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We’re in Lidia’s childhood home, where she lived with her parents — first as a little girl, then as a young woman.
Like many Venetians, Lidia has since moved to Lido — the barrier island in the Venetian Lagoon famous for hosting the Venice Film Festival.
Life there feels a world apart from what she grew up with and where she’s always felt completely at home.
But the moment she opens the door to her family’s house, the memories come rushing back.
Behind the Scenes
Ilya: We first heard about Lidia from a Netflix film called I Love Venice (2013). It’s a half-documentary, half-dramatised film about native Venetians fighting for their city’s future.
Lena: Lidia is one of the main characters, and the moment I saw her, I turned to Ilya and said, “Her eyes are the colour of the Venetian lagoon. I need to write to her.” At that point, we had a week left before our short travel break in Venice. With zero expectations, I found Lidia’s email and sent her a message, telling her how much her story in the film had moved us and that we’d be in town for just two days. Then I basically asked her to drop everything and let us film her for NOSTALGIA in her childhood home. A total shot in the dark. The next day, she replied — she was in.
Ilya: We stood at our meeting spot in Venice, loaded with filming gear. Even then, I still couldn’t believe this was actually happening. I was fully prepared for her to bail. Why on earth would she agree to this? But there she was, right on time. We couldn’t be more grateful for her openness.
In Their Own Words: Lidia on Her Childhood Home on the Grand Canal in Venice
Full transcript of our conversation with Lidia.
My name is Lidia, I was born in Venice and have always lived in Venice. When I was young, Venice was a completely different city, a vibrant, normal city — which sadly is no longer the case.
A Childhood Portrait
When I was four years old, my parents decided to have my portrait done by a Venetian academic painter named Pomi. I remember those sittings very clearly; they weren’t truly sittings, because I was so lively, and I don’t recall ever sitting still on a chair; I was always running around and playing with a ball.
I remember that the painter was very tall — imposing, even — and I also remember the shoes he made me wear, which I thought were utterly hideous and which I later recognised in the portrait. But apart from the shoes, which I didn’t like, when they showed me the painting, I realised he had captured me perfectly — my personality, my character. Especially my gaze. Even now, I still see myself in it.
[Editor’s note: Below are three more works by the same artist, Alessandro Pomi (Mestre 1890–1976)]
Sources: 1. Giovane pescatore (Young Fisherman) 2. Pigeon meal 3. A promotional postcard designed for the National Exhibition of Sacred Art in Venice (1920)
Studying Art and the Venetian Lagoon
I decided to study art history, particularly medieval and Venetian art history. But for my research, my thesis focused on a lost monastery in the lagoon. I even had to study paleography to learn how to read ancient documents. Afterwards, I worked as an archivist for many years and began working with my thesis supervisor — my co-advisor — who was an honorary inspector of the Venice lagoon, named Canal. So, as the saying goes, Nomen Omen. I used to go with him through the canals of Venice and in the lagoon. For many years, even after my thesis, I continued my research with him in the lagoon and even served as an honorary inspector for the archaeological superintendency.
I can truly say that this knowledge of the lagoon, of its history, has profoundly influenced my life. I began to take an interest in preserving Venice and especially its lagoon. Since the 1990s, I have participated in many campaigns to save Venice and its lagoon. So yes, my studies led me to live a pretty combative life.
When I lived in this house, I was a student — young, like all students anywhere in the world. I went to university, to the library, then back home to study. Life was normal, and so was the city. You’d step outside and see people heading to work, to class, just living their lives — not tourists everywhere. I have to say, my youth was serene — I was just another student in a city like many others. But now, Venice feels different. What we Venetians really want is for it to be seen as, and to remain, a real, living city. Venice must become a normal city again, a place for those who want to live there permanently, not just for wealthy tourists.
A Frozen Lagoon and Roman Frescoes
I think one of my most beautiful memories is actually from the lagoon. One day, I went out with the honorary inspector I was doing research with, to the northern part of the lagoon. It was a cold, beautiful early winter day — February, I believe. The lagoon was frozen, something that doesn’t happen anymore, and the water was crystal clear. In winter, there aren’t as many impurities in the lagoon, so you could see right to the bottom. And there, along the canal’s bank, we spotted fragments of Roman frescoes. There was a Roman villa of Lio Piccolo, which this honorary inspector had uncovered; but we had never seen frescoes so clearly visible before. So, we took off our jackets, coats, jumpers — everything — and plunged our arms into the icy water to retrieve these fragments, which are now housed in the archaeological museum. It was a beautiful day, with stunning sunshine. Yes, truly an incredible experience.
