Stories
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December 4, 2024
Venice is a Beautiful Smelly city
I remember sitting alone at a canal, watching lovers kiss on gondolas like extras in someone else's fantasy. Every corner felt like an engagement, a proposal, a moment designed for someone else. I didn’t resent it. I just studied it. One day, I thought, I’ll be here again with someone worth it.
Venice doesn’t care about your plans. It doesn’t care about your suitcase wheels, your sense of direction, or your 4% phone battery. It doesn’t care that Google Maps fails there or that you’re half-lost before your feet even hit the stone. It just floats. It exists. You adapt.
I had been traveling through Italy for nearly two months—Florence, Naples, Bologna, little coastal towns that smelled like citrus and sun-drenched history. By the time I made it to Venice, I was out of energy and out of patience—but still curious. Everyone talks about Venice like it's some kind of fairy tale. But the city I met? She had gold teeth and muddy shoes.
Let me be clear: I didn’t stay in the floating postcard part of Venice. I stayed on the mainland—technically still Venice, but just far enough from the canals and gondolas to get a room for $30 a night instead of the $600 some hotel had the nerve to quote me. And listen, that $30 hotel? Clean. Quiet. Cable TV. No view, but at that point I’d seen enough.
But the walk from the train station to that inland hotel? A fever dream.
Venice by night feels like someone turned down the saturation and turned up the volume of your instincts. The deeper you go, the stranger it gets. I remember rolling my suitcase over cobblestones that made it sound like I was dragging a safe behind me. I passed half-lit bars, corners with prostitutes leaning against doorways, and dealers standing around with no rush in their bones. The air smelled like seawater and cigarettes. Romantic? Not quite. Real? Absolutely.
I got lost. Like truly, embarrassingly lost. With no working GPS and no Italian strong enough to ask for directions that didn’t lead me in circles, I walked. And walked. Eventually found my hotel like you find the end of a nightmare—just sort of appearing when you stop trying to control the route.
That first time in Venice, I spent hours walking the floating part of the city. Winding through silent alleys, watching the moonlight slip down domes and tile. I remember sitting alone at a canal, watching lovers kiss on gondolas like extras in someone else's fantasy. Every corner felt like an engagement, a proposal, a moment designed for someone else. I didn’t resent it. I just studied it. One day, I thought, I’ll be here again—with someone worth it.
And I was. A few years later, I came back—with someone I thought mattered.
It started with promise, like most things do. Until it didn’t.
We had flown into Spain, then jumped to Paris, and then landed in Italy all in the span of a few days. It was a crash course in European chaos. No sleep, constant movement, the kind of itinerary you make when you mistake ambition for adventure. By the time we hit Venice, we were both running on fumes.
T-Mobile international roaming technically worked—but it moved slower than the gondolas. No Wi-Fi unless you wanted to pay extra for something they marketed as "premium" but felt more like dial-up nostalgia. And of course, we got lost again. For two hours, dragging suitcases across the broken spine of the city, arguing over street signs, sweating through overpriced linen.
He was pissed. I was tired. And Venice was laughing.
Eventually, we found the hotel—right near the same bridge they used in Spider-Man: No Way Home. Because of course we did. Venice loves to drop cinematic irony on you like breadcrumbs.
And then came the moment. The betrayal. The gondola kiss that wasn’t meant for me. A private memory I had once shared became someone else’s performance. And while I didn’t push him into the water, I thought about it. And he felt it.
That trip dissolved faster than Prosecco bubbles. People ask me if I’m bitter. The answer is no.
Was I irritated that day? Yeah. Burnt out? Absolutely. In a mood? No question. I’m intense. I say what I think. I don’t fake enthusiasm and I don’t dance around discomfort. But I don’t betray people either. That’s a line. And once someone crosses it, the script flips.
Looking back, maybe we did each other a favor. He showed me what I needed to see. I gave him a memory he’ll probably never be able to enjoy without flinching. Clean break.
Some say it’s petty to talk about the past. That silence equals strength. I don’t agree. Silence is how the worst things fester. I document because I live through it. Because if it’s not written, it’s just weight.
