The architecture swings wildly between decadent Parisian-style wrought-iron balconies and brutalist concrete apartment blocks, graffiti, and streets filled with plants growing out of random plastic buckets and pots lining the sidewalks.

The city has been shaped by strong migratory waves. First came the Corsicans, Armenians, and Italians (you will see a lot of pizza vans around!), followed in the ‘60s and ‘70s by many migrants from North Africa, particularly from Algeria and Tunisia. You will find tea rooms, mosques, hammams, the heavy scent of grilled meat, and Tunisian pastry shops.

This métissage is visible everywhere, but especially in Noailles, the beating heart of Marseille. Here, you will see halal butchers with piles of fresh herbs, fishmongers, shops selling spices and beldi soap for the hammam, and the Marché des Capucins fruit and vegetable market, where women wearing the veil line up right next to French women carrying their wicker baskets.

But Noailles is also a neighbourhood with deep, recent wounds. On November 5, 2018, two buildings collapsed at numbers 63 and 65 on Rue d’Aubagne, claiming eight lives (including an Italian student). The collapse was driven by a mix of severe structural decay, landlord negligence, and administrative inaction. It was a tragedy that exposed the severe housing crisis in the city’s poorest areas. Following the disaster, authorities aggressively used a legal tool known as arrêté de péril imminent (imminent danger order) to forcibly evict over 4,500 people from unstable or neighbouring buildings. The tragedy sparked widespread protests against “slumlords,” real estate agencies, and public authorities. Shockingly, at the time of the collapse, the city had only two inspectors assigned to check the safety conditions of its housing stock.

In response to the neighbourhood’s precariousness, the non-profit organisation Bouillon de Noailles runs incredible initiatives centred around food and cooking to promote professional integration, share information, combat poverty, and run cultural projects.

Walk up the graffiti-filled stairs to Cours Julien, famous for its street art and cool bars. On Wednesday mornings, there is also a farmers’ market here. It reminded me a bit of Hackney Wick in London.

Watch the locals play pétanque (a category of boules sports born in Provence) at Boule Carli. It is a highly social cultural ritual here! Afterward, just sit in one of the many bars to soak in the vibes.

Eat & Drink

• Maison Journo: Grab a fricassée sandwich and a lemonade

• Mon Bar: a classic neighbourhood bar and the perfect setting to try a Pastis.

If you’ve never had one, Pastis is an anise-flavoured spirit born right here in Marseille and the quintessential taste of Southern France. It is served with ice and water, turning into a beautiful, cloudy yellow.

If you click on the image, I’ve linked a documentary on Paul Ricard.

• Pain Pan!: local bakery

• La Brasserie Communale: good spot for a pint.

• Limmat: great food, book in advance.

• Razzia good coffee and atmosphere

Shops

• Maison Empereur: A massive, historic hardware and kitchenware store. It has inevitably become a major tourist destination, but it is an absolute treasure trove.

• Herboristerie du Père Blaize: historic herbalist shop

• OLAB: Whenever I travel, I love hunting down local film photography shops. I bought a roll of mira.film, a French film company born in 2022.

• Tangerine Marseille & La Cave à Vinyle: Two great record stores! I got super excited here because I love both French and African music, and Marseille has an incredible selection of both.

Talking about music, EVERYWHERE (and I am not exaggerating) you go here, you will hear the music of the rapper Jul. He is an absolute legend in Marseille. Not only is he the best-selling artist in the history of French rap, but he also represents a symbol of redemption and the city’s urban culture. The Marseille stadium, the Orange Vélodrome, is the temple for his biggest shows, as well as being home to the city’s other great legend: the Olympique de Marseille football club.

Not far from the stadium, architecture lovers should pay a visit to Le Corbusier’s iconic Cité Radieuse.

Le Corbusier’s legacy is immense but deeply polarising. Before leaving for Marseille, I went down a bit of a rabbit hole researching him. I don’t find this building beautiful, but the concepts behind it are absolutely fascinating when you consider the era. It was born out of the desperate urgency of post-war Europe, a period plagued by severe housing shortages and urban decay.

He famously defined the home as “une machine à habiter” (a machine for living in): a space that should respond efficiently and functionally to the needs of modern humans, much like a car or an ocean liner. To tackle the congested, unhealthy reality of early 20th-century cities, his approach was incredibly radical: raze historic centres and rebuild from scratch using béton brut (raw, unfinished concrete - which gave us the term “Brutalism”).

He also introduced the Modulor (1948), a system of proportions based on the golden ratio and the standard measurements of the human body (an ideal man standing 183 cm tall with his arm raised). This ensured that every space - from ceiling heights to furniture - remained on a human scale, even within monumental structures. His designs heavily prioritised light and air, orienting these massive blocks so that every apartment received direct sunlight and a view of the surrounding greenery. (His only real opportunity to apply these theories on a massive urban scale was in the 1950s when he designed Chandigarh, the new capital of Punjab in India, entirely from scratch!)

Entering is completely free. Because it is a functioning residential building, only the internal “streets” on the 3rd and 4th floors and the rooftop terrace are open to the public. If you prefer a deeper dive, you can book a guided group tour right here.

Marseille has a profound relationship with the sea, offering incredible water access right inside the city through its urban beaches. Head over to the Malmousque neighbourhood, grab a pizza from Eau à la Bouche, and find a spot on the rocks to swim at Anse de Maldormé or Anse de la Fausse Monnaie. Afterward, wander up Rue d’Endoume and pop into its lovely shops and cafes.

From the Vieux Port, you can catch a boat to the Frioul archipelago and the famous Château d’If. The view looking back at the city from the water is spectacular. The fortress of If is, of course, famous as the legendary prison of Edmond Dantès in Alexandre Dumas’s The Count of Monte Cristo. Alternatively, take the boat toward Les Goudes, grab a Pan Bagnat at Boissonnerie Les Goudes, and eat it looking out at île Maïre. (While the sea is undeniably beautiful, some of the modern architectural additions on the coast and the islands themselves leave a bit to be desired).

For the best view of all of Marseille, head up to the Notre-Dame de la Garde. (just take the convenient public bus, there is no need to take the tourist train!). When you step inside, look around: over the centuries, sailors and their families have left maritime ex-votos - offerings asking for protection at sea or giving thanks for a safe return.

You can walk back down the hill and make a few strategic stops:

• Grigne Café: A great roastery (I brought some of their coffee beans home).

• Librairie Mazette A beautiful bookstore overlooking a small square set up with deckchairs - the perfect spot for a break.

• Maison Payani or Chez Adèle: Perfect spots to pick up fresh delicacies or a sandwich.

You should also wander through Le Panier, the oldest district in the city. To be completely honest, it didn’t quite capture my heart, as it is unfortunately suffering from a wave of generic tourist shops, but you must still stop to see La Vieille Charité.

On the other hand, I really liked the Mucem (Museum of European and Mediterranean Civilisations) - though definitely more for its architecture than its exhibitions. The complex is made up of two distinct souls connected by a suspended footbridge over the sea: the historic Fort Saint-Jean and the modern J4 dock, which was historically the exact landing point for immigrants and foreigners arriving in the city.

Designed by architect Rudy Ricciotti (born in Algeria in 1952 to an Italian family), the new building is wrapped in a delicate, stunning concrete lacework that beautifully frames the sea. This outer shell evokes the moucharabieh typical of Arab architecture. As Ricciotti describes it, it is a “porous” building - open not only to the natural elements but also to the cultural ones and its placement within the city. Amazingly, this delicate look is achieved using a highly technical material: BFUHP reinforced concrete, which is so incredibly strong that it is typically used for nuclear power plants!

Practicalities & Logistics

• Getting from the Airport: The airport shuttle drops you right at the Saint-Charles station. You can buy a return ticket (16€), or simply tap your credit card to board.

• Getting Around: You can easily tap your credit card on the buses, metros, and trams, but it is worth looking into the 72-hour pass if you plan to move around a lot. Also, electric bikes and e-scooters are used by absolutely everyone here and are a great way to navigate the city.

• Boats: For the maritime shuttle (La Navette) to the Frioul archipelago, you can buy tickets at the RTM ticket office right at the port. If you are heading to Les Goudes via Pointe Rouge, you can buy your tickets directly on board (they accept both card and cash). If you want to explore the Calanques around Les Goudes without being tied to boat schedules, consider renting a scooter.

• How long to stay: Two nights and three full days are the perfect amount of time to soak up the city’s atmosphere, though Marseille also makes a brilliant starting point for exploring the Côte d’Azur, Provence, or the Camargue.

Where I Stayed: I stayed at Pension Edelweiss, a highly central, beautifully designed spot filled with antique and vintage finds, where breakfast is served on a veranda. Right next door is Boissons SOIFFE, which brews great craft beers, and Cycles Fayette, a fantastic bike shop that promotes the “Marseille–Napoli” cycling challenge connecting the two Mediterranean cities (and honestly, how cool are those vintage Peugeot bikes?!).

Don’t forget to bring home some authentic Marseille soap before you leave. I use it for everything! A true Savon de Marseille must be made exclusively with vegetable oils, bear the iconic “72%” stamp, and is never scented or brightly coloured - it should be strictly olive green or beige.

Interestingly, this iconic soap is actually the direct descendant of Aleppo soap, brought to Europe from Syria during the Crusades. The recipe found its perfect home in Provence, thanks to the region’s immense supply of olive oil and natural soda extracted from wild Camargue marsh plants.

While the rise of modern washing machines and synthetic detergents in the 1950s forced most of the glorious old soap factories to close, a few historic producers still remain. Be sure to look out for authentic heritage brands like Marius Fabre and La Corvette.

First things first: if you are arriving by train, take a moment to look at the main station building. You will notice there are two large clocks outside. While one shows the current time, the other is permanently stopped at 10:25. It is a poignant, untouched memorial to the tragic August 2, 1980 bombing- a devastating neo-fascist terrorist attack that destroyed the waiting room and claimed 85 lives. It’s a somber but deeply important piece of the city’s modern history.

When you head into the city, do yourself a favour and skip Via Indipendenza. It is the main artery into the city center, but it is chaotic and packed with commercial chain stores. Instead, walk up Via Galliera. It is quieter, lined with elegant palazzi, and sets the perfect mood for your trip. For a coffee fix here, stop at Forno Brisa, and a bit further down, there is also a beautiful historic shop, Drogheria della Pioggia. If you’ve never been to an Italian drogheria, it is essentially a dry goods store. It’s a magical, floor-to-ceiling cavern of spices, candies, local food specialties, and traditional soaps that feels completely frozen in time.

Eventually, you will find yourself in front of Piazza Maggiore, with the Two Towers - the landmarks of Bologna - to your left. Step inside the church of San Petronio, pop into Salaborsa (a stunning multimedia library), visit the Archiginnasio, and wander the Quadrilatero. Here you will immediately understand why Bologna is known as La Dotta (The Learned) and La Grassa (The Fat), and you will experience both!

Nearby is a slightly less touristy alternative to the Quadrilatero. While the Quadrilatero is undeniably beautiful, I also love the Mercato delle Erbe. It is a covered market that has some slightly hidden sections with great little restaurants. The small streets immediately surrounding it have exploded lately, filling up with cool, vibrant bars and eateries. The classic choice for an aperitivo here is tigelle and a tagliere (a cured meat board), and the absolute queen of the tagliere here is mortadella.

As for the mains, you are in one of the culinary capitals of Italy, so yes, you need to eat the holy trinity: tortellini, lasagne, and cotoletta alla bolognese. But whatever you do, do not miss the friggione. It is a traditional, slow-cooked dip made of sweet onions and tomatoes that is pure, rustic comfort food. Here are two spots I’ve been to recently that I really liked: Osteria al 15 and Trattoria da Me (they even have a second, stunning location situated right inside one of the city’s historic towers).

There is always space for gelato. Bologna is incredibly famous for its gelato, largely because it is home to Carpigiani, the world-leading manufacturer of gelato machines since 1946. This presence has turned the city into a global hub for gelato training and innovation. You absolutely must try Cremeria Santo Stefano and Sablé Gelato.

Spend an evening soaking up the lively atmosphere along the famous Via del Pratello. Bologna is famously known also as "La Rossa" (The Red) - a nickname that refers to its fiercely proud, left-wing political history. Historically a working-class and rebellious neighbourhood, Pratello has always been the anti-fascist heart of the city. Because of this, April 25th (Italy’s Liberation Day) is felt incredibly deeply here: the entire street transforms into a massive, joyful celebration known as Pratello R(esiste). Make sure to also keep an eye on Porta Pratello, a vibrant community space that frequently hosts great cultural events throughout the year.

You cannot truly understand Bologna without its music. Put on some Lucio Dalla as you wander the porticoes. I am obsessed with Lucio Dalla. Take a stroll down Via D’Azeglio to see his house from the outside. Look up at the wall - what looks like a mural is actually a beautiful, transparent wire mesh silhouette of Dalla playing the saxophone, designed to look exactly like his shadow cast against the building.

And see if you can spot the name “Commendator Domenico Sputo” on the doorbell! Dalla used this hilarious, irreverent pseudonym to protect his privacy from fans who would otherwise ring his bell all day, but also because it perfectly captured his eccentric, goliardic humor (to give you an idea, he even named his motorsailer “Catarro” - literally, phlegm!).

And besides the classic tortellino magnet, go hunting for vinyl records to take home as a souvenir. Great places for this are Disco D’Oro, Semm Music, and the basement floor of Tesori di Carta.

If you love photography and have time for a quick day trip, take the train to nearby Reggio Emilia to see Luigi Ghirri exhibition, A Series of Dreams (until 28th February 2027). Ghirri famously photographed Lucio Dalla, capturing some of his most iconic portraits.

You cannot visit Bologna without spending time in the magnificent, triangular square of Piazza Santo Stefano. It is home to the fascinating complex of the Seven Churches (Le Sette Chiese). If you are lucky enough to be in town during the second weekend of the month, the square completely transforms into a stunning antique market. It’s the perfect place to hunt for vintage treasures. It has become a bit touristy, but it is always beautiful to see.

