Venice Regained
Before Covid-19, the city’s matchless beauty had become all but indiscernible in the high days of summer. So what’s it like without the tourists?
On July 2, a warm, breezy bluebird afternoon, I walked out of the back garden of the Palazzo Papadopoli – more commonly known these days as the Aman Venice – and began the familiar labyrinthine stroll to Ristorante Al Covo for a late lunch.
Al Covo sits where the sestiere of San Marco dissolves into the more prosaic, historically working-class surrounds of Castello; it’s more or less across town from where the Palazzo Papadopoli adorns the Grand Canal, in San Polo.
That day my route was, by design, slightly indirect. It took me north through the Rialto Market and over the bridge of the same name; it then bent southwest, past the Palazzo Grassi and the Salizada San Samuele, where some of the city’s finest one-off galleries and shops are, and threaded behind the Gritti Palace, up onto the Salita San Moise and into Piazza San Marco. In the inky gloom of the Procuratie Nuove arcade, I admired the perennially spectacular jewel displays at Nardi and exchanged smiles with the waiters at Caffè Florian, before stepping into the dazzling brightness of the square, the gilded winged lion on the basilica’s façade flaring. I took my time negotiating the Riva degli Schiavoni’s enfilade of bridges – Ponte della Paglia (from which the Bridge of Sighs can be seen); Ponte della Pieta; Ponte del Sepolcro. To my right, the expanse of the Giudecca canal glittered like quicksilver all the way to the dome of San Giorgio Maggiore.
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On July 2, a warm, breezy bluebird afternoon, I walked out of the back garden of the Palazzo Papadopoli – more commonly known these days as the Aman Venice – and began the familiar labyrinthine stroll to Ristorante Al Covo for a late lunch.
Al Covo sits where the sestiere of San Marco dissolves into the more prosaic, historically working-class surrounds of Castello; it’s more or less across town from where the Palazzo Papadopoli adorns the Grand Canal, in San Polo.
That day my route was, by design, slightly indirect. It took me north through the Rialto Market and over the bridge of the same name; it then bent southwest, past the Palazzo Grassi and the Salizada San Samuele, where some of the city’s finest one-off galleries and shops are, and threaded behind the Gritti Palace, up onto the Salita San Moise and into Piazza San Marco. In the inky gloom of the Procuratie Nuove arcade, I admired the perennially spectacular jewel displays at Nardi and exchanged smiles with the waiters at Caffè Florian, before stepping into the dazzling brightness of the square, the gilded winged lion on the basilica’s façade flaring. I took my time negotiating the Riva degli Schiavoni’s enfilade of bridges – Ponte della Paglia (from which the Bridge of Sighs can be seen); Ponte della Pieta; Ponte del Sepolcro. To my right, the expanse of the Giudecca canal glittered like quicksilver all the way to the dome of San Giorgio Maggiore.
On July 2, a warm, breezy bluebird afternoon, I walked out of the back garden of the Palazzo Papadopoli – more commonly known these days as the Aman Venice – and began the familiar labyrinthine stroll to Ristorante Al Covo for a late lunch.
Al Covo sits where the sestiere of San Marco dissolves into the more prosaic, historically working-class surrounds of Castello; it’s more or less across town from where the Palazzo Papadopoli adorns the Grand Canal, in San Polo.
That day my route was, by design, slightly indirect. It took me north through the Rialto Market and over the bridge of the same name; it then bent southwest, past the Palazzo Grassi and the Salizada San Samuele, where some of the city’s finest one-off galleries and shops are, and threaded behind the Gritti Palace, up onto the Salita San Moise and into Piazza San Marco. In the inky gloom of the Procuratie Nuove arcade, I admired the perennially spectacular jewel displays at Nardi and exchanged smiles with the waiters at Caffè Florian, before stepping into the dazzling brightness of the square, the gilded winged lion on the basilica’s façade flaring. I took my time negotiating the Riva degli Schiavoni’s enfilade of bridges – Ponte della Paglia (from which the Bridge of Sighs can be seen); Ponte della Pieta; Ponte del Sepolcro. To my right, the expanse of the Giudecca canal glittered like quicksilver all the way to the dome of San Giorgio Maggiore.
On July 2, a warm, breezy bluebird afternoon, I walked out of the back garden of the Palazzo Papadopoli – more commonly known these days as the Aman Venice – and began the familiar labyrinthine stroll to Ristorante Al Covo for a late lunch.
Al Covo sits where the sestiere of San Marco dissolves into the more prosaic, historically working-class surrounds of Castello; it’s more or less across town from where the Palazzo Papadopoli adorns the Grand Canal, in San Polo.