And Venice? Venice is where weight either gets carried or dropped. It's a city built on contradictions. Glamour and grime. Opera and mildew. Champagne and rot. Prosecco and shit water.
Exactly how I like my cities.
Venice doesn’t care about your plans. It doesn’t care about your suitcase wheels, your sense of direction, or your 4% phone battery. It doesn’t care that Google Maps fails there or that you’re half-lost before your feet even hit the stone. It just floats. It exists. You adapt.
I had been traveling through Italy for nearly two months—Florence, Naples, Bologna, little coastal towns that smelled like citrus and sun-drenched history. By the time I made it to Venice, I was out of energy and out of patience—but still curious. Everyone talks about Venice like it's some kind of fairy tale. But the city I met? She had gold teeth and muddy shoes.
Let me be clear: I didn’t stay in the floating postcard part of Venice. I stayed on the mainland—technically still Venice, but just far enough from the canals and gondolas to get a room for $30 a night instead of the $600 some hotel had the nerve to quote me. And listen, that $30 hotel? Clean. Quiet. Cable TV. No view, but at that point I’d seen enough.
But the walk from the train station to that inland hotel? A fever dream.
Venice by night feels like someone turned down the saturation and turned up the volume of your instincts. The deeper you go, the stranger it gets. I remember rolling my suitcase over cobblestones that made it sound like I was dragging a safe behind me. I passed half-lit bars, corners with prostitutes leaning against doorways, and dealers standing around with no rush in their bones. The air smelled like seawater and cigarettes. Romantic? Not quite. Real? Absolutely.
I got lost. Like truly, embarrassingly lost. With no working GPS and no Italian strong enough to ask for directions that didn’t lead me in circles, I walked. And walked. Eventually found my hotel like you find the end of a nightmare—just sort of appearing when you stop trying to control the route.
That first time in Venice, I spent hours walking the floating part of the city. Winding through silent alleys, watching the moonlight slip down domes and tile. I remember sitting alone at a canal, watching lovers kiss on gondolas like extras in someone else's fantasy. Every corner felt like an engagement, a proposal, a moment designed for someone else. I didn’t resent it. I just studied it. One day, I thought, I’ll be here again—with someone worth it.
And I was. A few years later, I came back—with someone I thought mattered.
It started with promise, like most things do. Until it didn’t.
We had flown into Spain, then jumped to Paris, and then landed in Italy all in the span of a few days. It was a crash course in European chaos. No sleep, constant movement, the kind of itinerary you make when you mistake ambition for adventure. By the time we hit Venice, we were both running on fumes.
T-Mobile international roaming technically worked—but it moved slower than the gondolas. No Wi-Fi unless you wanted to pay extra for something they marketed as "premium" but felt more like dial-up nostalgia. And of course, we got lost again. For two hours, dragging suitcases across the broken spine of the city, arguing over street signs, sweating through overpriced linen.
He was pissed. I was tired. And Venice was laughing.
Eventually, we found the hotel—right near the same bridge they used in Spider-Man: No Way Home. Because of course we did. Venice loves to drop cinematic irony on you like breadcrumbs.
And then came the moment. The betrayal. The gondola kiss that wasn’t meant for me. A private memory I had once shared became someone else’s performance. And while I didn’t push him into the water, I thought about it. And he felt it.
That trip dissolved faster than Prosecco bubbles. People ask me if I’m bitter. The answer is no.
Was I irritated that day? Yeah. Burnt out? Absolutely. In a mood? No question. I’m intense. I say what I think. I don’t fake enthusiasm and I don’t dance around discomfort. But I don’t betray people either. That’s a line. And once someone crosses it, the script flips.
Looking back, maybe we did each other a favor. He showed me what I needed to see. I gave him a memory he’ll probably never be able to enjoy without flinching. Clean break.
Some say it’s petty to talk about the past. That silence equals strength. I don’t agree. Silence is how the worst things fester. I document because I live through it. Because if it’s not written, it’s just weight.
And Venice? Venice is where weight either gets carried or dropped. It's a city built on contradictions. Glamour and grime. Opera and mildew. Champagne and rot. Prosecco and shit water.
Exactly how I like my cities.
