The Floating City enchants from every angle, attracting millions of people across the world in their mutual desire to experience la dolce vita. Flooding the piazzas and bars, selfie-sticks in one hand and dripping gelato cones in the other, straining their necks to get a glimpse of Ponte di Rialto or standing in line to see the view from Campanile di San Marco. The real beauty of Venice is lost beneath the cameras, canals and crowds. Stray from the masses, leave maps and cameras behind, lose the way through unlit alleys of the old town. Allow the twists and turns of cobbled side-streets to guide further and further away from the music, the souvenir shops and the insistent waiters that thrust menus forward, strewn with blurred pictures of Spaghetti Carbonara and Pizza Diavola. It is dusk; the cruise ships have departed and the sky turns a faint lilac-pink, which serves as a fitting backdrop for the young couple sipping Aperol, falling deeper in love. The streets become quieter, filled only with the sound of waves splashing up against the sides of worn houses and the off-key whistles of a woman as she collects her washing from a balcony line. Taking this turn and that, following the path unknown until stumbling across an old bar where a tired, olive-skinned man stands at the doorway, lighting a cigarette as he watches no one walk by. He brushes his shirt-sleeve across his forehead and offers a wide, coffee-stained smile. Setting foot inside, bottles of liquor line the walls, accompanied by a plentiful display of glassware that tentatively rests upon the rusty cabinets. Two elderly women sit in the far corner, one expressing a decided opinion on her husband’s behaviour earlier that day through dynamic hand gestures while the other agrees with an enthusiastic nod of the head, tapping a sugar sachet vigorously against the table. “I mariti” the barman winks playfully, acknowledging their topic of discussion as he slides a single espresso across the counter. It grows darker outside, and amidst ancient bridges and weathered shutters the subtle echo of solitary footsteps is interrupted as laughter and chanting fills the air. It is here, reaching the end of a dark, narrow passage, where a Campo gingerly reveals itself and Venice comes to life. Here, you will not find giddy tourists tripping up on each-others toes, nor will you come across men in striped t-shirts, perched upon glossy gondolas. Here, street-vendors are nowhere to be seen and sleepy love songs played by violinists in frayed tuxedos cannot be heard. Rather, dim streetlights expose tables packed with locals picking at Cicchetti, sipping on cold beer, ordering another bottle of vino bianco della casa. The real beauty of Venice lies far from the crowd, away from the fabricated, magical madness of Piazza San Marco and at the heart of this modest square. Where waiters shout across to adjacent bars in teasing tones and students smoke like chimneys, popping open bottles of prosecco and flinging laurel wreath’s up into the hazy sky in celebration. Where children with sun-kissed cheeks spiral every which way, taking turns racing bicycles around dozy grandparents who watch on from the dark-green benches scattered about. Everyone knows each other… a private party, open to all. La dolce vita is not found where crowded restaurants line the canals, where litter spills onto the streets and roses lay trampled on the ground. It is found in the expressions upon Venetian faces as old men salute young graduates and sons fetch focaccia for their fathers. It is found where the woman at the local bar wishes the priest a good evening on his walk home. Perhaps it is better this way, that only those who happen upon it by chance have the pleasure of seeing Venice for what it really is, behind the mask. It is better this way, so this charming, intimate sense of community that still remains can live on, unobserved, in spite of its surroundings. In a world where “No Grandi Navi” reach Venice, unscarred by the power of money, image and greed, the Venetians rise up, assuming their rightful place. This island of water is not a theme park, it’s a home.