Wander through the oldest university district in the Western world. Notice the faculty buildings, the copy shops, and the study halls. A quick warning: Piazza Verdi can unfortunately be a bit dirty and vandalised. But there are some incredibly cute places to stop nearby. In the Jewish Ghetto, grab a drink at Camera a Sud - it has a great vibe. Or head to Piazza Aldrovandi, which has old fruit and vegetable kiosks that have been turned into the cutest bars. I love this little square.

While you are wandering the center, don’t forget to look for the hidden canals of Bologna (usually viewed through the famous little window on Via Piella).

If you are here on a Saturday, go to the Mercato Ritrovato, a farmers’ market with local producers and street food. They also host workshops, like cooking classes, making your own market bag, or traditional apron printing. It is really cute and has a great, young atmosphere with lots of dogs and kids.

Once you are there, you are perfectly positioned to visit the Cineteca di Bologna & MAMbo. The Cineteca is one of the most important film archives in Europe, a world-renowned cultural hub for archival preservation and restoration.

Bologna is an absolute dream for cinephiles. I love going to the movies here. Try catching a film at Cinema Rialto (and grab a coffee or a bite at Fram right in front of it). You can also head to the Odeon, where they host meetings with directors, “Uncinemetto” (an Italian pun for knitting at the cinema!), and breakfast at the cinema. Finally, there is Cinema Modernissimo: located right under Piazza Maggiore, this newly restored underground cinema is breathtaking. They also host temporary exhibitions (they currently have one running on the Belgian filmmaker Agnès Varda).

For a green break, head to Giardini Margherita. Stop by Vetro (a greenhouse-turned-bistro) for a drink. In the summer, it is a beautiful spot and they even do open-air screenings.

Tip: If you time your spring visit right, you might catch the “Giardini e Terrazze” event, where the park fills up with flower and plant vendors, or Diverdeinverde, a beautiful festival that opens up Bologna's hidden private gardens and courtyards to the public.

Finally, no trip to Bologna is complete without the walk up to San Luca. Following the longest continuous portico in the world up the hill to the sanctuary is a true Bolognese rite of passage (and a great way to work off all the food).

A note for my Italian readers: If you want to dive even deeper into the city’s daily life and stories, I highly recommend subscribing to Portici, a newsletter by Il Post dedicated entirely to Bologna.

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A Culinary Treat at Contrada Bricconi

Tucked away high up in the Val Seriana, Contrada Bricconi is an incredible story of rebirth and rural redevelopment. It all started in 2011, when Giacomo Perletti initiated a massive project to restore a completely abandoned 15th-century stone farming village. It began as an agricultural project—they restored the barn and the stables, planted a vegetable garden, and started producing incredible cheeses (including the authentic stracchino bergamasco, which has absolutely nothing to do with the soft, mass-produced versions you find in supermarkets!). They practice a brilliant, sustainable, and highly authentic vision of mountain living.

Then, in 2022, they opened the restaurant. It is helmed by Chef Michele Lazzarini, who was born and raised in these very valleys and spent nine years working alongside the legendary Norbert Niederkofler at the famed St. Hubertus. By 2023, Contrada Bricconi had already earned its first Michelin star.

A fun connection for my Venice readers: last year, Michele actually came down to the Lagoon! He was hosted by Venissa - which I wrote about here - for a special "six-hands" dinner alongside their chefs, Chiara and Francesco, creating a menu that blended mountain and lagoon cuisines.

You dine inside the beautifully restored historic barn. The kitchen offers a single, 10-course tasting menu (€165, drinks excluded). The wine list champions the Lombardy region, but they also offer a truly surprising non-alcoholic pairing. Think homemade kombuchas, wild herb infusions, and fermented fruit juices designed to perfectly complement the food.

Fine dining can be intimidatingly expensive, but the team here actively wants young people to experience their project. To “democratise” high-level gastronomy, they offer an Under 30 menu on Thursday and Sunday evenings. For €95 per person (drinks excluded), you get a beautifully curated 6-course menu.

(Note: The restaurant is completely dog-friendly! Just be sure to mention it along with your dog's size when booking. And while they are currently “just” a farm and restaurant, the restoration continues - they plan to open on-site accommodations in the future).

Hiking the Orobie Alps

We laced up our boots and headed towards Maslana, an ancient rural settlement resting on the sunny southern slopes that descend from Pizzo Coca (the highest peak in the Orobie Alps).

Maslana is a magical place made up of four distinct clusters of dark stone cabins with slate roofs. But the real reason you hike here in the spring (between March and May) is the wildlife. This area is famous for the stambecchi (Alpine Ibex). Herds of them come right down to the village to graze. Fascinatingly, you will only see the males (at least one year old) down here; the females and the babies stay much higher up the mountain and never descend to Maslana!

If you want to keep going past the village, the trail leads you to the Cascate del Serio (Serio Waterfalls) with a massive 315-meter drop.

Trail Info:

• Trail Number: CAI 332

• Park here

Lake Iseo and Monte Isola

For the final day, we drove down to the gentle shores of Lake Iseo.

Often overshadowed by its glitzier siblings (Como and Garda), Iseo remained largely off the global radar until 2016, when it became world-famous for The Floating Piers. This monumental land art installation by Christo and Jeanne-Claude featured floating walkways that allowed visitors to literally walk on water from the mainland town of Sulzano over to Monte Isola and the tiny island of San Paolo.

(Note: San Paolo was purchased in 1916 by the Beretta family - owners of the famous Brescia weapons manufacturing company founded in 1526. The current CEO happens to be a major contemporary art collector).

Lake Iseo straddles the provinces of Bergamo and Brescia. To the south, the landscape gives way to the famous Franciacorta vineyards. On the western shore lies Sarnico, where the iconic Riva luxury boat shipyard was founded in 1842. Looking at the lake’s serene beauty today, it is hard to imagine it as an industrial hub, but historically, alongside racing and leisure boats, this area was home to early Italian steelworks, cement factories, cotton spinning mills, and fishing net producers.

There are several towns where you can park and catch a ferry - though it is worth noting that if you are traveling without a car, the lake is also easily accessible by train directly from Brescia - but Sulzano offers the most frequent departures to Monte Isola, the largest lake island in Italy.

There, you can only get around by walking, biking, or using the local mini-buses. The island boasts a rich, varied landscape that blends Mediterranean and pre-alpine vegetation, with numerous olive groves thriving on the sunny, terraced slopes.

The best way to spend the day here is simply to rent a bike or walk along the coastal paths, weaving through tiny fishing hamlets and olive groves. If you have the energy, hike up to the Santuario della Madonna della Ceriola at the very top of the island.

Finally, stop for a lazy lakeside lunch. Do not miss the local lake fish - specifically the fish ragu and the grilled coregone. This area has also kept the ancient tradition of dried lake fish alive. It is very salty, but absolutely worth a try! Soak in the sun, enjoy the food, and catch the ferry back to the mainland to wrap up the perfect break.

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Everywhere you look right now, shop shelves are lined with Easter eggs. The egg has ancient origins as a symbol of life and rebirth - long before Christianity, the Persians and Egyptians gifted decorated real eggs to celebrate the arrival of spring. The Christian tradition later adopted the egg as a symbol of the Resurrection.

But how did we get to the chocolate egg with a toy inside? Many credit the famous 19th-century jeweller Peter Carl Fabergé for inventing the “surprise” egg. However, the Piedmontese might have beaten him to it! Turin has a centuries-old chocolate-making tradition. As early as the 1700s, there was a custom of placing small gifts inside chocolate eggs. Then, in the 1920s, a Turin-based company patented a clever machine that spun melted chocolate inside closed molds, creating the perfect hollow egg we know today.

Fun fact: this Italian obsession with chocolate surprise eggs is exactly what inspired Michele Ferrero in 1974. He looked at how much kids loved Easter and said, “Let’s give them Easter every day.” And just like that, the Kinder Surprise was born!

But beyond the chocolate, Italy has an incredibly rich history of deeply rooted, hyper-regional Easter bakes. Here is a tour:

Le Cuddure (Sicilia)

Using the egg as our excuse, let’s start in the South with Le Cuddure (also known as cuddura cu l’ova). This tradition is actually so ancient that it predates modern regional borders - depending on where you are, you might hear them called scarcella or puddica.

The name comes from the Greek kollýra, a circular bread once offered to the gods. But the reason these sweet, rustic dough treats are baked with whole, hard-boiled eggs nestled right into the crust is actually wonderfully practical: historically, eating eggs was strictly forbidden during the 40 days of Lent. However, since chickens didn’t exactly follow the liturgical calendar, families ended up with a massive surplus of eggs. To save them, they were hard-boiled and used to decorate these celebratory Easter bakes.

Made from a simple shortcrust pastry enriched with lard and lemon zest, and topped with icing and colorful sprinkles, Le Cuddure are shaped like baskets, doves, bells, or hearts. But back in the day, the shape and the exact number of eggs weren’t random: they were a code of affection that changed depending on the recipient.

It was also a deeply romantic tradition. Young women would bake a heart-shaped cuddura, have it blessed in church, and present it to their fiancé as a public token of love and fertility.

Note: I am placing these under Sicily, but in reality, you will find wonderful variations of this tradition scattered all across Southern Italy!

La Cassata (Sicilia)

While we are in Sicily, we have to talk about the undisputed queen of Sicilian pastries. To be completely honest, it is a bit too sweet for my personal taste, but aesthetically? It is absolutely spectacular. Its origins date back to the Arab domination in the 10th century (the name comes from the Arabic word qas’at, the bowl it was shaped in). Originally, this dessert was actually baked in the oven (cassata al forno). The stunning, colourful version we know today - wrapped in bright green marzipan and topped with elaborate, jewel-like candied fruit - was created much later by a famous Palermo pastry chef named Salvatore Gulì in the late 1800s. It used to be strictly an Easter dessert, but today, trying a slice in Palermo is a mandatory everyday rite of passage.

La Colomba(Lombardia)

If you live in London or generally outside of Italy, you’ve probably noticed that the Colomba - the dove-shaped, almond-studded cake - has been popping up more and more in international delis and bakeries but it is actually a relatively modern marketing genius! Back in the 1930s, Dino Villani, the advertising director for the famous Motta company in Milan, was trying to figure out how to keep their Christmas panettone machinery running into the spring, and voilà - the commercial Colomba was born.

However, since I spend so much time talking about the Veneto region, I have to introduce you to a deeply traditional alternative: La Fugàssa (Venetian Focaccia).

Now, don’t let the word “focaccia” fool you. This isn’t the salty, olive-oil flatbread - it is a sweet, soft, and buttery yeasted bread, baked round and tall like a panettone, and topped with a crunchy, sugary crust. Legend has it this was invented by a baker in Treviso who wanted to give something special to his customers for Easter.

La Pastiera & Il Casatiello (Campania)

Although my mother and grandmother were born in Rome, our Neapolitan roots go back generations, and our recipe has been fiercely preserved over time. Because of this, the Pastiera is the ultimate dessert of my family. The tradition really solidified for me during the 2020 lockdowns, when my grandmother taught me the process over a video call. When I lived abroad, baking it was a literal challenge - trying to find the right sheep’s ricotta, cooked wheat, and orange blossom water!

There are a couple of beautiful myths surrounding its creation. One says the wives of fishermen left baskets of ingredients on the beach as an offering, asking the sea to bring their husbands home safely, and the waves magically mixed them into a cake overnight. The most famous legend, however, credits the mermaid Parthenope, the mythical founder of Naples. Locals offered her seven gifts (flour, ricotta, eggs, wheat, orange flower water, spices, and sugar), which the gods mixed into the first Pastiera. To this day, strict traditionalists insist that a true Pastiera must have exactly seven strips of shortcrust pastry across the top to represent those seven gifts!

Historically, the Pastiera actually started out as a half-sweet, half-savoury pie. The modern, sweet version we adore today was perfected by the nuns of the San Gregorio Armeno convent in the 16th century. They wanted to bake a cake that combined the ancient symbols of resurrection and spring.

Making a Pastiera is a true ritual. In Naples, the preparation begins on Holy Thursday. It is baked in a special aluminum pan called a ruoto and is left to rest because the cake actually gets better after a few days, as the complex flavours meld perfectly together just in time for Easter Sunday.

But Neapolitans don’t just do sweet; they do spectacular savoury bakes, too. Enter Il Casatiello. Much like the Sicilian Cuddura, it is decorated with whole eggs baked right into the crust (held down by little pastry crosses). But inside, it is a rich, hearty, rustic bread loaded with lard, pecorino, cubed salami, and cheese.

Pizza di Formaggio (Marche)

Taking one final savoury detour, we land in the Marche (and neighbouring Umbria). Here, Easter morning is all about the Pizza di Formaggio. Again, not a classic pizza, but a tall, soft, brioche-like leavened bread packed with eggs, cheese, and a lot of black pepper. According to legend, this recipe was born in the Middle Ages inside a monastery in Serra de’ Conti. The original, historic recipe was incredibly strict: it supposedly required exactly 40 eggs, symbolising the 40 days of Lent!

Obviously, Italy is packed with regional traditions, and this is just a quick overview of some of the heavy hitters! There are countless variations in every region or even family .

P.S. If you are reading this from London and want to taste some of these traditions without getting on a plane, check out Forno Bakery in East London. They usually bake incredible regional Italian holiday specialties for Easter!

If you’re looking for my other Venice recommendations, I’ve already shared my guides to independent shops, my favorite bookshops, and my seasonal guides for both summer and winter.

So, here we go.

A quick disclaimer before we dive in: because I don’t eat seafood, I am probably not your best source for those classic, sit-down Venetian restaurants. Instead, think of this as a curated guide for bites and sips.

Let’s start exactly where we should:

Breakfast

• Pasticceria Dal Mas: This one is located near the train station on a street that is honestly full of tourist traps. But Dal Mas proudly holds its ground. It’s a true institution that has been run by the Balestra family since 1906. If you are arriving by train or leaving Venice, this is the perfect stop.

• Pasticceria Rio Marin: Also not too far from the station, but this one has outdoor tables. Whenever I come here, I always get their fagottini. You have to try either the apple one or the pear, chocolate and ricotta combo. Trust me on this.