Venice doesn’t care about your plans. It doesn’t care about your suitcase wheels, your sense of direction, or your 4% phone battery. It doesn’t care that Google Maps fails there or that you’re half-lost before your feet even hit the stone. It just floats. It exists. You adapt.
I had been traveling through Italy for nearly two months—Florence, Naples, Bologna, little coastal towns that smelled like citrus and sun-drenched history. By the time I made it to Venice, I was out of energy and out of patience—but still curious. Everyone talks about Venice like it's some kind of fairy tale. But the city I met? She had gold teeth and muddy shoes.
Let me be clear: I didn’t stay in the floating postcard part of Venice. I stayed on the mainland—technically still Venice, but just far enough from the canals and gondolas to get a room for $30 a night instead of the $600 some hotel had the nerve to quote me. And listen, that $30 hotel? Clean. Quiet. Cable TV. No view, but at that point I’d seen enough.
But the walk from the train station to that inland hotel? A fever dream.
Venice by night feels like someone turned down the saturation and turned up the volume of your instincts. The deeper you go, the stranger it gets. I remember rolling my suitcase over cobblestones that made it sound like I was dragging a safe behind me. I passed half-lit bars, corners with prostitutes leaning against doorways, and dealers standing around with no rush in their bones. The air smelled like seawater and cigarettes. Romantic? Not quite. Real? Absolutely.
I got lost. Like truly, embarrassingly lost. With no working GPS and no Italian strong enough to ask for directions that didn’t lead me in circles, I walked. And walked. Eventually found my hotel like you find the end of a nightmare—just sort of appearing when you stop trying to control the route.
That first time in Venice, I spent hours walking the floating part of the city. Winding through silent alleys, watching the moonlight slip down domes and tile. I remember sitting alone at a canal, watching lovers kiss on gondolas like extras in someone else's fantasy. Every corner felt like an engagement, a proposal, a moment designed for someone else. I didn’t resent it. I just studied it. One day, I thought, I’ll be here again—with someone worth it.
And I was. A few years later, I came back—with someone I thought mattered.
It started with promise, like most things do. Until it didn’t.
We had flown into Spain, then jumped to Paris, and then landed in Italy all in the span of a few days. It was a crash course in European chaos. No sleep, constant movement, the kind of itinerary you make when you mistake ambition for adventure. By the time we hit Venice, we were both running on fumes.
T-Mobile international roaming technically worked—but it moved slower than the gondolas. No Wi-Fi unless you wanted to pay extra for something they marketed as "premium" but felt more like dial-up nostalgia. And of course, we got lost again. For two hours, dragging suitcases across the broken spine of the city, arguing over street signs, sweating through overpriced linen.
He was pissed. I was tired. And Venice was laughing.
Eventually, we found the hotel—right near the same bridge they used in Spider-Man: No Way Home. Because of course we did. Venice loves to drop cinematic irony on you like breadcrumbs.
And then came the moment. The betrayal. The gondola kiss that wasn’t meant for me. A private memory I had once shared became someone else’s performance. And while I didn’t push him into the water, I thought about it. And he felt it.
That trip dissolved faster than Prosecco bubbles. People ask me if I’m bitter. The answer is no.
Was I irritated that day? Yeah. Burnt out? Absolutely. In a mood? No question. I’m intense. I say what I think. I don’t fake enthusiasm and I don’t dance around discomfort. But I don’t betray people either. That’s a line. And once someone crosses it, the script flips.
Looking back, maybe we did each other a favor. He showed me what I needed to see. I gave him a memory he’ll probably never be able to enjoy without flinching. Clean break.
Some say it’s petty to talk about the past. That silence equals strength. I don’t agree. Silence is how the worst things fester. I document because I live through it. Because if it’s not written, it’s just weight.
And Venice? Venice is where weight either gets carried or dropped. It's a city built on contradictions. Glamour and grime. Opera and mildew. Champagne and rot. Prosecco and shit water.
Exactly how I like my cities.
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Related
Not All Who Wander Are Lost / Some of Us Are Just Unbothered.
●
For inboxes that prefer one-way tickets
For inboxes that prefer one-way tickets
© OMG BYE!
2025
Not All Who Wander Are Lost
●
For inboxes that prefer one-way tickets
© OMG BYE!
2025