Moving to Lido
I chose to move to Lido because I just had the chance to live there for a while. But now, after the last twenty years, I don’t think I’ll ever go back. Coming to terms with it was tough because Lido is just a regular island, with cars and everything, and I never really felt at home there. The only truly beautiful thing — aside from the sea, the beach, and the shoreline — was being able to see Venice from the outside. When you live in Venice, you’re inside it, you don’t really see it as a whole. But from Lido, on clear days, especially in winter when the light is crisp, you can see the mountains — even snow-covered. And that’s how our ancestors saw Venice when they painted those old bird’s-eye views. In all those paintings, Venice is framed by mountains, because back then, the skies were clear, there was no pollution, and you could see them. That, I really loved.
I don’t know if I could move back to Venice now. I’ve always felt nostalgic for Venetian life — it’s part of me, and I’m part of it — but I think living there has become impossible. You step outside and see people wandering aimlessly, people you don’t know, when in Venice, you used to know almost everyone. You get on a vaporino and it’s all tourists. I sometimes do this just for fun — I get on and count the Venetians. You can spot them straight away. Years ago — quite a few years ago now — I walked into Campo San Stefano, not far from here, on the weekend of Festa dei Morti in November. And all I saw were tourists. That’s when it really hit me — it was no longer a place you could live in.
A Childhood Home on the Grand Canal
This is the house of my childhood, where I also spent my youth, where I studied, where I had my own study, where I could work in peace and without noise. Now, if I open a window in my parents’ house, I hear a constant noise that never stops — it’s the sound of engines, obviously marine engines — and once it wasn’t like this. Not many years ago, well, decades ago (but not centuries), the sounds of Venice were very different. One could hear the stillness, even the murmur of water, which now is stirred very violently.
A House Too Big for a Little Girl
In the mid-’60s, my parents decided to change houses because our home was small and there were many houses in Venice for sale — so many, and certainly not as expensive as they are now. So I saw many houses, wonderful palaces. I remember the first time they took me to this house — it seemed enormous to me because it was completely empty, and I felt rather lost. But the view of the canal and its water immediately won me over, I must say.
Evening Serenades Over the Water
I remember that my mother had a habit of stepping out onto the balcony every evening when the serenade passed by. There was a serenade performed by gondoliers for the tourists — we were well aware of that, and she too knew it was for the tourists — but she loved it so much that every evening she would call me so that we both could listen to the serenade, while my father would make fun of us. I don’t think they still do that, to be honest.
Nostalgia for a Vanished City
When I return to this house now, I have to say that I am assailed by the memory of everything that has happened here — just as it happens in every home when children visit the house of a parent who is no longer there. Yet here, the nostalgia is twofold, because there is a longing both for the family members who are no longer around and also for a place that no longer exists, because the Venice I knew, the one I experienced in my youth, has been erased forever.
A Mother’s Love for Music
My mother was a teacher; she taught Italian and Latin, and she tried to pass that on to me even when I was little. This large house allowed me to slip away without her catching me. She loved music very much, and I remember that when she was buying the piano we have in the house, she would take me to see countless pianos, because at that time, when she bought the house and the piano, there were many houses for sale with their pianos.
So I have a vivid memory of having seen many pianos in my life. And I always heard my mother playing it when she got home from school — she’d have lunch and then sit at the piano. So all my childhood afternoons are filled with the sound of her playing, especially Chopin.
A Cradle Passed Through Generations
One object I will definitely take with me from this house — even though I’m unsure where to put it — is the cradle from the late 1800s that has hosted so many generations: my great-grandfather, my grandfather, my mother, me, and then I even used it for my own son. It’s something I want to keep, even though it’s a bit bulky.