• Pasticceria Tonolo: Yes, it is right in the middle of the tourist chaos, and yes, it can be packed, but it is a Venetian institution.

• Dal Nono Colussi: A family-run pastry shop that has been open since 1956.

• Pasticceria Targa: If you find yourself wandering around the Rialto area in the morning and need a proper local breakfast away from the overpriced tourist cafes, this is exactly where you want to go.

Cicheti & Quick Bites

Another small disclaimer (and a bit of a rant): I absolutely cannot stand the “bacari tours” that bring degradation and hordes of drunk, disrespectful people to the city. I especially hate the bachelor and bachelorette parties wandering around Venice. It breaks my heart that this city has somehow ended up being identified with this bad-taste, weekend bacaro-crawl trend that often takes really unpleasant turns. Thankfully, some of the spots on this list are actively trying to fight back by raising the cultural and quality level of what they offer.

When you want a glass of wine and a few bites to keep you going, these are my absolute favorite spots:

• Trattoria Cà d’Oro alla Vedova: Tucked away in a semi-hidden, blind alley in the Cannaregio district, just off the busy Strada Nova. At lunch and dinner time, you will find people standing out on the narrow street eating their mind-blowing polpette (meatballs) - which, in my opinion, are the absolute best you can find in the lagoon. Inside, there is a proper trattoria with a bunch of beautiful copper pots hanging from the ceiling.

• Bar Alla Toletta: You come here for one thing: the tramezzini. These are those famous triangular sandwiches made with pillowy-soft crustless white bread, and here they are stuffed so generously they literally bulge.

• Osteria della Rivetta: A timeless gem run by a senior woman and her son. The woman is humorously stern - “the boss,” as her son calls her. You have to try her boiled eggs and the panini with freshly cut meats and magnificent gorgonzola. Following true Venetian tradition, the wine is poured straight from flasks. I even have an illustration of this place at home, right inside my bar cabinet!

  

• Bar All’Arco: They offer some of the best cicheti in the city, thanks to their incredible ingredients and creativity. Fun fact: when the famous Polpo restaurant was founded in London, it was All’Arco that served as its inspiration (they even did a three-day residency in London!). Very limited seating, so expect to stand.

• Ai Do Leoni: This is a brilliant little spot located right in Piazzetta dei Leoncini, an annex of the super-busy Piazza San Marco just next to the basilica. For years it was a typical tourist bar, but during Carnival in 2023, the owner Gianluigi completely transformed it into a vibrant bar focusing on natural wines and quality cocktails. Great for either daytime or evening.

• Vizietto: Located in the sunny Campo San Stin, their outdoor seating is the perfect excuse for a mid-afternoon beer or wine break.

• Cantine del Vino già Schiavi: An absolute classic right across from the San Trovaso gondola shipyard. Order a glass of wine and eat their creative variety of cicheti standing by the canal. Keep an eye on the seagulls, they will steal your food. It happens!

• La Bottiglia: A small, quiet spot over the canal with outdoor seating. Great for a panino or a tagliere (cold cuts and cheese board), alongside very good wine and beer.

• Bacareto da Lele: An absolute legend in Venice for their stuffed panini and an ombra (a small glass of wine). Expect to queue at peak times! Once you get your food and wine, you just stand outside and enjoy it along the canal.

  

• Adriatico Mar: I absolutely adore this place. Arriving here feels less like walking into a bar and more like docking at a safe harbour, especially if you see their wooden pier where locals actually moor their small boats! Run by two former architects, Francesco and Davide. The service is lovely, and they always have great background music.

• Osteria A La Scuela: No frills, just a local neighbourhood vibe. It’s perfect for an easy, quick, and cheap lunch with plenty of great fried options. Don’t miss their fried meatball stuffed with baccalà mantecato (creamed salt cod).

• Vino Vero & Bea Vita: I am grouping these together because they are owned by the same people and are located on the same fondamenta in Cannaregio. They’ve become a bit hip lately, but the location by the water and the natural wine selection are really good. Great during the day, but even better at night. At Bea Vita, they also do brunch, play live music and vinyl records, and even host talks with winemakers.

• La Sete: Another great spot for natural wines, focaccia, and cicchetti. They have seating both inside and out, and an absolutely stunning floor reminiscent of Carlo Scarpa’s design for the Olivetti showroom in Piazza San Marco.

• Bar Caranto: Very limited seating, but everything is curated with immense care, including a really excellent selection of craft beers. Also, make sure you try their mozzarella in carrozza!

• El Refolo: A good option if you need a break near the Biennale gardens. Grab a seat outside on one of the wooden barrels and order their Nostrano Spritz.

• Osteria Al Tappo: Tucked away in the Jewish Ghetto with a very cute backyard.

Restaurants

• Osteria Giorgione da MASA: It’s run by a Japanese chef who decided to put down roots here. He beautifully blends local cuisine with Japanese cuisine and has a great range of sake.

• ABC Zattere (Arte Bar Cucina): Located right along the Zattere inside the Scuola Piccola Le Zattere (an artist residency foundation). Hidden inside is this beautiful courtyard with a water door. They serve amazing seasonal food, natural wines, and great specialty coffee. Perfect any time of the day, and they even do a great Sunday brunch!

• Paradiso Perduto: Loud, boisterous, and full of life. It’s great for a high-energy dinner, especially if you can snag a table outside along the canal on a sunny day. They often have live music and even host pottery workshops.

Mid-Morning & Afternoon Breaks

Sometimes you just need a pause for the soul (and your feet).

• Caffè La Serra: Located in a stunning greenhouse with an actual plant nursery inside. The location is spectacular and incredibly peaceful, and they even host workshops ranging from knitting to ikebana. To be completely honest, the food and drinks are just okay, but you really come here for the location.

• Sullaluna: A cozy bistro-bookshop. You can browse (and buy!) beautiful illustrated books while having tea and cake.

• Rosa Salva (San Giovanni e Paolo location): I am including this one on the list purely for the location right on the square. Go for their drink made with fresh raspberries and a dash of Prosecco. They also cater for the Teatro La Fenice, and the thought of their tramezzini being served during an opera intermission is just wonderful to me.

  

Gelato

Because there is always room for gelato, no matter how much food you’ve had.

• Gelateria Nico: You must order the famous frozen gianduiotto with a mountain of whipped cream and sit out in the sun on the Zattere. It is a true Venetian rite of passage.

• Bacaro del Gelato: There is no seating and prices have crept up slightly, but the gelato remains objectively good.

Cocktails

When the sun goes down and you are ready to transition from wine to something a little stronger.

• Il Mercante: A fantastic spot for thoughtfully crafted drinks, offering both classic cocktails and more refined, experimental options. Tip: try to find a seat upstairs!

• Il Palazzo Experimental: The absolute go-to for when you want a sophisticated, well-made cocktail in a beautiful setting to end the night, complete with a beautiful view over the Giudecca canal.

  

Bologna is known as La Dotta (The Learned), a title earned from its university, the oldest in the Western world. But titles can be dusty things. What makes this city truly alive is not its past: in an era where algorithms decide what we read, Bologna remains a fortress of independent thinking, thanks largely to the cultural vibrancy of its university and the steadfast presence of its independent bookstores.

For International Women’s Day, I wanted to map the city not through its towers or its tortellini, but through seven independent bookstores run by women.

Libri Liberi

Via Fondazza, 40

If you walk down Via Fondazza - the same quiet street where the painter Giorgio Morandi lived - you might stumble upon a small revolution. Here lies Libri Liberi (Free Books). The concept defies the logic of capitalism: you walk in, you choose a book, and you take it. No money changes hands, and there is no obligation to bring one back.

The project is the brainchild of Anna Hilbe, a woman who carries the history of Bologna’s counterculture in her gaze. The idea came to her over a decade ago after reading about The Book Thing in Baltimore. Bringing this concept to Italy, however, was a bureaucratic odyssey. When she approached City Hall, the clerks were baffled. Finally, they reached a compromise: the shop was forbidden from having a cash register or reading tables, and every single volume had to be stamped with a clear mandate: “Questo libro non si compra né si vende” (This book is neither bought nor sold). Since 2013, she has kept the lights on using her own pension.

Anna is no stranger to radical acts. Descended from a family of industrialists, she rebelled early, living through the ferment of '68. In the 1970s, she divided her time between Bologna and San Francisco, where her husband was active as both a political militant and a professor of Economics at Hopkins University. It was during these years, moving between the Italian student movement and the American counterculture, that she developed a sharp awareness of gender inequality. Upon returning, she co-founded Librellula, Italy’s second women’s bookstore. With Libri Liberi, she has created a space that feels less like a shop and more like a shared library, rooted in those ideals of liberation.

Marsalotto Passalibro

Via Marsala, 14/A

Inspired by Anna’s philosophy, but with its own unique rhythm, is Marsalotto Passalibro in Via Marsala. Opened in 2024 by Silvia Marzocchi, this space feels like a bridge between her past and present. After thirty years working as a bookseller and translator in Paris, Silvia returned to Bologna to create a community hub. The model here is “circular.” You can take up to three books and leave a free donation. But what strikes you is the quality. These aren’t just unwanted leftovers, they are carefully selected thanks to a brilliant collaboration with Equi-libristi. This association - active in both Bologna and Rome - rescues books destined for the pulp mill, clearing out basements, garages, and old collections, and puts them back into circulation for free in hospitals, bars, parks, and even condominium libraries. Silvia hand-picks titles from their depot, ensuring the shelves are stocked with literature worth reading.

Following this thread of resistance, we must mention the Libreria delle Donne on Via San Felice. Opened in 1996 by the Alta Marea non-profit, it is the spiritual successor to the feminist waves of the 70s. It remains a vital space for gender theory and women’s literature, keeping the political conversation alive in the city center.

Volumina

Via Arienti, 2

There is a ritual I repeat every time I return to Bologna. Just a few steps from my parents' house, there is place where I inevitably end up: Volumina. I come here to dig, searching for books on whatever new obsession has recently piqued my interest. It feels appropriate that I treat this place like a dig site, because it is run by Giovanna Vigna. With a degree in Classics and a specialisation in Ancient Topography, Giovanna spent a decade working as an archaeological excavation technician. In 2006, she made a deliberate "life choice": she left the dig sites to open a small bookstore in the neighbourhood where she had lived for twenty years. The name itself, Volumina, is a nod to her roots - the ancient Latin papyrus rolls. Today, she applies the same patience she used on the field to paper. Giovanna approaches her inventory with the eye of a curator, hunting for forgotten treasures. The history section, in particular, is meticulously cared for.

Libreria Trame

Via Goito, 3/C

Libreria Trame is located on Via Goito, a small street just a stone’s throw from the shopping chaos of Via Indipendenza. Opened in 2005 by Nicoletta Maldini (along with two friends), it is a well-stocked bookstore that keeps a keen eye on minor and independent publishing. It creates a dense calendar of author meetings and reading groups, acting as a true cultural node that collaborates deeply with the city’s institutions: social centres, theatres, and the renowned Cineteca di Bologna.

I have a personal affection for this place. Years ago, when I was at university in Nottingham, I organised work experiences for English students studying Italian. I sent a young girl to intern here. Years later, walking into Trame, I saw a photo of Nicoletta and that student still pinned behind the cash register. It is that kind of place - human, lasting and welcoming.

Libreria Parolini

Via de’ Gombruti, 3

Its story begins in the rubble of 1943. After the bombing of the city center destroyed the elegant Hotel Brun, Giuseppe Verbena and his wife Margherita Parolini opened a bookstore in the surviving wing of the hotel. That original location is long gone, today, their granddaughter Nella runs the shop in Via Gombruti, but the spirit remains. Unlike the other stops on this list, this shop specialises in rare and antique books. Walking in feels like entering a different era, preserving the smell of old paper and the quiet dignity of a trade passed down through generations.

Libreria del Viaggiatore Lento

Via Castiglione, 61A

This is the newest addition to the map, opened in the spring of 2025. It is the realisation of a dream held by Manuela Contin, and her story is a lesson in reinvention. After a lifetime working in a clinical neuropharmacology lab at the University of Bologna, Manuela decided to transform her life, turning her passion for travel into a physical space.

The logo on the door is a turtle reading a book. Here, you won't just find the latest Lonely Planet. Manuela curates a selection designed to prepare you "mentally and spiritually" for a journey, with novels and essays set in your destination. The space is alive: meetings are organised here, dedicated to unusual destinations, literary walks and journeys through books. I am now obsessed with the idea of reorganising my own library at home by geography rather than genre.

These bookstores survive because they are loved, and they are loved because they are human. They are places where you are not a consumer, but a reader. And perhaps, in 2026, that is the most radical identity of all.

Exchanging a few words or an idea amidst the books is an act of discovery and sharing - the beginning of new interests and uncharted reading paths. It’s what ensures the tradition of the bookseller as a trusted guide doesn't disappear into the digital world.

Our first halt was Taznakht, famous for its carpet cooperatives where the floors are piled high with rugs featuring geometric Amazigh patterns in wonderful colours - deep oranges, vibrant reds, and blues. I suffered here. I genuinely wanted to buy a truckload, instead, I had to confront the harsh reality of a Ryanair hand-luggage ticket.

We pushed on to Taliouine, the heart of Morocco’s saffron production. Now, we are not exactly lacking in saffron back in Italy - as you can see in one of my previous posts - but here, the “red gold” is significantly cheaper. I tried it in tea, and I really enjoyed it! I definitely plan to replicate it at home.

Then, we arrived in Taroudant. And just like that, I fell in love.

They call Taroudant “Little Marrakech,” but that feels like a understatement. It is enclosed by magnificent ramparts, but inside, there is none of the chaotic hustle of its big sister. The atmosphere is gentle. We walked through squares shaded by palms, where locals sat on benches simply enjoying the winter sun. Carts piled high with fresh oranges rolled by, and the souks felt refreshing - authentic markets selling everyday tools rather than just tourist trinkets.

