A city of shadows and secrets, home to the never ending play of light on water and edifice.
A city that reminds us of the passage of time, steady as she goes, with the sound of water slapping against stone.
A city that warns us of the impossibility of permanence, sinking day by day, and yet that stands defiant in the face of such an impossibility, resolute and sentinel as the almost ancient cypress trees that line its cemetery isle.
A city that offers itself up to the senses, shamelessly: the scenes that beg to be captured in photographs; the feel of brittle brick on curious finger tips; the melody of church bells echoing through arcades and beneath bridges; the smells, not always pleasant, to be honest; the bit of a summer’s drink that lingers on the tongue long after one has retired home, far away.
A city that has inspired minds, for better or for worse, what with its narrow canals that implore us to follow their tedious arguments, as T.S. Eliot may have put it.
A city in which losing one’s way is a right of passage, a shibboleth.
A city, a floating paradox, that always remains, fixed in memory, in black and white.