The Red Venetian Floor
I think that the most beautiful thing about this house, the thing I’ve always loved the most and that impressed me even as a child, is the floor — so red and so bright in colour. This is a typical Venetian floor from the 1600s–1700s — this one is from the 1700s — known as the “pastellone,” crafted from fragments of marble and stucco, that red stucco which is applied and polished. The pastellone can be of various colours — there’s red, yellow, green — vibrant colours that are perfectly in tune with Venice and its hues. Dans Venise la rouge.
[Editor’s note: Here, Lidia is quoting from a poem by Alfred de Musset, later adapted into a song by Charles Gounod. Gounod significantly shortened the poem to fit the strophic form of his barcarole Venise (1851), composed during his Italian period. The phrase “la rouge” is an epithet for Venice, evoking its red rooftops, fiery sunsets, and the city atmosphere of passion and decadence. Below, we present Gounod’s song in the original French and its English translation.]
Venise
French source: Alfred de Musset
Dans Venise la rouge,
Pas un bâteau qui bouge,
Pas un pêcheur dans l’eau,
Pas un falot!
La lune qui s’efface
Couvre son front, qui passe,
D’un nuage étoilé,
Demi-voilé!
Tout se tait, fors les gardes
Aux longues hallebardes,
Qui veillent aux créneaux
Des arsenaux.
Ah! maintenant plus d’une
Attend, au clair de lune
Quelque jeune muguet,
L’oreille au guet.
Sous la brise amoureuse
La Vanina rêveuse,
Dans son berceau flottant,
Passe en chantant.
Tandis que pour la fête,
Narcissa qui s’apprête,
Met devant son miroir
Le masque noir.
Laissons la vieille horloge,
Au palais du vieux doge,
Lui conter de ses nuits
Les longs ennuis.
Sur sa mer nonchalante
Venise l’indolente
Ne compte ni ses jours
Ni ses amours.
Car Venise est si belle
Qu’une chaîne sur elle
Semble un collier jeté
Sur la beauté.
Venise
English translation: © Richard Stokes
In Venice the red,
Not a boat that stirs,
Not a fisherman afloat,
Not a lantern.
The waning moon
Hides its fading face
With a startlit cloud,
Half-veiled.
All is silent, save the guards
With long halberds,
Keeping watch on the battlements
Of the Arsenal.
Ah! More than one girl
Now waits in the moonlight
For some young gallant,
Keenly listening.
Beneath the amorous breeze,
Dreamy Vanina,
Cradled in her gondola
Glides singing by.
While for the carnival
Narcissus puts on
Before his mirror
The black mask.
Let us leave the old clock
In the old Doge's Palace
To count
The tedium of long nights.
On her nonchalant sea,
Indolent Venice
Counts neither her days
Nor her loves.
For Venice is so fair
That a chain on her
Seems like a necklace, thrown round
Beauty itself.
Translation © Richard Stokes, from A French Song Companion (Oxford, 2000)
The 1966 Venice Flood
When my family moved into this house, they bought Murano chandeliers. I remember that as soon as we moved in and switched on the lights, that very evening — the next day — the acqua alta phenomenon of 1966 occurred. We were left without power for a couple of days, and as soon as the chandelier was installed, it ceased to work. Without light, without telephone, without electricity, we were completely in the dark about what was happening outside because we had no communication. With the water so high, we couldn’t leave the house, and it was bitterly cold.
The 1975 Friuli Earthquake
I remember when the 1975 earthquake hit Friuli — it was a terrifying experience, as it was for everyone. But this house almost felt alive. All the doors started swinging open and shut over and over, and the chandelier swayed in a way that was truly frightening. I remember we ran outside into the square, and just then, a vaporetto arrived at San Samuele. There was a huge crowd gathered in the small square, and the people stepping off the boat couldn’t understand why — because on the water, you don’t feel the earthquake. Then I went back inside, and even half an hour later, the chandelier was still swaying dangerously. I have no idea how it didn’t break or come crashing down.
The Quiet Sounds of Home
A sound that reminds me of this house is the absence of sound — the quiet, the lack of noise, and the gentle lapping of water against the stones. That’s what I remember. For example, right now, no boats are passing, and you can hear this calm — sometimes the water, sometimes the bells. That’s how I remember the sounds of this house.
