About 20 years ago I read a story on the charms of Venice in the winter. This past December I witnessed them for myself. A gloriously clear day cold enough to warrant a coat and gloves yet brilliantly sunny—light shimmering on the water like Christmas baubles and a sky so blue that the tides appeared joyously high. Rainbows entered my suite at the exquisite Venice Venice Hotel; a snowy white heron perched itself on the railing of the balcony, seemingly as enchanted by the activity on the canals as we were; a pianist dressed in a long printed cape that swept the floor played into the night.
We wanted to do none of the things that tourists do, but we delighted in all the things they delight in: the wonder of the light on the water, the domes and steeples, the birds that fly boldly and swiftly and far too close to the tops of our heads. We shopped local designers and jewelers, and gazed spellbound at the Scuola Grande di San Rocco’s grand room, its ceiling, walls, and floor in competition for our attention. We ate pasta and drank wine, and hung out with artists and gallerists who were preparing for the Biennale in May. We walked through palazzi and dreamed of converting them into holiday homes and hotels; we ate on the terrace of the Gritti Palace and thought about how lucky we were to be there, especially without the crowds, in beautiful weather, among the most charming and patient and creative Italians.
Venice is a funny city: steeped in history, its past so alive and vibrant even as it is dragged into the future, unwillingly but gracefully. I feel a little bit like that now, at the beginning of this new year—so much to look forward to and yet so much familiarity and nostalgia and comfort holding me back. I left with a prayer and a wish: to move forward with the same quiet courage and shimmer that Venice carries in the winter. May the journey ahead feel both exhilaratingly new and deeply, reassuringly known.
This article appeared in the March 2026 issue of Condé Nast Traveler. Subscribe to the magazine here.
