I love Europe because I love Venice. Or maybe it's the other way around.

There's a feeling that lives within some cities. It lives in the buildings and the streets and the history that hangs in the air. It lives in the lingering footsteps of tourists and locals and in the quiet whisper when all settles down for the night.

It's that feeling I crave, the way the city seems to speak for itself when I get there. Like it's been eagerly waiting to tell me its story.

There are gondolas and masked celebrations and mysteries. There are bridges and winding alleyways that invite you to lose yourself. There are shops full of glass and squares full of pigeons by day and water by night. The air is full of things unknown.

I had dreamed of Venice for so, so long. I knew exactly what it would be like, but I didn't. I still don't. It's a city suspended, forever in the moment between mystery and discovery.