Sunlight and Traditional Curtains
The house faces west, so my mother was very pleased because she enjoyed the beautiful morning light and then the rich, full afternoon light while playing the piano. Now, unfortunately, the house does get a bit warm in summer and needs the kind of curtains that all palaces have. The curtains are, thankfully, still traditional, lowered by a rope and pulled out by hand. So, this is one detail that remains uniquely Venetian. I believe these curtains date from the 1930s, though I’m not exactly sure whether they were found or bought by my family.
The Confusing Address System of Venice
Sometimes I come across tourists in the calli asking where number 4932 is, and I have to tell them that you can’t find a place in Venice with just a number. The numbers here are by sestiere [Editor’s note: Sestieri are the historic districts of Venice. There are six in total: Cannaregio, Santa Croce, San Polo, Dorsoduro, San Marco, and Castello). Each sestiere has its own numbering system, which can go up to two, three, even four thousand.]
So, you also need to know the name of the calle (a typical Venetian street between two rows of buildings) or the campo (a square), the riva (a walking path along the front of a wide body of water), etc. And even then, it’s not always easy — many streets have similar names, like Calle del Magasin or Calle del Cristo, so just knowing the name doesn’t always help. We use the stradario, a kind of directory, where you look up the sestiere and the number, and then find it on a map. Otherwise, it’s impossible.
The Future of an Old Venetian House
What will I do with this house? I certainly won’t put it on the tourist market, turn it into a bed and breakfast, or rent it out to visitors. I want it to be lived in, as it always has been for centuries, by people who will make new memories here.
The Challenges of Living in Venice
For years I have daydreamed of having a magic wand to make all the tourists disappear. That’s the one thing I would change. I know it is impossible, but at the very least, to limit their numbers. And if I could change one more thing, I would change the way our decision-makers view the lagoon. The lagoon must be treated as a lagoon and not as a sprawling port. Before the port, there was the industry of Marghera. The port and the industry brought jobs, but they also brought destruction — the profound destruction of the lagoon and a lot of pollution.
All Venetians cling to the hope of a bright future for the Lagoon — so desperately that, as we say, there are now more associations and committees fighting for it than there are Venetians themselves. Everyone is very concerned about the future and hopes for a change in direction, but honestly, over the past thirty years, I’ve seen and lived through a complete transformation — and it’s hard to go back.
A Shrinking Venetian Population
The real problem for Venetians is that there are fewer and fewer of us, and administratively, we’re tied to the mainland. Officially, there are fewer than 50,000 Venetians, but in reality, the number is even lower. Meanwhile, the population living in the same municipality on the mainland is much larger, which means they have more electoral weight — and they’re the ones making decisions for us.
MOSE and the Still-Flooded Piazza
There are still places where many Venetians live, and where everyday life in Venice carries on as normal. But this cancer of mass tourism has spread everywhere. Even in the campi and sestieri where real life has held on the longest, many people have left. You can see Venetians disappearing all over the city, but in some areas, like San Marco, it’s especially extreme. Down in the androne [Editor’s note: A spacious ground-floor hall in traditional Venetian buildings, historically used for goods storage and trade], there are barriers that are put up during acqua alta, in late autumn. Now, of course, we have MOSE — a massive, almost pharaonic project that closes off the lagoon’s inlets to stop the water from coming in. It’s something we strongly opposed, both for technical and economic reasons, which are incredibly complex. It’s in use now during high tides, but the lowest parts of the city, especially Piazza San Marco, still end up underwater. Much to the delight of tourists — and to the frustration of Venetians, who can’t stand seeing visitors splashing around in Piazza San Marco as if it were merely a tourist attraction.
Is Venice Really Inconvenient?
I often hear people say that Venice is inconvenient. But I have never understood that because, to me, Venice is extremely livable. It offers experiences that no other city can — namely, human relationships: you meet people, you see people, you talk with people, and you see beautiful things that you wouldn’t see elsewhere. To call it inconvenient is simply incomprehensible.
Venice does have its drawbacks, but not Venice itself — rather, issues like the costs, which could be remedied. The cost of restoring properties is enormous compared to the mainland, and the cost of food is much higher than on the mainland as well. Yet, with wise policies and local incentives for the residents, many of these issues could be addressed. We used to have a special law that allowed for the reimbursement of restoration expenses, but in recent years, all the funds have been absorbed by MOSE. Thus, Venetians no longer receive state support to cope with these severe restoration expenses.
