"It often happens to me to dream of Venice.
Every time I see the city rising from afar, a vision shrouded in mist, close enough to think of being almost there, to touch it, yet still far away, mysterious and unreachable like a morgana in the desert.
In the dream, I look at it from the coast, that elegant and detached Lido, and I run, I run to try to reach it; she barely shifts, but I am so thrilled that I keep running ever louder. Yet I know I will succeed, I know I will be faster than her. I know that one day I will be able to reach it.
I wake up and my heart beats fast.
I look out the window. Venice is out there waiting for me."
In the dream, I smell the scent of Lido. The emotion of recognizing Venice from afar, its unmistakable silhouette in the mist, is a small relief that tastes like bergamot; but behind the composed elegance of the cedar, it already pinches a shiver of lemon. Venice is approaching, and the heart bursts with joy, lily of the valley, and iris: the joy of a dream that is becoming reality, is becoming a city, and a miracle, there in the middle of the water.
It is enchantment, it is amber and vanilla, this feeling of being almost there: the pier is almost close enough to touch it, but Venice has already begun to seduce you, sweet and sensual like the tonka bean, warm like sandalwood; you just perceive it, like a distant voice. But feel something sticky that slips over your heart, something like thick, warm honey, as mysterious as vetiver, as intense as patchouli. You are already in love with Venice, and you still don't know.