We visited the tanneries. While the ones in Fez are famous, the tanneries here are smaller. The process is ancient and visceral: animal hides are soaked in stone vats filled with mixtures of lime, pigeon droppings (for the ammonia to soften the leather), and natural dyes like poppy flower, henna and indigo. In the big cities, you are hassled to pay for a view from a terrace, here, we could just observe in peace.

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I would have spent days in Taroudant just to chill, absorbing its slow, dignified rhythm. Leaving Taroudant, the road was lined with Argan trees, a species endemic to this region that protects the soil from desertification. The tree produces a small fruit with a nut inside, which is cracked open - traditionally by hand, between two stones - to reveal the kernels used to make the oil. In recent years, the global demand for Argan oil in the cosmetic and culinary industries has exploded, turning this “liquid gold” into a massive economy. While it has created opportunities, the pressure on the land is high. Local herdsmen allow their goats to climb the branches to eat the leaves and pulp, and it is hilarious to see them perched high up to reach the nuts.

Finally, we hit the coast. Essaouira.

If Marrakech is red, Essaouira is blue and white. Known historically as Mogador, this city faces the Atlantic with a fortified defiance. The port is a chaotic masterpiece: hundreds of blue boats are clustered together, their metallic masts creating a forest against the sky. Above, seagulls scream and dive, fighting over scraps of fish. Nearby, the old fortress stands guard over the ocean. Watching the hypnotic sunset here, with the crashing of the waves filling the air, felt almost like a mirage after so many days traveling through the arid interior.

For centuries, this was a vital commercial hub, serving as the maritime gateway for caravan routes linking Timbuktu to Europe. This trade history created a unique demographic: at its peak in the 19th century, the Jewish community here actually outnumbered the Muslim population. However, mass tourism is making its way here too.

The wind here carries the sound of seagulls and Gnawa music - a hypnotic, rhythmic genre. Its trance-inducing beats and the low thrum of the guembri (a three-stringed bass) have historically fascinated the world, attracting international jazz and rock legends - from Jimi Hendrix to Led Zeppelin - who came here to jam with the Maâlems (masters).

Allow me a small deviation from the travel narrative here, though it connects! At the end of 2025, I discovered I can eat fish. It sounds simple, but aside from a brief period during weaning, I have never eaten fish in my life due to a severe allergy. It turns out, now I can handle finned fish, even if I remain deadly allergic to shellfish and crustaceans. I am effectively living a second weaning, tasting flavours I have never known from the safety of my home.

Back to Essaouira. It was here, in a small alleyway at Café Jalil, that I met the owner, a smiling man with kind eyes. I saw on the menu that he had just lentils and sardines. After a brief conversation, he went out and bought a new grill just for me. He meticulously washed the sardines and cooked them for me. Sitting at a blue table in that narrow alley, with cats meowing at my feet asking to share, I ate grilled sardines for the first time.

Before leaving, we stumbled into a place that felt like a wizard’s den: La Poésie Par Les Plantes. It is an herbalist shop that assaults the senses. The air was thick with smoke - old men were sitting there burning roots and resins - and the walls were lined with magical jars. The smell was intense, almost overwhelming, but I managed to buy some last tea to bring a piece of this sensory overload back home.

This trip has entered my heart. Morocco is complex, welcoming, and visually stunning. I am already dreaming of my return, I want to see the north. And, I found myself increasingly intrigued also by the idea of visiting the neighbour, Algeria. For now, I carry these adventures with me, full of new inspiration and things to explore further.

Inchallah, I will be back.

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We abandoned the asphalt for gravel and sand, heading towards Erg Chigaga. We chose this spot specifically for its isolation. Unlike the more famous Erg Chebbi, which is easily reached, Chigaga remains wild, protected by hours of off-road driving.

When one thinks of the desert, the mind immediately jumps to the rolling orange dunes of Lawrence of Arabia. But the Sahara is vast and complex. Before the dunes, there is a flat, stony plateau that feels like the surface of Mars. We crossed the dried bed of Lake Iriqui. For most of the time, it is a phantom lake, a flat, cracked expanse of baked earth littered with fossils - geological memories of a time when this arid ocean was full of water. However, with heavy rains, the ghost might return, and the lake momentarily reappears, mirroring the sky.

There are bushes, tenacious and grey-green, clinging to life. One plant, in particular, caught my eye: the Apple of Sodom (Calotropis procera). It has large, thick leaves and when it blooms, it offers delicate violet flowers, but it is best known for its fruit: large, round, green globes that look like apples or small melons. They seem inviting, almost lush in this dry context, but they are filled with a toxic, milky latex. A beautiful, poisonous trick of the desert.

Our driver navigated the tracks with confidence, playing the songs of the singer-songwriter Mohamed Rouicha on an endless loop. He seemed obsessed with one track in particular: “Ines Ines.” It is a hypnotic song, featuring the rhythmic strumming of the loutar (a Berber lute) that seemed to synchronise perfectly with the bumping of the tires on the rocks.

We arrived at the Camp just as the sun began to surrender. This is the moment the desert changes skin. The dunes of Erg Chigaga turned from gold to blood orange, then to violet. Walking on the crests, I noticed the sand was written upon: tiny, delicate footprints of beetles, lizards, and desert mice, proving that life here is busy while we sleep.

Dinner was a ritual of tajine and a simple but restorative barley soup (barley is a staple in Morocco). It warms you from the inside out, which is necessary because as soon as the sun vanished, the winter cold snapped shut around us. The sky, of course, was a humiliation to any city dweller - a thick, heavy blanket of stars that felt low enough to touch.

When we eventually began the drive back, it was not a direct transfer, it was a strategic mission. In these immense spaces, the sense of community is not just a virtue, it is a survival mechanism. Our driver made several stops at isolated dwellings - not houses as we know them, but low, incomplete structures rising out of the nothingness. At one stop, he left a 5-litre bottle of oil. At another, he dropped off a chicken to his parents. At a third, he handed a fresh tangerine to a young girl who ran out to meet the car. It felt like a ritual, the way one might buy a chocolate bar for a child back home - a small, sweet luxury in a harsh landscape.

It became clear that organising these trips is more than just tourism, it is a collective effort, a sort of extended family business that feeds many mouths along the way. I was struck by the sincere affection displayed in every interaction - whether among the guides themselves or with the locals we met, they embraced and often held hands for a long time. It was a display of brotherhood that made our Western efficiency feel cold and transactional.

While the nights were defined by silence, the mornings were surprisingly lively. We saw herds of dromedaries roaming freely and solitary figures grazing goats in the distance. But the reality is that the true nomadic life is disappearing. Climate change is drying up the few remaining water sources, making the seasonal movements impossible. But the reasons are also geopolitical.

For example, if you open Google Maps and scroll south, you will notice a dotted line cutting through the territory. That cartographic uncertainty represents a very real, complex wound: the conflict in Western Sahara. The dispute is rooted in the vacuum left by the Spanish colonisation. The territory is contested between Morocco, which claims it as its “Southern Provinces,” and the Polisario Front, an indigenous liberation movement demanding independence and backed by neighbouring Algeria. To control the area, a 2,700-kilometre-long sand wall known as The Berm was built, dividing the land and fortified with mines and radar.

I also saw a documentary about “tent schools.” In an effort to provide education, the government and NGOs have set up mobile schools, but often, for a child to attend, the family must stop moving. Parents are effectively choosing between their traditional way of life and their children’s future, often becoming sedentary so the next generation can learn to read.

You often hear the term “Berber,” but this is an exonym, derived from the Greek barbaros (barbarian) and later the Latin barbarus. The people of this land call themselves Amazigh (plural Imazighen), which translates to “Free Men.”

It is important to make a distinction: Amazigh does not mean nomad. While the nomads we met are indeed Amazigh, they represent only a fraction of this population. Being Amazigh is an ethnic and cultural identity, not a lifestyle. The vast majority of Imazighen are actually sedentary.

It is also a geography that defies modern borders. The Amazigh homeland - often referred to as Tamazgha - is vast. It stretches from the Siwa Oasis in Egypt in the east to the Canary Islands in the west, and from the shores of the Mediterranean down to the Sahel (Niger and Mali) in the south. They are the indigenous soul of North Africa, present long before the Arab conquests of the 7th century.

The Amazigh flag itself is a map of this diversity: it features three horizontal stripes. Blue for the sea and the sky, green for nature and the Atlas mountains, and yellow for the desert. In the centre, in red, is the letter Yaz (ⵣ), the symbol of the Free Man.

For decades, this identity was marginalised in favour of a pan-Arab narrative. However, in recent years, there has been a significant shift towards recognition. The 2011 Moroccan Constitution officially recognised Amazigh as a state language alongside Arabic. You now see the Tifinagh script on public buildings and road signs. And in a historic move, the King recently declared the Amazigh New Year, Yennayer, an official national holiday.

We left the desert and returned to the car, to the asphalt, setting our compass towards Taroudant, before eventually winding our way north to the coast and the Atlantic breeze of Essaouira.

The road signs are written in three languages: Arabic, French, and a third script that looks geometric, almost extraterrestrial. This is Tifinagh, the alphabet of the Amazigh languages. We drove past old vans parked on the shoulder, their back doors flung open to reveal converted mobile coffee stations, and slowed down for gendarmerie checkpoints where officers stood ready to check papers. And everywhere, countless old Peugeots hitting the road. They are so cool, and I found myself asking: what the hell happened to the aesthetics of cars nowadays? Modern vehicles are anonymous, identical metal bubbles. But here, these battered, boxy shapes still have character, carrying impossible loads. Every so often, a splash of colour broke the monochrome of the landscape: buildings painted in bright rainbows - the local schools.

As we climbed, the scenery shifted dramatically. We passed a bustling Sunday market where Toyota trucks were offloading massive sacks of grain, and locals from surrounding villages gathered for their necessities. Then, everything turned white. Locals told us it hadn’t snowed like this in years. Moroccan families pulling over to the side of the road not just to look, but to play. We saw cars parked in long lines and groups setting up spontaneous picnics, firing up gas stoves to cook tajines in the freezing air.

After crossing the pass, we detoured towards Telouet to visit its Kasbah. A Kasbah (from the Arabic qaṣba) is essentially a fortified citadel typical of Maghreb architecture, built using local materials like rammed earth, straw, and brick.

The Kasbah of Telouet is a ghost story. It was the stronghold of Thami El Glaoui, the Pasha of Marrakech, known as the “Lord of the Atlas.” He was a controversial figure - a powerful chieftain who collaborated with the French Protectorate. He was a man of the world, visiting European capitals often, while his guests in Marrakech included Charlie Chaplin, Colette, and Maurice Ravel. He even attended the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II as a private guest of Winston Churchill (the two had met during Churchill’s painting trips to Marrakech - yes, he was a painter too!). Legend has it that the Pasha’s lavish gifts - a jewelled crown and an ornate dagger - were refused because it was not customary for the Queen to receive gifts from individuals not representing a government.

When Morocco gained independence, El Glaoui fell from grace, and his palace was left to decay. Walking through it is striking: the exterior is crumbling red earth, but inside, the mosaics and stucco work remain hauntingly beautiful, despite some rooms sustaining damage during the 2023 earthquake. It is a palace of contradictions, beautiful and damned.

We took the P1506 provincial road through the Ounila Valley, a caravan route of stunning geological violence and beauty. The landscape twists between canyons and adobe Berber villages, but the Ounila river brings life to the otherwise arid land, forming a meandering ribbon of lush plantations. We even spotted birch trees!

Eventually, the road led us toward Tamnougalt in the Draa Valley. This is where I left a piece of my heart. The beauty here feels ancient and absolute, dominated by the silhouette of Jbel Kissane, a mountain that rises like a dark wave over the valley. The Draa river cuts through the desert, creating a dense palm grove stretching for miles. Walking here, you understand why the date palm is more than just a tree. It has a profound significance in both Islam and Christianity, particularly linked to the figure of Mary. In the Quran, it is written that Mary gave birth under a palm tree, which bowed down to offer her fresh dates and water to ease her pain. Standing in the shade of these trees, that promise of nourishment and shelter feels incredibly tangible.

You might notice older Amazigh women with a vertical line tattooed from their lower lip down to their chin. This is called Siyala. It is a stylised representation of the date palm. For these women, the tattoo was an invocation: to be as resilient as the tree that survives the desert. It is a fading language, now discouraged by stricter religious interpretations, leaving these ink marks on the faces of the grandmothers as the final testimonies of an ancient bond with the land.

In Tamnougalt, there is a local cooperative where you must buy the date syrup. It is a dark, molasses-like nectar that is incredible drizzled over yogurt in the morning. However, this lushness is under threat. Much like in Southern Italy, the red palm weevil - a beetle - devastates the plantations, farmers are often forced to burn infected trees to save the rest. But this isn’t the only issue here. The current water scarcity in the Draa Valley is not just a result of climate change, but of political choices and market forces. It makes you think twice, as a tourist, about requesting a swimming pool or a golf course - not that I am that type of tourist anyway - in a land where water is gold.

We spent the night at Kasbah Maktob, and I cannot recommend this place enough. Stepping through its doors feels like entering a kingdom. The owner welcomed us with hot tea and prepared a dinner that restored us after the long drive. It is one of those places that holds the silence of the valley perfectly.

The next day, we visited Ait Ben Haddou. You have likely seen this place before - it is a Ksar (a fortified tribal village) made of earthen clay that has starred in everything from Gladiator to Game of Thrones. Because of its cinematic fame, it is very touristy. However, if you go early in the morning before the buses arrive, the light is soft and gold, the streets are empty, and you can truly imagine what it must have been like when it was a key stop on the caravan route between the Sahara and Marrakech.

Our final stop for this leg was Tamegroute, a place I was desperate to see. Tamegroute is famous for its pottery, specifically a rustic, green glaze that is unique to this village. As an amateur potter myself, I needed to see the process. A local man took us into the old Kasbah - where the community still lives - and showed us the workshops. The technique is ancient and visceral. The potters work standing up, buried up to their waists in holes dug into the ground to operate their manual wheels. The secret lies in the alchemy of the glaze: the signature green comes from a mixture of manganese and copper. The kilns are massive, wood-fired ovens fuelled continuously with dried palm fronds.

