The cynic in me saw damp and mold, rotting buildings and dirty canals, millions of tourists, gondoliers with fake smiles, plastic trinkets sold in old squares.
The rest of me ignored the cynic and fell in love with this fairytale maze of alleys, canals, bridges, history. Venice, the city that looks more or less like it did in the 16th century. The strange city with no traffic except boats: boat taxis, gondolas, transport barges, ambulance boats, police boats, luxury yachts and immense cruise liners further out, and people's everyday boats everywhere. The city where darkness pools black in back alleys and smaller canals, just outside the colourful lights of cafés and bistros - so dark that the stars can be seen in the middle of the city.
The crowds of people and pigeons, both of which got too close for comfort sometimes, in the vast Piazza San Marco. The expensive old cafés around the open place, a classic orchestra playing newer tunes, thousands of tourists taking selfies. The impressive campanile that crashed down to earth once, the intricate decorations on the ducal palace, the odd cupolas of the basilica and its Byzantine wonders out of my reach.
The stretch of designer shops from the waterfront along winding streets up to the expensive hotel terrace where we dropped of fatigue, drank Aperol spritz in the shade and watched gondolas, some with men singing dramatic songs in them.
The narrow alleys leading from a tower on Piazza San Marco, past a cannoli shop we couldn't resist, past old-fashioned payphones, to a square where tourists milled around and blue lights from spinning toys glittered in the air, on to the Rialto Bridge with its densely packed tourist crowds, shops, entertainers and glimpses of the Grand Canal.
The quieter square where we had gelato among pensioners reading the paper in the shade of old trees and a small boy gave us sweets. The heat of the midday sun and the cooler shadows in cobblestone lanes.
The deserted back alleys where we got lost in the dark, a little scared, until the staircase of Contarini del Bovolo suddenly rose before us, shining like hidden treasure.
The corner of yet another unknown square where we sank down in a corner to drink water and eat over-sweet cannoli - lost again and with the maps app out of sync. Darkness was falling but friendly cafés shone bright and children played around us, there were voices and the tinkle of glasses.
The quiet San Zaccaria where a priest said Sunday mass under Bellini's altarpiece. The Orthodox church where three ladies sang a hymn. The wild peals of church bells echoing between stone walls and bridges, loud and unapologetic.
The quirky bookshop Acqua Alta, hidden somewhere in the maze, with its gondola filled with books and steps made of books leading up to a viewpoint over the canal - and the narrow aisles so packed with tourists you couldn't breathe.
The morning we got up before dawn and watched the stars shine over the promenade by the lagoon, its choppy turquoise waters now dark. Sitting on the deck of a vaporetto in a cool breeze as the morning light crept in, travelling slowly up the Grand Canal. Past palaces, some beautifully restored, some worn down by centuries of neglect and mold. Intricate windows, little jetties, dark canals leading into the maze of alleys behind. Crystal chandeliers glittering under vaulted ceilings in some of them, rotting shutters hiding others. A man watching the sunrise from a top balcony of his palazzo. The boats everywhere - water taxis pushing past at high speed, tiny private boats with outboard motors, small barges carrying wine cases, vegetables, building supplies, garbage. Gondolas tied up waiting for the tourists to wake up. The white Rialto Bridge almost deserted at this hour.
Before I boarded the train to continue exploring the rest of the world, I ate my breakfast sitting outside the station, watching the boats on the canal and thinking I never wanted to leave at all. How many mysteries and old stories did I leave behind?