Lost in Venice

Venice exists without urgency, floating on patience, reflection and impermanence, reminding cities what it means to endure rather than accelerate, writes Vinod K

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A city without roads, they say. A city floating. Somewhere between the Arabian Sea and the Adriatic, between airline meals and fractured sleep, that idea slowly began to acquire weight. Venice announced itself not with grandeur but with quiet confusion. Stepping out of the airport, there were no taxis in the familiar sense, only water, boats bobbing like impatient thoughts, and people moving with the ease of those long accustomed to instability.

My first ride was across the lagoon, the city approaching slowly, like something reluctant to be revealed. The buildings rose from the water not dramatically but insistently, their faded colours—ochre, brick red, muted cream—bearing the dignity of age rather than the gloss of preservation. I realised quickly that Venice does not seduce; it waits.

On my first evening, I got lost within minutes. Google Maps surrendered early, spinning in apology. Narrow alleys bent unexpectedly, bridges appeared without warning, and every turn looked like the last until it didn't. In Mumbai, getting lost is usually an irritation; in Venice, it felt like an initiation. I emerged into a small square where children kicked a football against ancient stone walls, their laughter echoing upwards, bouncing off balconies heavy with history. A woman leaned out of a window, scolding them affectionately. Life, I realised, was still being lived here, stubbornly, despite the postcards.