Lido

The creator often dreams of Venice. Each time, he sees the city rising in the distance, a vision shrouded in mist, close enough to almost touch, yet always distant, mysterious, and unattainable, like a mirage in the heart of the desert. In this dream, he observes it from the coast, the elegant and detached Lido, and he runs—he runs to try to reach it; it barely moves, yet the exhilaration drives him to go faster and faster. And yet he knows he will succeed, that he will be faster than it, that one day he will finally reach it. He wakes with his heart racing. And when he looks out the window, Venice is there, waiting for him.

In the dream, he perceives the scent of the Lido. The emotion of recognizing Venice from afar, its unmistakable silhouette in the mist, brings a small relief that tastes of bergamot; but behind the composed elegance of cedar, a shiver of lemon already runs through him. Venice approaches, and his heart bursts with joy—lily of the valley and iris: the joy of a dream turning into reality, into a city, into a miracle, right there in the middle of the water.

It is enchantment, it is amber and vanilla, that sensation of being almost there: the pier is nearly within reach, but Venice has already begun to seduce him, sweet and sensual like tonka bean, warm like sandalwood; he perceives it only faintly, like a distant voice.

Yet there is something sticky that slips over the heart, something like thick, warm honey, as mysterious as vetiver, as intense as patchouli. He is already in love with Venice… and he does not yet know it.