art studio—the way it looked from where I stood, it was something out of a movie.

It was silent.

I hesitated.

Maybe it’s closed? I don’t think I’m allowed in there... It looks empty...

It was far down a little alley, and I stood still, uncertain, listening to the click-clack of heels tapping over cobblestones as couples made their way to the opera in the square.

A woman sat on a wooden chair outside.

She greeted me with a quiet hello, her emerald-green eyes flickering beneath the dimming light.

With a cigarette between her index and middle finger, she gestured toward the studio, smiling at me like she knew something I didn’t.

So I stepped inside.

The first thing I noticed was black and white chalk sketches on huge canvases—some filled with vivid colors, others capturing the details of landscapes, cities, and portraits.

The air smelled like old books and dust, and the wooden floorboards creaked beneath my feet.

As I wandered through, I realized so many of the sketches were of Venice itself—of corners I had passed every day that week, of a spot where we sat for lunch by the bridge.

Standing there, looking at his work, I felt lost and mesmerized by the city all over again.

Like I had stepped into a charcoal world of rushed lines and faceless figures.

It was a Venice within Venice.

Burano feels like walking through a movie set—so quiet that you find yourself speaking in whispers, as if afraid to disturb the stillness.

The island is small, yet somehow, you can find yourself completely alone in an instant.

The vibrant colors of the houses glow under the soft afternoon light, their walls alive with the sounds of children laughing, the faint hum of televisions drifting from open doors, and the occasional clatter of dishes from a kitchen where dinner is being prepared.

In one little square, we found ourselves standing beside a single water fountain, where birds dipped their beaks, drinking from the cool stream.

Down a narrow hallway, we passed a young boy sitting in a big cardboard box, making spaceship noises.

His grandmother, standing nearby, tried in vain to convince him to come out.

She caught my eye and shook her head, laughing, as if to say, This happens every day.

A man stood with his easel, painting the scene before him, capturing the hues of Burano in strokes of color.

Nearby, two older women sat on wooden chairs, leaning toward one another, exchanging secrets.

The smell of dinner cooking drifted through the open window sills, wrapping itself around the square like a memory.

We felt like the perfect fly on the wall—watching life unfold, untouched by time.

The moment we left on the boat back to the main island, I felt it.

That quiet ache of already missing a place before it’s even gone.

I wanted to be back in that little square, watching the world move in its slow, delicate way.

And I wanted to stay there forever.

I stood at the foot of a bridge, waiting for the crowds to pass, when I noticed three men sitting nearby, their voices low and unhurried.

As I waited, I turned to them and asked if they had had a good day, but they didn’t speak much English.

"Parlez-vous français?" the man in the middle asked.

I beamed.

"Oui! Je suis heureux que vous demandez, j’ai vécu à Paris et ça me manque déjà."

His face lit up, and he asked where I was born.

When I told him South Africa, but that my parents had immigrated to Australia, he pointed at me and declared,

"Explorateur du monde!"—Explorer of the world!

He spoke about how, as a young boy, he had always admired the men in striped shirts, sailing through the city’s canals.

But he, too, dreamed of sailing beyond them, far away from everything he had grown too used to.

The man in the red stripes laughed, shaking his head.

"You better keep walking," he warned, "or we’ll get too nostalgic sharing our dreams."

Whenever I feel especially nostalgic, whenever my life in Paris begins to feel like some dream I once had, I teleport back to this moment.

A moment that reminds me that the new people we meet and the places we visit can give us back pieces of what we thought we had lost.

And sometimes, they offer us the chance to reminisce in ways more magical than we could ever imagine.

 I spent one 38-degree day getting lost in the maze of Venice, photographing the windows, the facades, the quiet sides of homes and buildings.

My neck ached from looking up, my body spun in circles of awe, and the sheer wonder of this city on water left me dizzy in the best way.

That night, when I closed my eyes, all I saw were windowsills overflowing with flower beds, emerald vines creeping through the cracks, holding together places so loved and so well lived in.

Venice feels mysterious, a place I don’t think you could ever truly figure out.

You could try to explore every corner, trace your steps through dark alleyways, quiet squares, and the edges of the islands by the water—but somehow, you would never end up back where you started.

Instead, Venice leads you to places you didn’t think you were looking for—but perhaps, places you needed.

Venice feels like an unrequited love.

It will let you in, let you wander its labyrinth, let you learn about its heart and soul—but it will never tell you the real truth.

It will answer your questions about its past with more questions, leaving you wondering if you were ever meant to know it at all.

One evening, we went to hear a small orchestra play in an old, intimate church.

Vivaldi’s melodies—his songs of the seasons—seemed to echo through the maze all night.

Later, as we walked through the city, it was as if we could hear the island breathing—in the lapping of water against the canals, in the empty boats rocking in the dark, in the sound of footsteps rushing up cobblestone steps.

But when we turned around—there was no one there.

To fall in love with Venice feels like falling in love with a place that exists entirely on its own terms.

It needs no proof, no opinion, no validation from those who visit.

Even if it stood empty and uninhabited, it would remain just as magical, just as mysterious.

And yet, even when crowded with tourists, it still feels like a place that does not belong to anyone.

Perhaps the true charm of Venice is that it makes every individual believe they see it in a way that no one else does.

If someone felt they had lived there in a past life, who could tell them otherwise?

Who could ever prove them wrong?

I felt as though Venice held the deepest, most alluring part of my soul—an intangible part of my heart and mind, where all unanswered questions lay.

As if beneath the waters of the canals lay chests of hidden treasure, or that down a dark alley, secret societies gathered in rooms of incense and red velvet, whispering as they unraveled impossible riddles.

I believe, to some extent, that not everyone visits the same Venice.

Perhaps the Venice I saw was not the one another traveler experienced.

Perhaps it speaks to each of us in a different language, revealing only what we are meant to understand.

Venice’s magic is not in the feeling that you will never know its secrets.

It is in making you believe that you were ever deserving of knowing them at all.

“Oh yes, it was my Venice! Beautiful,
With melancholy, ghostly beauty—old,
And sorrowful, and weary—yet so fair,
So like a queen still, with her royal robes,
Full of harmonious colour, rent and worn!”
― Ada Cambridge, The Manor House and Other Poems