Italy: Where the Map Folds Differently

by CL Rogerson, world traveler and salty sailor

The plane touched down at Marco Polo Airport just past noon, the sun hanging lazily above the Venetian lagoon. Stepping off the boat that ferried me across the water from the airport, I felt it instantly, this city was different. Venice wasn’t a place you visited. It was a place you entered, like a hidden room behind a bookshelf, or a dream that you could walk through.

The boat dropped me along the Grand Canal. And just like that, I was swallowed whole by stone footpaths, centuries-old boardwalks cantilevered off sun-bleached buildings, and narrow corridors that didn't seem to belong to any century I knew.

My hotelier was an English expat with that particular kind of charm only expatriates seem to cultivate, part concierge, part philosopher, part storyteller. When I asked him for dining recommendations, he pulled out a cartoonish tourist map and started circling landmarks with a glint in his eye.
“This is where Johnny Depp eats when he’s in town... Angelina Jolie over here... Clooney’s favorite right there.”
I smiled politely before interrupting.
“Where would you take your wife for a special occasion?” I asked. “Where do you go when you want to disappear into the real Venice?”

His grin deepened. He slid the tourist map back into its drawer and opened another, older, creased, worn around the edges. A map with history. The kind of map people who live somewhere use.
"This," he said, "is the good stuff."

The circles on this one were different. The best authentic Italian, the coziest French bistro, the quietest terrace overlooking a canal, and then, his finger paused with reverence.
“This,” he said, tapping the paper like it held secrets, “is the oldest continuously operating tavern in Venice.”
That was all I needed.
“Sold.”

He warned me it might be fully booked for dinner, but since I was alone, I might just slip in early and charm my way to a seat. That’s how I found myself, map in hand, navigating a city built like a labyrinth designed by poets.

Now, I pride myself on having a fairly divine sense of direction. It’s the sailor in me, maybe, a natural compass. But Venice plays by different rules. You don’t just walk to a place, you pursue it. I got lost. Not the kind of lost that’s scary or even frustrating. The kind of lost that makes you feel alive. The kind of lost that delivers you to unexpected corners where a kitten sits a balcony above, or where you stumble upon a bridge you’re sure no one else knows about.

Eventually, after retracing my steps using canal crossings and architectural cues, I found a hidden corridor that opened up like a breath into a small courtyard on the Grand Canal. The light shifted there. Time softened. The walls, the cobbles, even the air smelled of old wood, stone, salt, and stories. I had arrived.

A modest wooden door marked “Taverna Al Remer” beckoned. I stepped through and found myself in a cavern of history, stone walls, wrought iron chandeliers, a grand piano off to one side flanked by a cello and guitar. A roaring fireplace. Torches now outfitted with faux flames that did a convincing enough job of dancing like the real thing.

The tables were empty, but the bar hummed softly with locals. The maître d’ approached and informed me gently that the dining room was already fully booked. I must have given him a look, I wasn’t trying to challenge him, but I was clearly disappointed.
He smiled and said, “All of these tables will be full in thirty minutes.”
“I believe you,” I replied, “but I didn’t come just to eat. I came to feel this place. Could I stay for a glass of wine and just... take it in for a bit?”

That changed everything.

He nodded, smiled, said something warm and welcoming in Italian to the bartender, and moments later I had a glass of red in my hand. I wandered the room like a quiet guest in someone else's story, taking in the smoke-stained walls, the heavy beams above, the age of everything.

And in that moment, before the crowd arrived, before the tables filled, before the noise of clinking silverware and conversations in a dozen languages filled the air, I had it all to myself.

Just as I was finishing my wine and preparing to drift back into the Venetian maze, the maître d’ returned.

“Signore,” he said with a familiar smile, “would you still like to dine with us tonight?”

Would I?
I offered the most grateful sì I could manage.

He led me to a small table tucked beside a thick stone column with a view into what I can only describe as a wine “cellar”—though this being Venice, it was more of a wood and stone enclosed alcove, proudly displaying vintages and spirits like sacred relics.

What followed was, without exaggeration, one of the best meals of my life. Maybe it was the ambiance, the flickering iron sconces, the quiet murmur of old stories in the walls. Maybe it was the history, the weight of time pressing gently against every stone in the place. But more than anything, it was the people.

Three courses in, the chef himself emerged from the back and came to my table.
“I wanted to meet you,” he said, “you appreciate this place.”
I told him, honestly, that the food, the hospitality, the entire experience had moved me in a way few restaurants ever had. It felt like a homecoming to a place I’d never been. I was taken care of like a guest, but welcomed like family.

As I lingered over the last sips of a perfectly aged red, dessert appeared at my table—unannounced, decadent, beautiful.
“Compliments of the chef,” said the maître d’.
A limoncello soon followed, chilled, glowing golden in the low light.

I laughed softly to myself.
“I see a theme here,” I thought.

In Venice, if you arrive with the right spirit, curious, humble, open, the city folds its map for you. It reveals its hidden corridors, its secret courtyards, its tables set just for one. It pours you a glass and says:
You found us. Welcome home.

Until the next stop,
—CL Rogerson

About the Author
CL Rogerson is a world traveler, licensed captain, and storyteller with a sailor’s soul and a philosopher’s heart. After a career in healthcare and a lifetime of adventure, he now wanders the world full-time, sharing stories of connection, culture, and the open road. You can find him wherever the map folds differently.