Cybil Koudsi--Venice Watches

I had a map, of course, and I had a plan: follow the main streets to my hotel near Rialto, check in, and then start exploring. Simple. But Venice, I realized almost immediately, doesn’t like simple. The streets curved unexpectedly, alleys disappeared behind tall buildings, and bridges appeared without warning, leading nowhere I recognized. She nudged me left, then right, then left again, and I felt the city stretch and twist around me, like a cat circling its prey.

At first, I laughed. Lost in Venice, it seemed almost like a rite of passage. I passed a small café with tables spilling out into a sunlit square. A few locals were sipping espresso and chatting, and I thought about stopping, but the pull of curiosity, or maybe stubbornness, kept me walking.

The morning turned into early afternoon, and I wandered through the tourist-filled streets, trying to memorize landmarks. I stopped at the Rialto Market to look at fruit piled high in wooden crates: oranges so bright they almost hurt to look at, grapes clustered like beads, and peaches soft and golden. A vendor smiled at me and said something in Italian; I nodded and said, “Grazie,” even though I didn’t understand half of it. Venice seemed to smile back at me, teasingly.

By the time I reached St. Mark’s Square, the city was crowded. Tourists posed for photos, pigeons flitted around, and gondoliers shouted prices at anyone who looked even remotely interested. I noticed how the buildings leaned slightly toward each other, almost as if they were sharing secrets above the crowds. Venice felt alive, and I felt like a tiny observer in her world.

I left the crowds behind and started following smaller alleys. Venice started to show a different side: quiet canals where the water moved like liquid silver, hidden courtyards with moss-covered fountains, walls that smelled faintly of herbs or damp stone. I felt a thrill every time I discovered one of these little pockets, like I had found a secret only she would show me.

By late afternoon, I had been walking for hours. My phone was low on battery, and the streets were starting to feel less like pathways and more like puzzles. Venice, I realized, was playful. She led me past familiar landmarks, then hid them behind a curve. A bridge I had crossed ten minutes ago suddenly appeared in an entirely different alley. She nudged me toward narrow alleys that ended in dead ends or private courtyards. Sometimes I felt frustrated; sometimes I felt amazed at how beautiful her tricks were.

One alley opened onto a tiny canal where a gondola drifted lazily. The gondolier waved, a small grin on his face, and I waved back. Even this small moment felt like a hint, a wink from Venice herself. She was guiding me without guiding me, teaching me to pay attention, to notice the little things, the colours, the textures, the way water reflected light.

Even so, the sun was setting when I realized I had no idea where I was. The alleys were narrower now, shadowed and cooler, and every turn looked the same. My stomach sank a little; I had been so careful, so confident, and yet here I was, completely lost.

I tried retracing my steps, but she wasn’t letting me do that. Venice, it seemed, wanted me to wander. I passed small bridges, glimpsed clotheslines swaying above, and heard water slapping gently against stone walls. The city was quiet, but not silent. Every sound, a distant bell, a creak from a shutter, a footstep echoing off the walls, reminded me that Venice was there, watching, moving, alive.

I slipped on moss near a canal edge, scraping my knee. My bag swung against the wall, nearly tipping a basket of laundry someone had hung. I muttered under my breath, frustrated, and realized Venice had been waiting for me to feel a little panic. Not enough to scare me, but enough to make me pay attention.

After a few tense minutes, I stumbled into a quiet square. There was an elderly man moving crates of oranges into a small shop. He looked at me and said something in Italian. I shook my head, unable to respond, and he shrugged. Then he pointed vaguely down a narrow alley and smiled. It wasn’t directions; it was a suggestion. Venice, I realized, had allowed him to show me a small hint, a breadcrumb, but the path still had to be mine.

A black cat darted past my feet and vanished into a shadow. I laughed nervously. Venice seemed to enjoy adding little surprises, a playful touch here, a test there. Every step I took, I felt her presence, guiding me, watching me, teaching me patience and observation.

Eventually, I noticed the subtle clues Venice left: a lantern flickering above a doorway, a bridge with worn steps I had seen before, and the smell of bread from a bakery I had passed in the morning. Step by step, I pieced together the city’s hidden rhythm. By now, it was nearly dark, and the alleys were peaceful, the crowds gone, and the canals reflecting the golden glow of lamplight. Venice had softened her watchfulness, letting me follow her without fear.

I passed a small café still open and took a break, drinking water and watching gondolas drift silently by. The city felt like it exhaled around me, calm, quiet, and satisfied. She had tested me, and I had learned to move with her, rather than against her.

Lying in my small hotel room that night, I thought about how Venice had shown herself to me. She was not just a collection of canals and bridges; she was a presence, patient, playful, and observant. She had her moods: teasing, mysterious, sometimes frustrating, and I had felt every one of them.

I realized that travel isn’t just about seeing famous sights. It’s about letting the city or place you visit leave a lasting impression on you, about noticing the details, feeling the tension, and discovering something unexpected. Venice had done that for me.

The next morning, I would leave for Milan, but I knew I would carry Venice with me—her patterns, her whispers, and her silent watchfulness. She had a face, and I had finally learned to see it.

I am a student and first-time writer who enjoys travelling and discovering new places. This is my first submission to a writing competition, and I was inspired to write after visiting Italy this past summer. Although I have no prior publishing history, I enjoy reflecting on experiences through storytelling and hope to continue developing my writing.

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