Dearest,

I find myself in the city of mystery and romance, of debauchery and art. I have a few days to explore the magic of this town, and already I understand that I will only find it in the depth of its canals. The surface only holds so much, what is afforded to the naked eye, but my job here is to capture the essence of its history. To truly understand how the refugees in AD 568 decided to stand on this impossible site and decide this would be home. To see how Stradivarius decided his trade would be building violins, how Vivaldi could stay sane in a city of intrigue and love, of history and splendor. I have long passed the blind belief that this is the city of romance. As I glide through the small canals and hidden architectural gems this city holds I can see how one could be deceived  into thinking this city was made for lovers. I am almost tricked myself, when I close my eyes and achingly think of how your fingers fit so perfectly between mine, I have to consciously collect myself and remember the secrets lying beneath the surface. The stories of merchants double crossing each other and murders forgotten in the depths of the sea, the wars that were waged and often won from the comfort of a courtesan’s bed in the palaces of this city and the sinking cemeteries that will one day disappear in the water, taking with them the secrets and eulogies of the heroes that make her the queen city of Italy. The majestic splendor of St Mark’s basilica and the forgotten piazza’s that hold the secrets of so many lovers through time. I walk along the city’s few streets and wish that you could live with me the mystery of over a millenium of intrigue intertwined with love stories worthy of keeping these palaces and temples to humanity’s infinite creativity afloat.

I hope you are well,

Love,

Me