I never tire of returning to Venice. There’s something ineffable about this unique Italian city — an intricate tapestry of more than one hundred islands stitched together by narrow canals and centuries of history — that lingers long after I leave.
These quiet reminders have a way of resurfacing at the most unforeseen times, especially since the stark contrast between Venice’s timeless serenity and the hurried pulse of my hometown, Los Angeles, is impossible to forget.
In Venice, even a frenzied traveler like me slows down. Perhaps it’s the absence of cars, the soft slap of gondolas against water, and the pastel reflections shimmering along the Grand Canal. All conspire to reset my internal rhythm no matter how tightly wound my schedule may be.
One visit vividly stands out, a trip I shared years ago with my late husband, Paul.
It was during that journey that we encountered acqua alta, the seasonal phenomenon when the Adriatic surges over the city’s stone pathways. Piazza San Marco’s shops were knee-deep in murky water, a surreal sight that sent some tourists scrambling. But not us and not the local shopkeepers, resilient as ever.
With shoes squeaking and a sense of adventure bubbling between us, Paul and I waded through the watery havens where irresistible interiors beckoned. Despite the odd conditions, we were on board, discovering such delights as delicate Murano glass ornaments, intricate Carnival masks, and hand-crafted jewelry. All these small treasures were worthy of our visit and waiting to be found amid the temporary flood.
Those moments of serendipitous joy — of embracing Venice exactly as it was, rather than as we expected it to be — remain etched on my heart.
On a later visit, this time on a solo mission but carrying Paul’s spirit with me, I experienced a different kind of Venetian magic at the legendary Hotel Cipriani. Nestled across the lagoon from the high energy of San Marco, this glamorous outpost exudes an effortless charm that seems to somehow suspend time.
Those moments of serendipitous joy — of embracing Venice exactly as it was, rather than as we expected it to be — remain etched on my heart.
As I wandered through the Cipriani’s opulent spaces, with its Murano chandeliers, eighteenth-century antiques, and large picture windows offering breathtaking views, it was easy to imagine former guests like Cary Grant and Catherine Deneuve drifting through the very same areas. For me, their mellifluous voices still seemed to echo faintly in the rarefied air.
One crisp afternoon during that trip, I sat waiting for a friend in one of the hotel’s premier lounges, savoring a perfectly concocted Bellini. Around me, the soft clink of glasses, the low murmurs of conversation, and the faint strains of live jazz painted the perfect soundscape.
Lost in reverie, I thought about all Venice had given me. Just then, I was startled when my fellow travel writer — eyes sparkling with mischief — nudged me toward the far side of the room where a jazz combo was playing.
I resisted at first, clinging to the comfort of my seat and the cool reassurance of my cocktail, that magical concoction made famous by Harry’s Bar. But beneath her casual dare, my colleague’s enthusiasm was infectious, nearly impossible to refuse. Besides, I could hear Paul’s teasing whisper in my ear, urging me on.
And so, before I knew it, I was crossing the room, my heart nearly pounding out of my chest. The spotlight played to my shyness like an old, unwelcome friend. My hands began to moisten as a band member loaned me a gleaming silver flute for a solo rendition of that Gershwin classic “Summertime.”
At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to disappear into the storied hotel walls. Instead, almost instinctively, I turned and asked the band to accompany the jazz standard in E minor.
Then, as the familiar opening verses unfurled, something inside me shifted. My frayed nerves gave way to a calm sense of belonging. And for those brief, shining moments, I was no longer just a content traveler nursing a cocktail in a historic hotel. Instead, I was part of the scene: a performer, a participant, an insider.
No doubt, the song, like the floodwaters Paul and I once waded through, carried me somewhere unexpected. I felt a small reinvention take hold, the kind that feels possible only in such a legendary place.
Even now, whenever I think of Venice, something stirs within me: a gentle blend of resilience, spontaneity, and the courage to say yes. That, to me, is the essence of truly experiencing Italy’s remarkable Floating City.
