If you have the chance, visit. Genuinely surreal place. I love Italy in general but Venice compelled me to write a weird autofiction thing for my book when I was writing it which I just rediscovered but never actually put in the book so:
post Verona a bit of a daze, sure as hell not Shakespeare, but star-crossed enough: the van from the hostel departs, barely makes it to the ferry. Here I am, a confused teenage Tom Ripley, recently eighteen, sailing into the lagoon with all my clothes in a tattered suitcase and a reservation I don’t remember making. I sit above a canal, and I fall in love once again as the water laps at my trainers. The old glassworker indulges my thoughts as the kiln nearly sears my eyebrows off. I dance with visiting English students in a public square and lie about how old I am. I spend much of my time at a restaurant a few blocks from the apartment I stay at petting a cat which I never see again, people watching fellow tourists while acting in denial. Later, I enjoy Italian pop music with someone I share my cigarettes with in a Paris rock club three years later. I look forward to the future.