It’s a city that seems to rock, dream-esque, oh so gently in front of your lens; Venice could almost be the illusion of some absent minded artist, who painted up a city from vivid, dirty water colours and lots of soft wobbly lines. But then he abandoned his beauty, left it to crack and peel and fade.
Venice could simply be an enchanting facade but it continues to lives and to breathe. Come February, past and present collide in the petite streets. As you sway with the throngs, the indulgent, heavy swish of a Renaissance skirt flounces past; a masked nod to when Venice was Maritime hot stuff.
But then forget former glories, live in the moment. Tip back your head to see colours of the rainbow washing lines, ornate window box gardens and the odd pigeon being slapped away them.
Arrive on a night bus from Vienna, before the crack of dawn, and you’ll get a real bonus. A time to see the city as it was when freshly painted. Use your imagination to conjure up late night trysts or masked antics behind dimly lit windows.
Admire it the way an artist would, poising his brush for a moment.
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Teaching some phrasal verbs in the present. Prefer drinking teas in places that look like the past.