Tamegroute has been a religious center since the 11th century. It is home to a historic Quranic Library founded by the Nasiriyya Sufi order. In the 17th century, the Sufi writer Ahmed ibn Nasir made six pilgrimages to Mecca, traveling through Ethiopia, Arabia, Egypt, and Persia. He brought back numerous books from all parts of the Islamic world, which formed the basis of this library. Viewing these manuscripts gives you a sense of how this dusty outpost was once a flourishing center of theology and science.

We have traveled far, but the road continues. In the next post, I will take you into the silence of the desert.

If you missed the beginning of this journey, you can catch up here.

I have just returned from Morocco, though this was not my first time here. I first visited years ago with my great-uncle, a man who was deeply in love with this country. He owned a flat in Marrakech long before it became the “Instagram capital” of North Africa, back when it wasn’t yet served by low-cost airlines.

While landing the view from the porthole hit me with the same intensity as before: the violent contrast of the flat, ochre earth against the blinding white of the snow-capped Atlas Mountains. And then, there it is: The Red City.

Marrakech has changed, of course. But my trip this time was not about visiting the famous landmarks - the Bahia Palace or the Saadian Tombs - which I suggest you see if it is your first visit. For me, Marrakech was simply the beginning and the end of a longer journey through the southern part of the country.

I spent my days here just wandering without an agenda, sipping mint tea from sun-touched terraces overlooking the Medina.

When here, you need to stay in a Riad, the traditional Moroccan home. A Riad is architectural introversion: blank walls face the street, while the interior opens up into a central courtyard, often with a fountain or garden. It is a sanctuary. A word of warning for winter travellers: When choosing a Riad in December or January, avoid the ground floor rooms. The damp and cold rising from the tiles can be intense. Aim for the higher floors where the sun reaches.

We stayed near the Ben Salah district, where the atmosphere feels remarkably authentic. To walk these streets is to enter a sensory overload. You find stalls selling eggs next to fish laid out on beds of fresh parsley, trays of fresh baked breads exiting the ovens; men fanning charcoal grills to roast skewers, mechanics fixing engines in the dust and tailors with threads stretched right across the street. Carts pass by selling sticky sweet pastries for just 2 dirhams a piece.

There are cats sleeping everywhere - on motorbikes, on sacks of grain, in doorways. And there are roosters running fearlessly between the scooters and the donkey carts that navigate the narrow alleys.

I rediscovered my love for the Moroccan breakfast: msemen, a square, layered flatbread and amlou, a rich, addictive spread made from almonds, argan oil, and honey. Since we arrived on a Friday, we followed tradition and ate couscous, which is almost exclusively served on this day of the week.

On the streets, kiosks serve fresh orange and pomegranate juice, pressed right in front of you. In the cold, misty mornings, small tiled shops serve warm Bessara, a fava bean soup served with olive oil, cumin, and bread, alongside tea. You see local men sitting on stools, wrapped in their Djellabas.

I find the Djellaba beautiful. It is the traditional long robe of the Maghreb - not a religious garment, but a practical one. They have pointed hoods that give everyone a mysterious, almost monastic silhouette. Some come in beautiful colours, and you will often see the hood used as a backpack to carry groceries.

For lunch, we sat shoulder-to-shoulder with locals eating kefta with a tomato and onion salad. The cafes were always buzzing, with eyes glued to the TV watching the Africa Cup matches, which were taking place exactly during our stay. Speaking of football, Morocco will be hosting the 2030 World Cup alongside Spain and Portugal. For the government, this is a massive image operation, and since the announcement, there has been a true construction boom. However, this has also sparked protests last autumn, with citizens asking instead for better schools, hospitals, and public services.

We ventured into the Mellah, the old Jewish quarter, located a short distance from the El Badi imperial palace - which, in this season, is dotted with storks nesting on its walls. The Mellah is a fortified district similar to a European ghetto, where Jewish communities lived under the protection of the Sultans. The name comes from the Arabic word for “salt”, a commodity the Jews traded.

The houses here are taller than in other zones of the Medina. The prohibition against living in other parts of the city made it necessary to exploit vertical space- a phenomenon identical to the one in the Ghetto of Venice, the first Jewish ghetto in Europe and the origin of the word itself.

Near the Mellah, we visited the spice market, where the air smells of burning sandalwood. We bought some Ras el Hanout to bring home. The name means ‘head of the shop’ in Arabic, and there is no definitive composition; each family or shop has its own blend, used to rub on meat or stir into rice. I also picked up some drawing pigments, including the electric Majorelle Blue. Among the spices, you will see buckets of sabon beldi, the gelatinous black soap used in hammams and piles of aker fassi, small clay pots containing poppy powder and pomegranate bark used by Berber women as a natural lip and cheek stain.

Here you will also see the Fondaci (in Arabic funduq), ancient buildings similar to medieval caravanserais, used as warehouses for goods and lodging for foreign merchants. Today, many have been converted into artisan workshops or hotels.

Again, I cannot help but think of home: the Fondaco dei Tedeschi is one of Venice’s largest buildings. It was a trading post for German merchants, a customs house under Napoleon. The Fondaco stands as a witness to the Venetian mercantile era.

In the evening, all roads lead to the Jemaa el-Fnaa square. We skipped the snake charmers and headed for the food stalls to drink khoudenjal, a hot, spiced tea that warms your chest instantly. It is traditionally served with a slice of sellou, a dense, nutty sweet made of toasted flour, sesame seeds, and almonds.

This was my time in Marrakech. In the next posts, I will take you with me on the road - through kasbahs, palm groves, and into the desert.

Practicalities

Connectivity: I used an eSIM from Orange (purchased online before departure). It worked perfectly throughout the trip and saved the hassle of finding a physical SIM card upon arrival. Check their site for current promos.

From the Airport: getting to the Medina is straightforward.

• Bus 19: This is the airport shuttle. It costs 30 dirhams (cash only, though they accept Euros if you have small change). It stops at the edge of the Medina (Jemaa el-Fnaa).

• Petit Taxi: If you prefer a taxi, be prepared to haggle or insist on the meter, though from the airport there is often a fixed rate. Expect to pay around 100 dirhams.

Car Rental: if you want to visit areas of Morocco outside the main cities reachable by train, renting a car is necessary. We spent about 30 euros per day. Contrary to the horror stories we read online, the roads in the areas we traveled - even the small provincial ones - were in good condition. There is a lot of police presence, so respect the speed limits strictly. Overall, it was simple and pleasant to drive. The only thing to pay attention to is entering and exiting the major cities, due to the chaotic driving style and the sheer number of things moving around you (carts, bikes, pedestrians). Fuel prices (both petrol and diesel) are quite low compared to Italy.

But if you look past the tourist trinkets, the city is still humming with creativity. There are artisans here who are not just selling objects, but are keeping the fabric of Venetian life alive. Visiting them isn’t just about shopping; it’s about entering a small world, shaking hands with the maker, and taking home a piece of their story.

If you are visiting soon and looking for a gift that holds the true weight of the city, here are some of the independent botteghe I love.

Patience

Tucked away in the Castello district, Daniela Lombardo’s workshop is the culmination of a long journey. Born in the US and raised in Venice, Daniela has always had a need to work with her hands - disassembling and reassembling things as a child. Before opening her atelier, she traveled the world, from sewing fabrics in India to working in a co-working farmhouse in Virginia, and even grape picking in New Zealand. Today, she lives on the island of Sant’Erasmo, where she naturally dyes her fabrics. At Patience, she creates sustainable fashion, but she is also deeply woven into the local community, creating aprons for Venetian restaurants and hosting workshops. I particularly love her raincoats!

Spazio Vivo

Directly in front of Daniela’s shop, you will find a small collective space that feels like a treasure chest. Here, you meet Huang Xiaozhe, an artist who underwent a radical transformation. Originally from Beijing, Huang left a decade-long career in fashion and beauty marketing to satisfy a craving for true craftsmanship. She moved to Venice and found her medium in the lagoon: glass. She creates intricate jewellery, and I can’t wait to get my hands on one of her rings. Sharing the space is Objectini by Michela, who creates pieces that draw inspiration from nature using metals and stones.

studio saòr

Venice is a city of layers and architecture, and no one captures this quite like studio saòr. Founded by Cristina and Ferruccio, two architects, their graphic design work translates the physical city into paper. I particularly love their paper models and tote bags featuring the vaporettos.

Small Caps

Founded in 2012 by Paolo Roggero and Federico Arzenton, who met while studying architecture, this studio bridges the gap between digital design and artisan craftsmanship. They specialise in screen printing, creating posters that feel both modern and timeless. I actually have a couple of their prints hanging at home.

Antica Legatoria Ofer

Antica Legatoria Ofer is a true paper paradise. Once the workshop of master artisan Alberto Valese, it is now run by a group of young artisans dedicated to keeping the tradition of bookbinding alive. Everything here is handmade using low-impact, sustainable materials. Their shelves are lined with colourful notebooks, albums, and rubber stamps, featuring marbled papers in Western, Japanese, and Turkish styles.

Atelier Vanessa Milan

Vanessa specialises in art prints and etching, using a sustainable approach that replaces toxic acids with eco-friendly alternatives like waxes and copper sulphate. She blends the blue tones of her creations with the pale pink of original hydrographic maps. But her work goes beyond the visual; she has collaborated with mental health departments and prisons, using art as rehabilitation. Last year I bought her board game, Venice Alive, a beautiful example of how she invites people to interact with the city.

PAPEROOWL

Stefania Giannici’s passion for paper began in childhood, fuelled by a fascination with the ancient art of origami. In her workshop, she treats her material with a reverence usually reserved for precious metals. For Stefania, every sheet has its own personality, dictated by its origin - whether sourced from Japan or local mills - and she selects them to suit specific techniques that blend Venetian and Oriental traditions. Here, she creates home decor, notebooks, and her signature jewellery: necklaces and earrings that look like geometric gemstones but weigh next to nothing. It is a place where patience and imagination transform the fragile into the enduring.

Pesce in Camicia

I discovered this little gem only recently. It is run by Elena, an Art History graduate who has always turned to drawing as her true passion. Pesce in Camicia is the place for screen-printed t-shirts that carry the spirit of the lagoon, alongside beautiful drawings and notebooks. But if you want to give a gift that goes beyond the object, Elena also offers workshops. You can book a class for adults or children, from drawing sessions to bookbinding, or even learning how to make a leporello (a zig-zag accordion book). It’s a wonderful way to spend an afternoon creating something with your own hands.

Sabbie e Nebbie

Maria Teresa Laghi uses her background in graphic design and ceramics to curate a space that feels like a suspended dialogue between East and West. The selection here is driven by a search for purity of form and material. You will find refined stoneware bowls with organic shapes sitting alongside Japanese cast iron teapots, or local textile art next to Indian silk scarves. From handcrafted wooden jewelry to Nepalese notebooks and contemporary aluminum creations, everything is chosen with a refined, personal eye that harmonises different worlds.

Alessandro Merlin

If you prefer your ceramics to have a bold personality, look for Alessandro Merlin. I personally love his espresso cups, but his work is vast and distinct. His style is influenced by Picasso, Cocteau, and the comics of Crepax, featuring erotic subjects and dancers painted on traditional Bassano ceramics. He helped found the Venetian ceramicists’ association, but he avoids the spotlight and dislikes shipping his work because he can’t bear the thought of it breaking. These are unique pieces that demand you visit him to carry them home yourself.

Friulane

Finally, you cannot speak of Venetian gifts without the friulane, the traditional velvet slippers. In recent years, these have become a global trend, often sold at indecent prices by luxury brands. But forget the high-end boutiques; for a truly authentic experience (and an honest price tag), you need to find a small tobacconist that hides a secret. Inside, you will be greeted by a literal wall of friulane in every colour imaginable. The brand is Le Papù, made by the Parutto family, who have been papusseri (slipper makers) for four generations. Their story began in the 1950s, not in a showroom, but with a humble wicker basket on the Rialto bridge. While they also have a standalone shop, I love the charm of the tobacco shop. Plus, the lady who runs it - part of the Parutto family - is incredibly kind and patient, willing to pull down pair after pair to help you navigate the rainbow of velvet until you find the perfect shade.

A note for book lovers: If your idea of a perfect gift is bound in paper and ink, Venice also has a thriving community of independent booksellers. I have written a dedicated guide to them, which you can find here.

Buying from these places is a choice. It means supporting a Venice that makes, creates and lives. Happy hunting!

As for me, I am off to Morocco. I wish you all a very Happy Christmas and Happy Holidays!

Having written about Sicily recently, particularly the area around Catania, I thought it would be interesting to describe how this day holds a different weight.

For generations of parents and grandparents, this was a sort of Sicilian Christmas. This was the day Sicilian children received gifts. But they didn’t come from Santa Claus or St. Nicholas; they were brought by their deceased relatives, who returned for one night to leave presents. It was, by all accounts, a happy day. Children would wake up to find toys and sweets left by their loved ones, whom they would later go to “thank” by visiting their graves.

This specific tradition has largely faded. Christmas is now celebrated as it is in most of the Western world, and in recent years, the bright orange of Halloween has begun to eclipse the quiet rituals of November 2nd.

And yet, something powerful remains: the confectionery. In the days leading up to the feast, the windows of panifici and pasticcerie fill with an array of biscuits and treats found only at this time of year.

Of course, as with all things in Italy, these recipes and even their names can change dramatically from town to town, or even from bakery to bakery, but these are among the most widespread.

There are the Rame di Napoli. Despite the name, these are a deeply Catanese specialty: a soft, spiced chocolate biscuit covered in a thick chocolate ganache. The secret is the thin layer of orange or apricot marmalade hidden between the biscuit and the glaze. In Acireale, a version called nucatuli uses zuccata (candied pumpkin) instead. The most plausible story of its origin involves a new copper coin issued after Sicily’s unification with Naples, a local baker supposedly created this “Copper from Naples” to mimic the new, less valuable currency.

Then there are the Ossi di Morto (bones of the dead). Their shape and colour - a dry, brittle white and light brown - are starkly evocative. Made with sugar, flour, egg whites, and a beautifully haunting spice from clove water, these biscuits exist in variations all over Italy and Europe.