A City Defined by Water
Everyone knows the beauty of Venice. In my view, the fundamental thing — an obvious fact — is the water, the relationship that every Venetian has with water. I never fail, each time I cross a bridge, to look both right and left at the canal’s water. I don’t think I could live in a city without water.
Vogalonga: A Protest on the Water
A few years ago, I had a small boat with some friends — not a motorboat, but a traditional Venetian boat. And we took part in the Vogalonga. Do you know what it is? The Vogalonga is essentially a long-distance rowing event — I think it was the first one about 50 years ago. All the boats in Venice would gather in the Bacino di San Marco, they’d fire a big signal, and then everyone would set off, rowing towards Mazzorbo, one of the islands in the lagoon — and then back to Venice. It’s a long route, about 40 kilometres. But originally, it was created as a protest against moto ondoso. Do you know what moto ondoso is? It refers to waves that aren’t natural but are caused by boats. The first Vogalonga, and even today, is a kind of rebellion against moto ondoso and motorboats in general.
The Two Layers of Venice
Water is fundamental to Venice — without the lagoon, Venice simply wouldn’t exist. It would have been a completely different city. But it’s also fundamental to its people. Venetians have a dual nature — terrestrial and aquatic. The transport network works the same way — both on land and water. Seeing Venice from its smaller canals is a completely different experience. It’s a whole other network of routes that overlaps and intertwines with those on land yet it is not the same. Thus, there are two faces of Venice and two ways of moving through and experiencing the city.
Rowing Through the Canals
In the early centuries of Venice’s history, most journeys were done on water. There weren’t bridges — you got around by boat. And rowing through Venice is still a wonderful experience — but with oars, of course. I had two small boats with some friends, and we used to row. We rowed alla Veneta, which means standing up. I even took part in a few university regattas — not with great results, but it was a lot of fun anyway.
I also had the chance to row a gondolino da regata — not in an actual race, but just to try it out and see how it moves. It’s a very special kind of boat. And it’s an incredible experience. You glide over the water at high speed, but you have to learn to balance properly — if you don’t move the way the boat requires, you’ll end up in the canal straight away! Gondolini are beautiful boats, and they’re not gondolas. They’re the ones used in the Regata Storica.
How Seagulls Changed Their Habits
When I was young, there was a saying that no longer holds true: Cocai in laguna, tempesta in mar — which means, Gulls in the lagoon, storm at sea. The idea was that when a storm was coming over the sea, the seagulls would retreat to the lagoon for shelter — and into the city as well. But now, like in cities all over the world, they’ve adapted to urban life and have settled on our rooftops. Back then, you didn’t see many other birds in the city itself like you do now. They stayed on the outskirts, out in the lagoon. Take tuffini, for example — diving birds that plunge into the water to catch fish. When I used to go out into the lagoon, they were incredibly skittish. You’d spot them from a distance, and they’d take off immediately. But now, they don’t even flinch when a vaporetto passes by.
The Most Beautiful Time in Venice
The most beautiful days, when Venice truly shines, are winter days — when the weather is clear, crisp, and freezing. But those days are rare, I have to say. Most of the time, Venetian winters are grey, and that can be a bit heavy. It’s not just the fog — it’s the grey tones of everything you see. But no matter the weather, I always notice how the city changes. The light shifts on the stones, and that’s why I love Venice in any condition — fog, sunshine, mist. Because Venice changes dramatically with the light. The sky takes on so many different shades, but it’s the canals, above all, that change the most — especially the Grand Canal, because it’s so wide and catches the light directly.
I’m used to the fog. It’s just something we factor in. Of course, getting around can be harder sometimes — vaporetti occasionally stop running, especially to Lido, though now they all have radar. I have to say, a lot of visitors complain when they come to Venice and find it foggy. But to me, it’s completely normal, so I don’t even think about it. And besides, fog often appears in March, just before spring — it’s a kind of prelude to the good weather. Before the sun returns, we have these days, sometimes weeks, of thick fog, where you can’t see a thing. All the sounds are muffled, you take a step, then another, and suddenly, you’re lost. It doesn’t always happen this way — but to tourists, it certainly does.
