The square outside Santa-Lucia train station contains an interesting cross-section of life. I am hearing French in one ear, unconsciously half-listening, my brain happy to be processing a familiar language. I hear German in the other ear, the harsh intonations familiar now but still alien.

Different sorts of travellers trudge towards the water-bus stations: families struggling to drag both luggage and children down the stairs , older people dragging their whole lives behind them in huge rolling suitcases and backpackers, looking bewildered, shoes, towels and all other manner of things hanging off their bulging backpacks.

On the stairs, people waiting for their trains out of the floating city sit and watch people, boats and pigeons go by. The pigeons ply the onlookers for food and pick at the crumbs on the ground. On the nearby bridge, Venice's unfortunate do the same.

Venice is a city frozen in time, with its absence of cars and tiny streets that are barely wide enough for the average person to walk through. It could be the Venice of Titian's day, indeed many scenes once painted by masters remain mostly unchanged, except for the rows of souvenir stands betraying their modernity.