The displays are also crowded with other glazed treats. The Totò, small dark-brown sweets glazed with chocolate. The Bersaglieri, which have a white biscuit inside their chocolate glaze. And the Regina, their counterpart, which is bright with a sharp, sweet lemon glaze. They are all incredibly soft, and the white-glazed ones have an unmistakable citrus kick from the fresh lemon juice.

You will also find Nzuddi. These round, amber-coloured biscuits get their distinct, almost chewy texture and flavour from almond flour, honey, and cinnamon, with a single toasted almond pressed on top. Their name is said to have come from the Vincentian nuns. ‘Nzuddo was once the affectionate nickname for Vincenzo.

Further west, in Palermo, the tradition takes on a different form: the Pupaccena, or Pupi di Zucchero. These are spectacular, colourful sugar statues, masterpieces of confectionery art. They often depict French knights, characters from the traditional Sicilian puppet theatre, as well as peasants or animals. The name itself, Pupaccena, seems to mean “dolls for the sacred dinner,” tying them to the ritual meal for the dead. Traditionally, a gissaru - a pastry chef specializing in sculpture - would pour liquid sugar into special plaster or terracotta moulds. Once set, the statue would be decorated with bright colours, ribbons, and tinfoil, a vibrant king or queen reigning over the feast.

Year after year, the tradition of the gifts may fade, but the scents from the panifici persist. They are a quieter magic, a way to make remembrance sweet.

Do you have a similar tradition of remembrance in your area? Let me know in the comments below.

The colder season, however, offers a different kind of magic. The light sharpens, the lagoon turns a deeper shade of blue, and when the fog lifts, you can see snow-capped mountains on the horizon. I think of quiet campi where people sit chasing the sunrays and of slow Sunday breakfasts. I think of cosy nights at the cinema or the theatre, and the final rush to catch the Biennale before it closes.

Winter in Venice is also il caìgo - that thick fog that swallows everything, softening edges and silencing sounds, until the city feels suspended outside of time.

There’s something deeply moving in walking through calli lit by the warm glow of lampposts, or in hopping on vaporetto line 2 at night, when the beauty of this city suddenly hits me all over again. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.

The colder months are also when Venice reveals some of its most intimate traditions, less famous than the Festa del Redentore but deeply rooted in the city’s life.

Festa del Mosto

The Festa del Mosto, held in Sant’Erasmo in late September or early October, celebrates the freshly pressed grape must of the season. Unlike the more popular Festa del Carciofo in spring, this harvest sagra has a different energy: stalls offering wines, seasonal produce, handicrafts, and conviviality.

La Festa dei Morti (All Souls’ Day)

A votive bridge is built from Fondamente Nove directly to San Michele, Venice’s island cemetery. Once a fixed custom until the 1950s, the tradition was revived by the municipality in 2019, suspended during the pandemic, and will return this year from October 30 to November 6. It’s a day of flowers and remembrance. Sitting just across the canal from the hospital, San Michele is a practical reality of life (and death) in the city. There’s even a Venetian saying for passing away: andar de là de l’acqua - to go beyond the water. Walking along Fondamente Nove, you’ll notice the many florists and stonemasons selling tombstones.

San Martino

San Martino (November 11th) is another beloved tradition. The feast is rooted in the story of St. Martin of Tours, a Roman soldier who cut his cloak in two to share with a freezing beggar. That night, he dreamt of Christ wearing the half-cloak, a vision that revealed the value of his charity. In Venice, the day also marked the “peasant new year,” the end of the harvest season, when families celebrated with chestnuts and new wine.

Children still roam the streets wearing paper crowns, banging pots and pans, and chanting little rhymes in exchange for sweets or coins. The city’s bakeries and pastry shops fill their windows with cookies shaped like the saint on horseback, decorated with candies, chocolate coins, and sugar. The tradition is tied to the presence of the church of San Martino in Castello, near the Arsenale - hence the Venetian saying, A San Martino ogni mosto diventa vino ("On St. Martin's Day, all must becomes wine").

Festa della Salute

The Festa della Salute (November 21st) is perhaps the most atmospheric. Born as a votive feast after the plague of 1630, it is marked by a temporary bridge across the Grand Canal, leading to the domed church of Santa Maria della Salute. Venetians cross to light candles, creating a flickering sea of devotion. Food also plays a part: the castradina, a hearty stew of smoked mutton and cabbage, is prepared only for this day.

According to tradition, the dish was introduced when Venetian supplies were running low after the plague, and Dalmatian merchants (known as Schiavoni) arrived with castrated, smoked, and salted mutton. Boiled with broth and herbs, then simmered with cabbage, it became the city’s festive dish for the occasion. On a cold evening, the scent of castradina drifts through the streets, and stepping into a fogged-up little trattoria feels like the warmest embrace.

The Lagoon in the Colder Months

This season also transforms the lagoon’s outer edges. The islands, quieter now, are a haven for migrating birds and flamingos. Lio Piccolo, in particular, feels even more surreal in autumn and winter without the caravans of cyclists that crowd it in summer. The narrow road is flanked by water on both sides, as if floating. Stop at one of the agriturismi along the way and enjoy a meal by the fireplace.

Toward Christmas

As the season deepens towards Christmas, Venice lights up. The ice rink in Campo San Polo appears every December, framed by Venetian palazzi, while Piazza San Marco hosts a tall Christmas tree. The lagoon also has its own nativity traditions. In Cavallino-Treporti, Francesco Orazio - greengrocer by day, presepista by vocation - creates a monumental waterborne nativity. Last year’s installation stretched for three kilometres with more than 400 statues, some of carved and painted wood, others moulded from modern materials, all anchored into the lagoon.

By January, many businesses close for a short pause before the chaotic Carnival season begins.

Venice in the colder months is less about spectacle and more about intimacy: fog that blurs boundaries, food that warms, and rituals that belong to the city, not the visitors. Just as summer teaches you how alive Venice can be, the quieter season teaches you how gently it can hold you.

1. Granita & brioche col tuppo

Granita is said to derive from sherbet, brought to Sicily during the Arab rule and adapted over the centuries. Once again, Mount Etna plays a central role: snow stored in neviere - underground caves or pits where it was compacted and cut into blocks - was preserved and later used during the warmer months for food, drinks, and even medicinal purposes.

Today, granita is the summer breakfast. Almond, mulberry, pistachio, coffee, chocolate, lemon, strawberry, peach - all often topped with whipped cream. It’s paired with a soft “brioscia” (spelled just like that) with its little rounded top, the tuppo. Older generations still eat granita in its simplest form, with just a piece of bread.

I’ll leave here a video from a famous pasticceria showing how the brioche is made (English subtitles available)

The history of granita features some fascinating Sicilian entrepreneurs. Francesco Procopio dei Coltelli introduced fruit sorbet - similar to granita - to Paris in the late 17th century with his Café Procope. More recently, Francesco Alliata di Villafranca, descendant of the Signori delle Nevi, the noble family who held the concession over the snow of Etna and the Iblei, played a key role in Sicily’s granita and gelato trade. After a career in cinema with Panaria Film, he obtained the concession from Algida to distribute industrially produced ice cream across the island. Yet Alliata also had the intuition to produce traditional granita and sorbets on an industrial scale. He opened a gelato factory in Catania producing spongati - fruit-based ices made without milk or fat, unlike American-style ice cream - which were even exported to the US under the brand XIV Duca di Salaparuta. A fascinating figure - I’m tempted to read his autobiography, Il Mediterraneo era il mio regno - though I remain a fan of artisanal granita. In every town you can still find pasticcerie offering their own variations.

2. Sicilian Bakeries

This is the kingdom of durum wheat flour. Bread takes on many shapes here: the classic ring-shaped cucciddatu, schiacciatelle, mafalde, and gemellini. Sesame seeds abound, scattered over breads, grissini, and the beloved biscotti regina.

One of my favorite discoveries was a tradition born from frugality: when the wood-fired ovens were cooling down, people would throw in whole vegetables - onions, eggplants, peppers - skin on, unseasoned. This custom continues today, filling the streets with irresistible aromas. For just a few euros, you can take home a bag of perfectly roasted vegetables.

3. Catanese Tavola Calda

The same bars where you’d order granita also have a tavola calda counter. Unlike elsewhere in Italy, here it means savoury foods you can eat without cutlery - perfect for takeaway.

The king of all is, of course, the arancino. In Palermo, they call it arancina (feminine), round like an orange. In Catania, it’s arancino (masculine), pointed - some say in homage to Mount Etna. The classic Catanese one is al sugo: saffron rice filled with meat, tomato sauce, cheese, and peas.

Other staples include:

• Cartocciate – brioche-like dough stuffed with tomato, mozzarella, and ham, or sometimes spinach, mushrooms, or eggplant.

• Cipolline – puff pastry filled with tomato, cheese, and plenty of onion.

• Pizzette – made with the same dough as cartocciate, topped with tomato, mozzarella, and a single olive.

A tray of these makes for the perfect quick lunch - whether you’re heading to the beach or catching a long train ride.

4. Ape Trucks

Three-wheeled ape trucks buzz around town, piled high with fruit, vegetables, fresh fish, or even serving gelato, granita, and brioche on the go. You know they’ve arrived when you hear them: whistles, shouts, megaphones, or blasting music. Locals step outside for their shopping or even breakfast. Extremely convenient for lazybones like me.

5. Prickly Pears (Fichi d’India)

Growing wild along lava-stone walls, prickly pears are everywhere. Originally from Central and South America, they were introduced to Sicily in the 16th century and thrived on the volcanic soils at the base of Mount Etna. There are three main varieties: Sulfarina (yellow flesh), Muscaredda (white), and Sanguigna (red). The first crop ripens in May–June, but farmers often practice scozzolatura - removing the first small fruits to encourage a second bloom. These late fruits, harvested between September and December, are usually larger, sweeter, and more flavourful.

Beyond eating them fresh, there’s also the tradition of preparing mostarda di fichi d’India in September. Families gather to clean (with much swearing, given the thorns), crush, and simmer the fruit for hours. The juice is strained through jute sacks, then cooked again with carob and flour so that it reduces further, spiced with orange zest, cocoa, cinnamon, and cloves, and enriched with nuts. The mixture is poured into beautiful decorative molds featuring fruits, animals, or religious symbols, and left to dry for several days. The result is a fragrant, jewel-like sweet that carries generations of tradition.

At Calabria’s tip, the train is rolled onto a ferry at Villa San Giovanni, each carriage guided by special ramps. Once secured, you step out, breathe the sea air, and watch the Strait of Messina slide by.

My trip happened to coincide with a heated national debate. Just days earlier, the Italian government approved the definitive project for the Messina Bridge, a €13.5 billion plan that - if completed - would create the longest single-span suspension bridge in the world by the early 2030s. Supporters see it as an engineering milestone that will reduce travel time across the strait from hours to minutes. Opponents argue the money should be invested in Sicily and Calabria’s urgent needs: reliable trains, water infrastructure, ports, and the safety of its fragile territory. The project also carries the heavy weight of environmental concerns and the displacement of hundreds of residents whose homes fall in the construction zone.

I got off at Acireale, a town of dark lava stone and bright façades, famous for its carnival and for being the “city of a hundred bell towers.”

Nearby, the “Aci” towns recall the myth of Aci and Galatea, a story Ovid told in his Metamorphoses. Galatea, a sea nymph, was in love with Aci, a young shepherd. Their love was returned, but Polyphemus, the cyclops, also longed for her. His jealousy grew unbearable. One night, finding the two lovers by the sea, he hurled a massive boulder of lava at Aci, ending his life. Galatea, heartbroken, transformed his blood into a spring, so that their love would remain forever tied to the land.

Yet the true majesty of this landscape rises above it all: Etna. Europe’s highest active volcano at 3,403 meters - though this number shifts with each eruption, as the mountain reshapes itself. Its presence dominates the horizon, both awe-inspiring and humbling. Today, it’s one of the most monitored volcanoes in the world, both UNESCO site and natural park.

Locals call it a muntagna, but its double name, Mongibello, fuses Latin and Arabic: mons and jebel. It is a mountain with two faces, demon or goddess, depending on who you ask. Before volcanology and seismology, myth explained what seemed incomprehensible. Etna was said to be the forge of the Cyclopes, where Polyphemus and his brothers hammered the lightning bolts of Zeus. Aeolus, god of the winds, was also linked to its slopes, and eruptions were imagined as the rage or breath of forces far beyond human scale.

In winter, people ski down its slopes in Etna Nord, while from the southern side a cable car from Rifugio Sapienza carries you up to the lava desert and the craters. The ride itself feels like ascending into another world. The first 2,800 meters of Etna can be explored independently, but above that altitude you need a guide. Tickets for the cable car cost €52 return (locals pay €15, dogs allowed). It’s an ideal first approach to the volcano: simply pack your hiking gear, nothing else is needed in particular.

It was my first time visiting Etna and it was magical. It reduces you to scale. I don’t think there is anything more primordial than standing on a living volcano.

It’s not a mountain to be underestimated, yet the danger perceived is often greater for outsiders than for locals. Ash fall during eruptions can blanket rooftops and streets, clog drains, and demand endless sweeping, but lava flows in this geological phase are less threatening than earthquakes. What matters more, for those who live here, is what Etna gives back. Its soil is black and rich, turning lava into lifeblood. The volcano is not just destroyer but also mother, a generative force.

Orchards and vines thrive on its slopes, yielding wines of striking personality: bold reds from Nerello Mascalese and Nerello Cappuccio, and crisp whites from Carricante and Catarratto. Yet Etna is more than eruptions and craters. Thanks to its microclimates, it shelters an extraordinary variety of landscapes - not just lava deserts at high altitude, but also thick forests and hidden paths waiting to be explored.

This was only my first encounter with a muntagna - but for me, Etna has already marked the beginning of a love story. And I know I’ll be back.

