I still remember a book I bought long ago from a bookstore — Venice Diary by A Cheng. There is a passage in it that I remember clearly to this day. Its meaning was roughly this: an old Venetian woman lives in a house whose window looks out onto the sea, yet she is irritable and short-tempered. Why should that be?
On the night I arrived in Venice, I moved the narrow bed from the bedroom into the living room and wedged it beneath a window overlooking the canal. Its size happened to be almost identical to that of the window — a coincidence, but an exact one.
My wish was simple: that from early morning, before the mist had lifted, gondolas would pass beside my bed.
Even so, when the pale dawn light burned me awake and I faced that view, all I felt was endless irritation and drowsiness.
I think the romance and freedom the sea offers are real. But that does not mean it can dissolve every emotion — not even the bad temper of a child who has just been woken.
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I had to come to Venice, before Venice sinks.
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Venice is small, and the main streets are lined with trinkets that might as well have come from Yiwu. And so Venice becomes smaller still. I had no desire to look at those fragmented, endlessly replicated objects from home. My goal shifted instead to something simpler: to find good pasta.
This is certainly not a travelogue. How could it be? Even though ten years have passed since my last visit, this place has not changed much. And even if it has changed, those changes pale beside the changes within me over these ten years. When I place the two side by side, Venice remains Venice — almost untouched.
Besides, the title Before Venice Sinks had already been written down two months before I traveled here, and more than a month after returning, this piece is still unfinished. How could this be a travel account?
Without question, this article is written only for myself. After all, who would be willing to read, or understand, these mist-like ramblings?
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I know Venice will sink because I realize that Venice is already sinking.
I know that global warming is melting the poles, and that great floods may one day transform every coastal city I am familiar with into something unrecognizable.
Even so, I am not worried about sinking caused by water. Although water may indeed submerge this city, there are other kinds of sinking already underway. They come more slowly, yet they are more capable of drowning us than the sea.
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A glass shop beside a gelato store caught my attention. Unlike the other shops heavy with the scent of mass production, this one stood apart through its lighting and layout alone. Without even examining the glass pieces closely, one could sense their refinement and quiet dignity.
Of course, the numerous “Do Not Touch” signs — more than in any other shop — were powerful proof of their value.
I walked in. The owner’s demeanor reminded me of Frenchie from The Boys, which immediately gave me a certain affection for him. After speaking with him, I became even more convinced that physiognomy is not limited to East Asians.
He pulled out several books on glass art. As he flipped through them, he brought out glass pieces I had never seen before, matching them one by one with the images in the books. He told me the names of factories and craftsmen, the names of various techniques, and spoke about his love for glass. Although I had expressed some interest at first, it was certainly not enough to justify such enthusiasm.
Perhaps it was love. As the surrounding world sinks beneath spectacle and waves of tourists, this shop has become his island.
My gaze kept shifting between the display cases and his desk, because every time I turned my head away and back again, there would be something new — another piece he had retrieved from the storeroom.
Small European towns are always filled with shops that make one reluctant to leave. To avoid excessive consumption, I devised a purchasing strategy for myself, which I call the “Almost” principle. Whenever I encounter something I like, I must ask myself whether it is “almost” right. If the answer is yes, then I am also almost ready to buy it — but not quite. On the other hand, if I know at first glance that it lacks nothing and that I must have it, then unless the price is unreasonable, I prepare to negotiate.
At one such turn of the head, I noticed a three-centimeter circular piece of glass newly placed on the table. Inside it stood a tree — orange, green, and black — rooted in an orange-red earth, beneath which lay blocks of red and blue. Around its crown were alternating white patterns of different transparencies, like sacred light, forming in my mind the image of a “world tree.”
When I lifted it toward the light, that sacred glow became even stronger. What first appeared black began to emit a strange blue radiance, completely transforming the appearance of the tree. It was astonishing.
In the end, I bought it. The joy of successfully bargaining lasted about fifteen minutes, until my friend told me that after the tax refund, the price would have been nearly the same anyway.
Venice continues to stand through people like that shop owner, yet my own heart seemed to sink slightly. In comparison, had I lifted Venice at all?
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The anxiety about sinking and decline did not appear only recently.
In July 2023, I had an extraordinarily vivid dream.
In the dream, I had grown old, with gray hair and a medium-length beard that had not been trimmed for a long time. I could not see my face clearly; it was probably not myself.
I had a wife. We were wrapped in rags, dressed in worn clothes.
We lived in Venice, but by then Venice was nearly submerged. Whether from smoke or mist, the entire city appeared gray. Black water carried garbage and debris. Buildings had collapsed around us. Ferries with oil lamps were lined along canals that were no longer recognizable, selling scraps.
I pushed a pole through the water, taking my wife home, only to discover that water had already flooded the house, and even the door lock had been stolen.
That was the dream.
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I think animals express human emotions better than humans express their own.
