Harry's

'Here's your drink,' a voice suddenly said to me. Venice is like taking out a whole box of liqueur chocolates in one go, Truman Capote said. But maybe he was talking about love. "Cheers!", I said to my reflection in the glass. I downed a sip, then another, and another. And as I drank, nothing seemed to matter anymore, except that tomorrow is another day. Suddenly I felt happy. "I feel like it's better now," he told me. I turned to smile at him, but there was no one there.

The Scent

This daydream is called Harry's. It opens like the doors of a bar and welcomes you into a warm, vibrant microcosm of coriander and pink pepper, hypnotic with geranium. Here you can take off your jacket and make yourself comfortable, amidst the warmth of the Texas cedar woods of the counter and tables, and the smoky notes, a reminder of the thousands of cigarettes that artists and writers have smoked in it. The incense illuminates it like their discussions on art and literature, to land on a balsamic background of pure delight, labdanum and amber, comfortably seated on the leather accord of the chairs. And suddenly you don't know whether you're in London or Venice, you just know you'll want to go back again.