If you’re curious to read more from my travels in Sicily, here are a few stops I’ve already written about:

• Palermo

• Salina

• Alicudi

• Stromboli

We slipped over the quiet frontier along the Natisone River and rolled into Kobarid - Caporetto, to Italians. If you grew up with Italian history lessons, that name still echoes. In October 1917, the Battle of Caporetto became a national trauma: Austro-German forces broke through Italian lines, the army retreated to the Piave, and fare Caporetto became a byword for total disaster. My grandmother still uses the phrase.

If your budget allows, Hiša Franko is the region’s culinary summit - Roš’s cuisine is deeply rooted in the Soča Valley. It now holds three Michelin stars (four, if you count the Green Star). The tasting menu is €325, and it's closed on Mondays and Tuesdays. Accommodation is also available on-site.

A more budget-friendly option is Hiša Polonka, a project born from Hiša Franko and Ana’s ex-husband, Valter. His family originally ran Hiša Franko as a traditional osteria before it became a fine dining destination. To preserve those family recipes and memories, Valter opened Hiša Polonka, where you can enjoy hearty, traditional dishes like ravioli and gnocchi with lovage and wild garlic at very fair prices. They also run a simple guesthouse.

I visited midweek during the low season, but it’s clear that Slovenia’s tourism sector has grown significantly. The Soča area, in particular, has seen a boom in camping, glamping, and outdoor sports - especially kayaking. There are also plenty of farm stays, rated with apples instead of stars, listed on the Slovenian Tourist Farms Association website.

I recommend avoiding the motorway and instead driving through the valleys to take in the idyllic landscapes - meadows dotted with purple and yellow wildflowers, crystal-clear streams where fishermen use the graceful technique of fly fishing to catch trout and grayling. This method uses ultra-light artificial flies, mimicking insects, to attract fish. The Soča winds through waterfalls and canyons - everything feels intensely bucolic.

We looped around Lake Bohinj and the famous mirror of Lake Bled before heading higher.

Our final destination was the Julian Alps, where we spent two nights in a mountain hut near the Vršič Pass inside Triglav National Park - Slovenia’s only national park, located in the northwest near the Italian and Austrian borders. It’s named after Mount Triglav, Slovenia’s highest peak at 2,864 meters. Triglav is a national symbol and even appears in the Slovenian passport. The origin of its name isn’t certain—some say it comes from the peak’s three-headed silhouette; older legends link it to a pagan triple god called Trimužijat.

There are both easy and more challenging trails in the area. This is also where the Soča River is born. You can plan your hike with Tabacco Map no. 65.

On the way back to Italy, we crossed the northern border at the Fusine Pass, but first made a stop at Slaščičarna Kala, a pastry shop known for its cakes. The pastries were surprisingly light and never overly sweet. A highlight was the Gibanica, a typical Balkan dessert with many regional versions. The Slovenian one includes poppy seeds, walnuts, apples, raisins, and quark cheese.

After this sweet detour, we crossed the border and visited the Fusine Lakes in Friuli, then briefly re-entered Slovenia to drive part of the Mangart Saddle: a winding mountain road with breathtaking views of the Julian Alps. We re-entered Italy via Lake Predil and passed through villages once home to lead and zinc mines. We continued across the Sella Nevea and onto the Montasio plateau, where the namesake cheese is made. Montasio is used in frico, a humble dish created by mountain farmers in the 15th century. Grated Montasio, potatoes, onions, and sometimes pancetta or cured meats are cooked in a pan until the edges crisp and the disc takes on a golden, frittata-like texture.

We spent our final night in Carnia, on the border between Austria and Veneto, at a simple agriturismo called Plan Da Crosc. The owner, Ingrid, prepares local specialities using their own cheeses, including cjarsòns - a dish with a beautiful story. Carnia was once home to the cramârs, spice peddlers who carried spices from Venice across the Alps to Austria, Germany, and Hungary. On their return, their wives would use leftover crumbs from their wooden backpacks (crassigne) to make cjarsòns to celebrate their homecoming. These sweet-and-savory ravioli can be filled with anything - ricotta, jam, herbs, dried fruit, or nuts - and are often spiced with cinnamon, chocolate, and cloves.

Slovenia’s landscapes truly won me over, and I hope to return and explore more of the country. Friuli, too, continues to surprise me - it’s a region with a strong cultural and culinary identity, and I can’t wait to go back.

Useful Info:
To drive in Slovenia, you need a vignette - a toll pass that can be purchased online by entering your license plate. Weekly, monthly, and yearly options are available at https://evinjeta.dars.si/en.

Petrol is cheaper in Slovenia, so make sure to fill up - look for the national company Petrol.

That’s exactly why I love spending summer here. In most of Italy you’re expected to take time off in August, when prices soar and crowds explode. Venice is the loophole: stay put, move at lagoon speed, and let the season unfold around you. Here’s how to do it.

Biennale Architettura 2025

Unlike the Art Biennale (whose history you can find here), the Architecture Biennale was established in 1980. Open until November 23, this year’s edition is titled Intelligens. Natural. Artificial. Collective, curated by Italian architect and urbanist Carlo Ratti. It explores intelligence in its many forms and how it might help us reimagine how we live and build in the face of climate change.

Wander through the Giardini and Arsenale, stepping between countries, ideas, and installations. Get your ticket here

You’ll also find other national pavilions scattered around the city - no ticket needed for those.

Redentore

Forget everything you thought you knew about religious festivals. The Festa del Redentore, celebrated every year on the third weekend of July (this year, July 18–20, 2025), is a unique mix of history, devotion, and party vibes.

It commemorates the end of the plague that ravaged Venice between 1575 and 1577. In response, the Senate vowed to build a church to the Redeemer—now the iconic Church of the Redentore on Giudecca, designed by Palladio. To allow the Doge and the people to attend mass on the island, a floating votive bridge of boats was built across the Giudecca Canal - an extraordinary tradition that continues to this day.

The bridge opens on Friday, and by Saturday evening, the whole city shifts into celebration mode. Thousands gather on the shores, rooftops, and especially private boats to admire the lights and fireworks reflected in the water - an atmosphere like no other. The night culminates in a spectacular display over St. Mark’s Basin. After the fireworks, many continue partying on the Lido beaches until dawn.

Note that for safety reasons, access to the areas closest to the fireworks is now regulated. A reservation platform will open first to residents, and then to visitors.

In 1989, the Festa del Redentore witnessed an iconic moment: Pink Floyd performed a free concert on a floating stage in front of St. Mark's Square, drawing over 200,000 people. It was a spectacle that sparked national debate about the preservation of Venice’s heritage and changed how the city regulates large events forever.

Sagre & Festas

Step away from the tourist track and you’ll find sagre - religious festivals dedicated to local patron saints pop up across the mainland and lagoon islands all summer long. Picture long communal tables, grilled meat and polenta, cold wine in plastic cups, fried fish, and live bands playing covers until late. The crowd is mixed: nonni, teenagers, families. Here are some dates to mark:

• Festa di Sant’Antonio – 7–14 June

• Festa di San Piero de Casteo – 25–29 June

• Festa di Beneficenza, Campo S. Giacomo dell’Orio – 17-26 July

• Sagra dell’Apparizione & Portosecco, Pellestrina – July/August (TBA)

• Todaro Benefico – September (TBA, supports Venice’s hospital) It’s a charity dinner with specialties offered by local osterie, restaurants, and bars. Booking and a donation are required. If you can’t get a spot, don’t worry - there will still be cicchetti and ombre for everyone.

Come hungry, leave dancing.

Beaches

People don’t realise how close real, sandy beaches are to Venice. I’m not a big fan of this stretch of the Adriatic, but in August, even the most beautiful beach can get overrun.

One option is the Lido which has frequent vaporetto connections. The easiest beaches are managed by Venezia Spiagge, but I usually head to Pachuka Beach, which is dog-friendly—and honestly great even without a dog.

Another option: once you're on Lido, hop on bus 11 to Pellestrina. You can stop at Murazzi, where the beach is free and wild—no services, but a few restaurants offer spaghetti and wine by the sea. Go further and you’ll reach Alberoni, home to WWF-protected dunes and the tucked-away Chiosco Macondo at the start of the Alberoni jetty. You can get there only by foot, bike, or boat. It’s a small, slightly hippie oasis offering food, drinks, concerts, and artisan and book events.

I’ve written about it before, but Sant’Erasmo is also worth mentioning. Its beach, Bacan, is beloved by locals. There’s a restaurant/bar, a kiosk, and even a pizza truck to enjoy sunset slices with a view of Venice. Many locals arrive by boat, but you can get there on vaporetto line 13 to Capannone, then walk a bit. It's best at high tide. In the evening, you’ll see old Venetians unloading folding tables from their boats and dining by the shore.

Obviously, if you have a boat, you can hop on and off wherever the water is cleaner and the crowds fewer.

Note: All these spots are dog-friendly.

Concerts in St. Mark’s Square

Throughout July, Piazza San Marco hosts open-air concerts, some in partnership with Teatro La Fenice. Check the program and get tickets here.

Open-Air & Floating Cinema

Venice has a deep love for cinema, and summer is the best time to enjoy it outdoors.

Barch-In Cinema is a free boat-in cinema at the Arsenale. You can donate or buy their lovely merchandise to support it. Reserve your spot in advance. There’s also a floating platform for pedestrians with cushions. It's dog-friendly only if you arrive by boat. Bring your own food or order from Cocai Express (Venetian for “seagull”)—Venice’s Deliveroo, delivered by boat.

Cinema Galleggiante is located in Giudecca near Cantiere Crea. It’s an experimental floating stage where films (often unconventional) are screened. Even if experimental cinema isn’t your thing, the setting alone is worth it. There's an entry fee, and you can join from your own boat or sit on the event boat outfitted with chairs. Before the show, food and drinks are available by TOCIA!, an interdisciplinary collective founded by Marco Bravetti (a self-taught chef with stints at Noma in Copenhagen). They host pop-up dinners, food waste workshops, and foraging tours mapping edible lagoon species.

The event is curated by Microclima, a Venetian association known for visual arts and sound events at Forte Sant’Andrea and other striking locations.

Cinemoving! is Venice’s travelling summer cinema, with screenings in Campo San Polo, other islands, and even on the beach - from June to September. All screenings are free, and some programs are run in collaboration with European cultural institutes.

As summer fades into September, Venice hosts one of the world’s most prestigious film festivals. The Venice Film Festival (August 27 – September 6, 2025) transforms the Lido into a hub of cinema, glamour, and red carpets.

Running alongside it is Isola Edipo, a parallel festival that blends film screenings, talks, masterclasses, performances, exhibitions, and music. It unfolds along 150 meters of Riva Corinto, the Lido’s lagoon-facing promenade.The event is part of a wider project centered on the historic sailboat Edipo Re, which once hosted Pier Paolo Pasolini and Maria Callas, and now serves as a creative lab promoting cultural activities.

And in early September, check out the ONA Short Film Festival, featuring international shorts focused on outdoor sports and nature.

Despite all the events and excitement, summer in Venice is also about slowing down. It’s about early morning walks when the city is quiet, long evenings by the water, boat rides with no destination, and sitting in a campo with a spritz, simply watching the world go by. So no, I won’t be part of the August migration. I’ll be here riding boats and dodging mosquitoes.

And if you’re here too - whether for a weekend or the whole season - I hope this guide gives you a few ideas.

The truth is, I never actually read any of his adventures back then. But I have a vivid memory from my teenage years: I was visiting a friend’s house and saw a large black-and-white drawing hanging in the living room. It showed a canoe paddled by two Indigenous men. It struck me deeply. When I asked about it, he said, “Do you like it? It’s my dad’s. It’s a drawing by Hugo Pratt.” That name stuck with me.

I had mentioned it to a friend at the time who was really good at drawing, and she gifted me her own reproduction of that same image. I’ve kept it with me ever since. Still, I never dug deeper into who Pratt really was - until last year.

It all started when I visited the island of Sant’Erasmo for the first time. From there, I could see the silhouette of San Francesco del Deserto on the horizon, surrounded by tall cypress trees. I started reading about the island and, somewhere in my search, I discovered that one of Corto Maltese’s stories—The Angel at the Eastern Window - takes place there.

Something clicked. That long-forgotten memory resurfaced. I went home, opened an old box where I keep personal memories, and there it was the drawing. Alongside it, a postcard of Corto Maltese. It felt magical.

This time, I went deeper. I bought The Angel at the Eastern Window - and later, a few more - and started reading about Hugo Pratt. I became obsessed. And to my surprise, out of sheer ignorance, I’ll admit, I learned only last year how deeply connected he was to Venice.

Though he was born in Rimini, Pratt grew up in Venice. Many of his stories are infused with the spirit of the lagoon.

When he was twelve, he used to climb onto the rooftops of Venice to read Terry and the Pirates by Milton Caniff. That’s when he realised that drawing and storytelling were, for him, the same gesture.

Corto Maltese’s adventures are often deeply intertwined with Pratt’s own life. One summer during his childhood, his mother forgot to cover his head while they were at the beach on the Lido. He suffered from sunstroke and lost his memory for six months. He was even placed in a special class for children with disabilities until his memory slowly returned. That episode may have inspired Corto’s own moments of amnesia, when he seems to drift into other realities or dimensions.

Soldiers and weapons often appear in Pratt’s work, shaped by his own life during a turbulent century. His father, Rolando Pratt, was a soldier who took part in the Fascist conquest of Ethiopia in 1937. Hugo followed him, joining the colonial police as a teenager. His father died in 1942 and his body was never found. Hugo developed the habit of visiting cemeteries around the world, hoping one day he might find his father’s grave.

After the war, he returned to Venice full of energy, diving into comics. He co-founded the magazine Asso di Picche with a group of friends. It gained popularity, especially in Argentina, where he moved in 1949. That’s when he started signing his work Hugo Pratt. In the late 1950s, he moved to London to work for an agency. The scripts were weak, but his artwork stood out - his raw, emotional depictions of war, fear, and crisis had an unsettling realism, often dredging up difficult memories for him.

In 1965, he moved back to Venice, settling in Malamocco - a quiet fishing village at the far end of the Lido. In the phone book, he listed himself under the name Simon Girty (a colonial American of Irish descent who sided with the British and Native Americans during the American War of Independence). He lived simply, traveled often, and preferred staying with local families over hotels - just like Corto Maltese, who always seems to be known and welcomed wherever he goes.

