Palazzo Garzoni

While a crack-of-dawn flight might normally feel like a hideous idea that should be avoided at all costs, when it comes to Venice, I’m here to tell you that there really is no better time of day to arrive.

As Mr Smith and I sped across the misty lagoon from the airport to the island via water taxi at 6am, we exchanged excited glances that quickly turned into big (HUGE) grins as we arrived onto the Grand Canal, where cargo boats were dropping off all the fresh produce required by the hundreds of bars and restaurants for the following 24 hours. As we watched boxes of Campari and Select being unloaded, huge crates of fish being handed over and bags of fruit being tossed ashore, it made the four hours of sleep and quite the turbulent flight worth every second.

What’s so special about a bunch of boxes being delivered, I hear you ask. Well, I long to feel like a local when I travel and this time of day in Venice is when you really get that unfiltered insight into how this floating museum functions, not just now, but for hundreds of years. These are the real-life local scenes that retreat around 7am, as the hordes of tourists reappear around breakfast time —and I live for this kind of authentic experience when on holiday.

If we were starting to feel like an audience watching a scene play out, then main-character energy was about to kick in as we stepped off our leather-lined vessel onto the decks of Palazzo Garzoni, into the warm welcome of Alessandro and Giuseppina, who were waiting with smiles bigger than our own.

With our bags swept away, they guided us through the terrazzo-floored ingresso to the pied-à-terre we had booked for the next 48 hours, the Terrazzetta apartment. I had a good feeling when I booked it that it would feel multo luxurious, but in reality it was the most ridiculously indulgent home away from home that Mr Smith and I have ever had
the privilege to stay in.

After being shown around the space and left solo in our temporary home, it’s no exaggeration to say that we spent no fewer than an hour inspecting every inch of the two-bedroom apartment. In the bedrooms, the 400-plus-thread-count sheets, sink-into pillows and Murano glass ornaments had me snapping; in the bathroom, the softest towels I’ve ever touched, a full collection of grooming electrics, a rainforest shower, and my all-time fave Acqua dell'Elba toiletries made me mmmm and ahhhh; while in the living room, a bountiful bouquet of flowers, the plumpest fruit bowl and a humungous panettone awaited us. But it was the kitchen that really made us both swoon. Immaculately clean to the point that we were both convinced we were the first people to ever stay here and use anything (I checked later, we were not), it was a masterclass in perfection. From the spotless cutlery lined up in the same direction and chef’s knife block, to the Kitchen Aid blender, Smeg coffee machine, herbal tea selection box — I could go on — the level of attention to detail was superb.

After frothing up two cappuccinos, we headed out onto the terrace, from where we could watch the gondolas swing into action on the Grand Canal. The rooftops of Venice are a
marvel, seemingly unchanged for centuries, with the ghosts of Casanova and many another literary figure hopping across the terracotta tiles, and from ours we could see for
what felt like miles.

As hard as I had tried, I wasn’t able to clear my entire schedule for the three days we were away and so while I set up for a Zoom call on the long dining-room table (I may or may not have positioned the terrace overlooking the Grand Canal behind me), Mr Smith started researching all the gadgets he had been ogling. Mid-renovating a new apartment, he decided that everything he had already decided on should be replaced with what he had found in our new Venice home and started a fever-dream gadget wish list.

My meeting wrapped and Mr Smith’s growing home-reno list complete, we headed out for a spot of lunch. In keeping with our penchant for local haunts over the likes of Harry’s Bar, I had asked a Venetian friend to recommend a secret spot and Osteria La Zucca was her hot tip. A short water-taxi ride later, we found ourselves sat in a cosy corner, glass of wine in hand (local Valdobbiadene prosecco for him, a perfectly chilled Soave from the mainland for me), as plates of delicious — and generous — fusion vegetarian plates arrived thick and fast, and were promptly devoured.

Lunch turned to joyfully getting lost, as we meandered our way back towards the centre of the city, stopping to buy monogrammed writing paper, marbled boxes and decadent
Christmas cards at Il Papiro; a steal of a vintage Dries Van Noten turquoise jacquard miniskirt at every fashion designer’s favourite vintage emporium L’Armadio di Coco; and Murano corkscrews from the less chic but irresistibly kitsch tourist shops along the way.

By now, it was cicchetti hour and, having had multiple recommendations for Cantine del Vino già Schiavi on the Campo Sant'Agnese side of the water, we walked over to enjoy a glass of homemade wine for €1.50 (yes, you read that right) and graze over its many variations of nibbles. This is a bustling little haunt, full of old groups of friends, and despite an instinctive urge to pap the entire place, I kept my phone in my pocket and drank up the atmosphere along with my vino locale.

That evening, we decided to get an early one to make the most of the following day, and so tummies and hearts full, we walked back to the hotel. As we turned our key in the door, we encountered the entire ingresso lined with candles and the sound of gentle waves lapping at the canal entrance. We knew we were the only guests staying and realised this was just for us, resulting in another pinch-me Palazzo Garzoni moment.

Inspired by our apartment's kitchen, our menu from the previous day, the (maybe one too many) cicchetti from the night before and my love of feeling like a local, I Googled
my favourite Lorenza de Medici Italian recipes and we headed to the Rialto market at the crack of dawn to buy fresh ingredients (I heard it’s what the locals do) to make a
gorgeous meal for us that evening. I snapped up pumpkins, porcini mushrooms, parmesan and polenta, alongside a big piece of baccala to cook up a feast, stopping for
coffee and cornetto on our way home.

That afternoon, we took in the Tinterellos and Canalettos at the Gallerie dell'Accademia (mind-blowing) and bought green friulane slippers at Alessandra Venezia (one of the few authentic Venetian bottegas left), before the weather turned and we headed back to open a bottle of wine and start cooking. Is there anything more romantic than cooking as the rain rages outside? Yes. It’s cooking as the rain rages outside in our palazzo apartment. It was one of those perfect nights that made us at once forget we didn’t live there and really wish we did.

Up early for our flight, we reluctantly packed up and departed (I would definitely not recommend an early flight out of Venice), taking as many photographs as we could to
remember every detail — for the first time ever, I think Mr Smith took more than me. As we drifted back towards the airport, we just couldn’t believe that it was even possible to stay in a place quite as special as Palazzo Garzoni, let alone one that allowed me to live out the very best kind of break: that of a — very lucky — local.