The most emotional animal is the fish, followed by the horse, and then others.
The least emotional animal is the cat. It is not that cats cannot express emotion, but that the emotion they express — whether languid or lively — is always the same: confidence and pride.
When I entered a shop filled with Triangel dolls, the strange yet somewhat charming figures did not initially stir any desire to purchase. It was my friend who insisted on going.
Until I saw the cat.
It was the same size as the other dolls. Yellow. The last male cat in the shop. Its face carried an unmistakable pride. I even imagined a slender sword hanging at its waist. When I reached out to touch it, there was nothing there, which felt oddly disorienting. I sensed a similarity between it and myself that had nothing to do with appearance, yet felt entirely fitting.
In the end, I bought it. I could analyze it later.
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In Georgia, cars do not require front license plates, so in Atlanta I have seen vehicles with Tokyo and surrounding regional plates mounted on cars that are not necessarily fast but certainly loud. Some even install Genshin Impact logos; I sometimes wonder whether that increases accident rates.
I never miss any opportunity to release what I consider my own genius. This is a deeply rooted flaw.
The empty front of my Civic had long unsettled me. Because I could not find a suitable option online, that emptiness lingered for quite some time. I did not want to pursue a JDM aesthetic in America, nor did I want to attach any commercial IP to my car in order to attract like-minded attention.
On the way toward St. Mark’s Square in search of food, I noticed a temporary vendor.
In front of the cart, many license plates lay scattered on the ground. The word “Venezia” was cheaply printed in various colorful styles. I was unexpectedly delighted, as if a piece of inner gloom had finally found the right wind to carry it away.
Like completing a puzzle, the meaning of filling a gap does not lie in the object itself, but in the confirmation that one has moved one step closer to wholeness. Even if the ultimate goal is vague, the feeling itself is undeniably satisfying.
Venice has no cars. It is not a city designed for cars. It stands in water like a four-legged chair planted into wet grass after rain. Even if the chair appears usable, it cannot bear much weight; it will only sink further into the soil and cause someone to fall.
Thus, Venice’s cars are distributed as souvenirs.
“Let the silence come more slowly,” those plates seemed to say.
And so Atlanta gained a car that belongs to Venice.
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Perhaps I am indeed weak by nature, like Mishima — joy in travel always tinged with unease, constantly looking beyond present happiness in search of pain that may not even exist.
I do not deny my affection for refined and astonishing objects. Most of them are expensive and fragile — Murano glass, the gold nib of a Sailor pen. My long-standing fascination makes me decisive, yet my weakness inserts resistance between myself and what I love. Ownership narrows the distance, yet ownership also creates distance.
How awkward. Is there no place for me between the torment of not possessing and the anxiety of possessing?
Such experiences continued in Venice. I bought a miniature mask from a small shop. I had never seen such a beautiful mask.
It consisted of one and a half faces. The right half was composed of burgundy and black; the missing lower half created a slight eeriness, as if waiting for a real face to complete it. Gold threads traced a checkerboard of red, black, and white across its surface. The lacquer within the squares carried small impurities, suggesting age. The additional left face had white pupils and calm, closed lips. The two faces merged seamlessly through the checkered transition, leaving an impression of mystery and instability, as if its expression might shift at any moment. When tapped, it produced a crisp sound like ceramic; when touched, the material felt warm like wood.
Even during a Vivaldi concert in a church by the canal, I could not resist taking it out of my bag to handle it. I felt as though I were seized by some force, compelled by the object itself.
Eventually sensing something was not right, I gave it to my friend P as compensation for carrying my photography books purchased in Europe back to the United States.
This act of giving brought a sudden clarity. Losing ownership gave me a sense of relief, yet I could still vividly reconstruct its appearance in my mind and hear the sound it made when tapped, because it had already become part of my experience.
Perhaps “having once possessed” is the most liberating way to relate to objects. Every object will meet a similar end — even diamonds may be blown into the universe. But within the scale of my life, the things I have touched and once owned will be carefully stored in the box called memory. Time will polish them further, harden them, and make them whole.
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When I titled this piece, I had already anticipated that it would have an ending. When I began drafting, I left the word “ending” at the very end of the document. This does not seem strange to me, just as people prepare two slices of bread rather than one before making a sandwich.
Even so, the ending cannot simply be the word “ending.” What I am writing is no longer a primary school essay that requires a thematic conclusion, nor an essay meant to provide historical reference value for something like “Venetian Tourists of the Early 21st Century.”
It is my commemoration of Venice, of this brief stay. It exists only for me.
Venice has gradually faded from the peak of my imagination into one among the hundreds of cities I have visited. That relative fading does not sadden me. What saddens me are the sinkings that occur there, independent of me.
I can only think this:
If Venice one day truly sinks into the sea — perhaps it will be moved onto ships.
February 24, 2026
Atlanta