His travels took him through Brazil, Guyana, and the Caribbean. In the Mato Grosso jungle, he lived among Indigenous communities who were fascinated by his hands and insisted on watching him draw.

Pratt often clashed with editors who saw comics as “just for kids” and fought hard for artists' rights. Eventually, he won back the ownership of his original work, a victory we take for granted today. Almost nothing remains from his early years, since the originals were never returned. But everything changed when he met Florenzo Ivaldi, and a figure without whom the history of Italian comics might look very different. Ivaldi fell in love with his drawings and commissioned The Ballad of the Salty Sea (1967).

That book was revolutionary. It changed the perception of comics in Italy, introducing literary themes and sophisticated storytelling to the medium, earning Pratt a reputation for creating “drawn literature.” In 1986 Pratt was the subject of a major exhibition at the Grand Palais in Paris, the first time a comic book artist has been honoured with a solo retrospective at such a prestigious institution.

Though he later moved to Paris, he often returned to Venice and to his apartment in Malamocco. This could be the story of a man who created a hero - but also the story of a hero who changed comics forever. Pratt’s work has now been translated into countless languages.

This past winter, I visited Malamocco out of curiosity, to walk in Pratt’s footsteps. I went to Scarso, the tavern he used to frequent - his drawings still hang on the walls. I tried to see Venice through his eyes.

The Lido’s public library is named after him. And his legacy is very much alive: some of his old collaborators still live in the area. Cartoonists Guido Fuga and Lele Vianello created Corto Sconto. The Secret Venice of Corto Maltese and Navigating the Lagoon: Among Islands, Tales, and Memories, published by Mare di Carta.

There’s a lovely full-circle moment in his story: Milton Caniff, the artist Pratt idolised as a boy, met him at an event in New York. It was the first time comic artists from both sides of the Atlantic came together. Caniff sketched Pratt as child looking up at him. He later told an Italian journalist: “I know there’s a cartoonist in your country who says that without me, he never would’ve started this career. That’s false, he has intelligence in his fingers.”

If you love Pratt or if you’re curious to discover his work, a new exhibition just opened in Siena and will run until October 19 (entry ticket 16€). Sounds like the perfect excuse for a weekend getaway, don’t you think?

In the free hours I managed to carve out during my stay, I finally crossed a long-standing item off my wishlist: a visit to the Musée d'Orsay. And in that moment, the parallel between the two stations - both relics of an industrial Paris, both reborn into places of exchange and creativity - struck me profoundly.

Once a grand railway station built for the 1900 Exposition Universelle by architect Victor Laloux, the Gare d'Orsay fell into disuse by the 1950s. It was later transformed into one of the world’s most celebrated museums - a jewel box of French Impressionism and Post-Impressionism, thanks to the visionary work of Gae Aulenti, Italy’s most important female architect of the 20th century.

In past articles, I’ve explored the work of great architects like Carlo Scarpa and Oscar Niemeyer. Today, it’s time to tell the story of another brilliant mind - and this time, a woman: Gaetana Aulenti, known simply as Gae.

Gae was much more than an architect. She was a scenographer, designer, and urbanist at a time when architecture was still considered a male domain. And it was Gae who took on the challenge of converting the abandoned Gare d'Orsay into the Musée d'Orsay, turning a forgotten space into a pioneering cultural temple. Her work was so pivotal that she earned a loving nickname: "Gae d'Orsay."

Born in 1927 in Friuli to a Calabrian mother and a Pugliese father who had migrated north for work, Aulenti’s early education took her to Florence. However, World War II interrupted her aspirations, and she returned to Biella, where her family had relocated. At just 14, she supported the partisan movement, carrying messages across checkpoints.

After the war, she earned her diploma from the Accademia delle Belle Arti in Turin and soon after moved to Milan. In 1953, she graduated from the Politecnico di Milano during a time of architectural transformation and post-war reconstruction. Gae would always consider herself a Milanese by adoption.

From 1955 to 1965, she worked at Casabella-Continuità, a leading architectural magazine under the direction of Ernesto Nathan Rogers, a leading figure of the Neo-Liberty movement and co-creator of Milan’s iconic Torre Velasca. These were foundational years for Aulenti, shaping her professional identity.

In the 1960s, as technology and industry accelerated, Gae expanded into design, creating iconic lamps like Pipistrello, Parola, and King Sun, and collaborating with brands such as Knoll, Fontana Arte, Kartell, and Artemide. At the same time, she designed remarkable Olivetti showrooms in Paris and Buenos Aires, weaving architecture and design into a seamless, poetic vision of space.

In the 1970s, Gae renovated a building in Via dei Fiori Oscuri in Milan, turning it into her layered, vibrant home-studio, a true extension of her personality, filled with her travels, designs, and life’s work. Today, it houses the Gae Aulenti Archive.

Her versatility - her refusal to limit herself to a single specialisation - became one of Gae Aulenti’s greatest strengths. She moved fluidly between architecture, industrial design, exhibition curatorship, set design, and urban planning, crafting a career that was remarkably poliedrica, multifaceted, and visionary.

In 1972, she was the only woman invited to exhibit at the landmark show Italy: The New Domestic Landscape at the MoMA in New York, a groundbreaking survey that redefined the future of design. This recognition placed her on the international stage - but rather than narrowing her focus, Gae continued to embrace a wide and fearless range of projects.

Gae established a deep friendship with Marella Agnelli, she became involved in several FIAT-related projects: designing branches, showrooms, and exhibition spaces both in Italy and abroad.
It was FIAT that, in 1983, purchased Palazzo Grassi in Venice and entrusted Aulenti with its renovation (once belonged to the Stucky family whose story I recently explored.) Later, in 2005, Palazzo Grassi was acquired by François Pinault, one of the world’s most prominent contemporary art collectors.

But Aulenti’s legacy didn't stop at the Musée d'Orsay or Palazzo Grassi. She went on to reimagine other iconic museums, such as the Centre Pompidou in Paris, the Scuderie del Quirinale in Rome, the Museu Nacional d’Art de Catalunya in Barcelona, the Asian Art Museum in San Francisco, and Palazzo Branciforte in Palermo.

She also ventured into exhibition design, notably curating the 1973 show dedicated to Bulgarian artist Christo. Her work extended into theater as well, where she crafted significant stage designs and began intertwining her career with another brilliant figure of twentieth-century theater: Luca Ronconi. Their close collaboration, which would last nearly two decades, gave life to groundbreaking and unrepeatable experiences - such as the Laboratorio di Prato - centered around the creation of a new kind of stage space, one that broke away from traditional conventions and radically reimagined the relationship between audience and performance. This theatrical passion ran in the family: her daughter, Giovanna Buzzi, would go on to become a celebrated costume designer in her own right.

In the realm of urbanism, Aulenti left her mark on projects like Piazzale Cadorna in Milan, the Italian Cultural Institute in Tokyo, and the Museo and Dante metro stations in Naples.

When she passed away in 2012, Milan paid tribute to her by inaugurating Piazza Gae Aulenti in the newly redeveloped Porta Nuova district — a rare honour for an architect during their lifetime. In Palermo, her work on Palazzo Branciforte (now located in Largo Gae Aulenti) was celebrated as one of her final masterpieces.

Gae's passion for architecture was naturally passed down to her granddaughter Nina Artioli, today an architect herself and director of the Gae Aulenti Archive, as well as the driving force behind the major retrospective dedicated to her grandmother that the Triennale di Milano hosted until January 2025.
A tribute to a woman who revolutionised spaces, broke barriers, and transformed the very idea of what architecture could be.

Originally known as Spinalonga for its elongated shape, the island later became Zuecca, and eventually Giudecca. The name may derive from a small Jewish community (Zudei) once present here, or from the zudegai - those exiled by the Doge’s tribunals. Another theory links the name to zuéc, a word for the brush and shrubs once used by leather tanners, who were active here in the Middle Ages.

Giudecca was once a rural outpost south of Venice’s historic center, dotted with convents and noble villas. Walking through its quiet backstreets today, you still catch glimpses of that older island. The recently restored Orto del Redentore revives this memory: a walled garden of herbs, vines, and vegetables tended by Capuchin friars. It sits beside Palladio’s majestic Chiesa del Santissimo Redentore, built as a votive offering after the plague of 1575.

Every year on the third Sunday of July, a floating bridge connects Giudecca to the rest of Venice for the Festa del Redentore - a night of fireworks, shared meals, boats and lanterns lining the fondamenta.

Just a few hundred meters of water separate it from the heart of Venice, and yet Giudecca has always felt both near and far.

Today, the island is primarily residential and quieter than much of the city. Artists' studios, theaters, and boatyards have slowly taken over the old industrial spaces, giving them new life. But beneath this calm surface lies a layered story.

In the 19th century, Giudecca became the industrial lung of Venice. Surrounded by water and separated from the delicate historic core, it was an ideal site for shipyards, factories, and workshops.

Across the canal, two imposing silhouettes rise through the haze: the Fortuny Factory and the Molino Stucky. They stand as silent witnesses to a past often overlooked - a past of bold innovation, of labor and production, of thousands of workers who once animated this narrow stretch of land.

The Fortuny Factory brought to life the visions of Spanish-born artist and inventor Mariano Fortuny in the early 20th century. A polymath - painter, photographer, set designer - Fortuny is best known for his silk gowns like the Delphos, and for inventing the pleating technique that made them iconic. In 1911, he exhibited his fabrics at the Musée des Arts Décoratifs in Paris to great acclaim. Soon after, he opened boutiques in Paris, followed by branches in London, Madrid, and New York. Today, for the first time in years, the Fortuny showroom and villa are open to visitors - a chance to step inside one of Venice’s most mythic creative spaces. Since 1998, the Fortuny legacy has been continued by the Riad family. Egyptian-American brothers Mickey and Maury Riad inherited the business from their father Maged, and made a bold decision: to keep manufacturing on Giudecca, defying the tide of outsourcing and mass production. If you're interested in Fortuny’s full universe, a visit to Palazzo Pesaro degli Orfei- his former home and studio, now a museum - is a must. There, you can explore his world of fabrics, paintings, stagecraft and light.

But the most iconic building on the island is the Molino Stucky, a vast neo-Gothic flour mill built by Swiss entrepreneur Giovanni Stucky. His story - and that of his family - is a three-act tragedy worthy of its own article.

Giovanni was a visionary: in the 1880s, he purchased an old convent on Giudecca and transformed it into an “industrial cathedral,” taller than the Doge’s Palace and inspired by the factories he’d seen in Germany. The neo-Gothic design clashed with Venice’s aesthetic and was rejected several times. But he persisted. He believed buildings should be designed around technology, not the other way around. He outfitted the mill with conveyor belts, fire safety systems, and cranes for industrial-scale loading and unloading. He even built housing for workers, along with gardens and orchards - a true company town on the island. In 1897, the mill was inaugurated with great fanfare. It was the first building in Venice to be lit by electricity. All of Venice came to celebrate. But success sparked resentment. In 1910, Giovanni Stucky was murdered at Santa Lucia Station, sending shockwaves through the city and marking the beginning of the family's decline. After decades of abandonment, the Molino Stucky was restored in the 1990s. Today, it sadly houses a luxury Hilton hotel.

Giudecca still holds many fragments of that industrial past - remnants you can discover as you walk its length.

Start at the Consorzio Cantieristico Minore Veneziano, founded in 1996 inside the old warehouses of the former Cantiere Navale della Giudecca. Over 3,000 square meters were brought back to life, now hosting art events, artisans like upholsterers, carpenters, blacksmiths, electricians, and a boatyard accommodating 350 vessels.

Continue west, and you’ll reach the site of the former Junghans factory, Italy’s first clockmaker, was founded in 1877 by the Herion brothers and became a leading manufacturer of precision instruments until its closure in 1971. It was reimagined in 2000 as a residential complex and theater. Today, it also houses Zenobia, a community gym that doubles as a space for social gathering in Campo Junghans.

Nearby, Fabbrica H3 - part of the innovation hub SerenDPT - offers a glimpse of what industrial reconversion can achieve. Blending co-working, research, and event spaces, it honours the area’s manufacturing past while inviting new forms of entrepreneurial activity.

Then comes the ghost of a cinematic dream: during the Fascist era, Scalera Film envisioned a città del cinema on the island. Between 1940 and 1943, Giudecca became home to Italy’s most prolific studio, turning out propaganda reels and glossy telefoni bianchi comedies - until the dream faded and the studios closed in 1952.

Behind Fortuny, there’s also the Distilleria Veneziana, where Birra Venezia was brewed until 1929 using pioneering techniques. Once one of Italy’s most prestigious breweries, it was converted into apartments in the 1980s. In 2007, the brand was revived by Società Birra Venezia, reconnecting the site to its roots. Its brick chimney still stands as a local landmark.

Giudecca’s industrial legacy could have become a model for addressing urgent urban needs: affordable housing, public spaces, and accessible services. Some initiatives pointed in that direction. Others didn’t. The result is a landscape suspended between what was, what is, and what could still be.

Other parts of Giudecca continue to evolve.

Built in the early 20th century, Palazzo Tre Oci was originally the home of Bolognese painter Mario de Maria. Later transformed into a center for photography and exhibitions, it was recently acquired by Berlin’s Berggruen Institute.

Once a religious complex that later became a refuge and reeducation center for former prostitutes, the Carcere Femminile della Giudecca - Venice’s women’s prison - is now closed to the public but continues to play an important social role. It offers work and reintegration programs, including an industrial laundry for hotels and public agencies, a cosmetics lab, a kitchen, and a tailoring workshop. The prisoners also cultivate the Orto delle Meraviglie, a 6,000-square-meter vegetable garden. Every Thursday morning, they sell their produce from a small stand along the prison’s fondamenta, personally managed by the women who grew it. In 2024, the prison hosted the Holy See Pavilion for the Venice Art Biennale, proof that art and culture can be powerful tools for inclusion and reinvention.

Every time I return to Giudecca, I’m struck by how its past lingers in its quiet corners - and how the island, quietly but persistently, keeps evolving.