Inside a Childhood Home on the Grand Canal in Venice

We’re in Lidia’s childhood home, where she lived with her parents — first as a little girl, then as a young woman.

Like many Venetians, Lidia has since moved to Lido — the barrier island in the Venetian Lagoon famous for hosting the Venice Film Festival.

Life there feels a world apart from what she grew up with and where she’s always felt completely at home.

But the moment she opens the door to her family’s house, the memories come rushing back.

Behind the Scenes

Ilya: We first heard about Lidia from a Netflix film called I Love Venice (2013). It’s a half-documentary, half-dramatised film about native Venetians fighting for their city’s future.

Lena: Lidia is one of the main characters, and the moment I saw her, I turned to Ilya and said, “Her eyes are the colour of the Venetian lagoon. I need to write to her.” At that point, we had a week left before our short travel break in Venice. With zero expectations, I found Lidia’s email and sent her a message, telling her how much her story in the film had moved us and that we’d be in town for just two days. Then I basically asked her to drop everything and let us film her for NOSTALGIA in her childhood home. A total shot in the dark. The next day, she replied — she was in.

Ilya: We stood at our meeting spot in Venice, loaded with filming gear. Even then, I still couldn’t believe this was actually happening. I was fully prepared for her to bail. Why on earth would she agree to this? But there she was, right on time. We couldn’t be more grateful for her openness.

In Their Own Words: Lidia on Her Childhood Home on the Grand Canal in Venice

Full transcript of our conversation with Lidia.

My name is Lidia, I was born in Venice and have always lived in Venice. When I was young, Venice was a completely different city, a vibrant, normal city — which sadly is no longer the case.

A Childhood Portrait

When I was four years old, my parents decided to have my portrait done by a Venetian academic painter named Pomi. I remember those sittings very clearly; they weren’t truly sittings, because I was so lively, and I don’t recall ever sitting still on a chair; I was always running around and playing with a ball.

I remember that the painter was very tall — imposing, even — and I also remember the shoes he made me wear, which I thought were utterly hideous and which I later recognised in the portrait. But apart from the shoes, which I didn’t like, when they showed me the painting, I realised he had captured me perfectly — my personality, my character. Especially my gaze. Even now, I still see myself in it.

[Editor’s note: Below are three more works by the same artist, Alessandro Pomi (Mestre 1890–1976)].

Studying Art and the Venetian Lagoon

I decided to study art history, particularly medieval and Venetian art history. But for my research, my thesis focused on a lost monastery in the lagoon. I even had to study paleography to learn how to read ancient documents. Afterwards, I worked as an archivist for many years and began working with my thesis supervisor — my co-advisor — who was an honorary inspector of the Venice lagoon, named Canal. So, as the saying goes, Nomen Omen. I used to go with him through the canals of Venice and in the lagoon. For many years, even after my thesis, I continued my research with him in the lagoon and even served as an honorary inspector for the archaeological superintendency.

I can truly say that this knowledge of the lagoon, of its history, has profoundly influenced my life. I began to take an interest in preserving Venice and especially its lagoon. Since the 1990s, I have participated in many campaigns to save Venice and its lagoon. So yes, my studies led me to live a pretty combative life.

When I lived in this house, I was a student — young, like all students anywhere in the world. I went to university, to the library, then back home to study. Life was normal, and so was the city. You’d step outside and see people heading to work, to class, just living their lives — not tourists everywhere. I have to say, my youth was serene — I was just another student in a city like many others. But now, Venice feels different. What we Venetians really want is for it to be seen as, and to remain, a real, living city. Venice must become a normal city again, a place for those who want to live there permanently, not just for wealthy tourists.

A Frozen Lagoon and Roman Frescoes

I think one of my most beautiful memories is actually from the lagoon. One day, I went out with the honorary inspector I was doing research with, to the northern part of the lagoon. It was a cold, beautiful early winter day — February, I believe. The lagoon was frozen, something that doesn’t happen anymore, and the water was crystal clear. In winter, there aren’t as many impurities in the lagoon, so you could see right to the bottom. And there, along the canal’s bank, we spotted fragments of Roman frescoes. There was a Roman villa of Lio Piccolo, which this honorary inspector had uncovered; but we had never seen frescoes so clearly visible before. So, we took off our jackets, coats, jumpers — everything — and plunged our arms into the icy water to retrieve these fragments, which are now housed in the archaeological museum. It was a beautiful day, with stunning sunshine. Yes, truly an incredible experience.

Moving to Lido

I chose to move to Lido because I just had the chance to live there for a while. But now, after the last twenty years, I don’t think I’ll ever go back. Coming to terms with it was tough because Lido is just a regular island, with cars and everything, and I never really felt at home there. The only truly beautiful thing — aside from the sea, the beach, and the shoreline — was being able to see Venice from the outside. When you live in Venice, you’re inside it, you don’t really see it as a whole. But from Lido, on clear days, especially in winter when the light is crisp, you can see the mountains — even snow-covered. And that’s how our ancestors saw Venice when they painted those old bird’s-eye views. In all those paintings, Venice is framed by mountains, because back then, the skies were clear, there was no pollution, and you could see them. That, I really loved.

I don’t know if I could move back to Venice now. I’ve always felt nostalgic for Venetian life — it’s part of me, and I’m part of it — but I think living there has become impossible. You step outside and see people wandering aimlessly, people you don’t know, when in Venice, you used to know almost everyone. You get on a vaporino and it’s all tourists. I sometimes do this just for fun — I get on and count the Venetians. You can spot them straight away. Years ago — quite a few years ago now — I walked into Campo San Stefano, not far from here, on the weekend of Festa dei Morti in November. And all I saw were tourists. That’s when it really hit me — it was no longer a place you could live in.

A Childhood Home on the Grand Canal

This is the house of my childhood, where I also spent my youth, where I studied, where I had my own study, where I could work in peace and without noise. Now, if I open a window in my parents’ house, I hear a constant noise that never stops — it’s the sound of engines, obviously marine engines — and once it wasn’t like this. Not many years ago, well, decades ago (but not centuries), the sounds of Venice were very different. One could hear the stillness, even the murmur of water, which now is stirred very violently.

A House Too Big for a Little Girl

In the mid-’60s, my parents decided to change houses because our home was small and there were many houses in Venice for sale — so many, and certainly not as expensive as they are now. So I saw many houses, wonderful palaces. I remember the first time they took me to this house — it seemed enormous to me because it was completely empty, and I felt rather lost. But the view of the canal and its water immediately won me over, I must say.

Evening Serenades Over the Water

I remember that my mother had a habit of stepping out onto the balcony every evening when the serenade passed by. There was a serenade performed by gondoliers for the tourists — we were well aware of that, and she too knew it was for the tourists — but she loved it so much that every evening she would call me so that we both could listen to the serenade, while my father would make fun of us. I don’t think they still do that, to be honest.

Nostalgia for a Vanished City

When I return to this house now, I have to say that I am assailed by the memory of everything that has happened here — just as it happens in every home when children visit the house of a parent who is no longer there. Yet here, the nostalgia is twofold, because there is a longing both for the family members who are no longer around and also for a place that no longer exists, because the Venice I knew, the one I experienced in my youth, has been erased forever.

A Mother’s Love for Music

My mother was a teacher; she taught Italian and Latin, and she tried to pass that on to me even when I was little. This large house allowed me to slip away without her catching me. She loved music very much, and I remember that when she was buying the piano we have in the house, she would take me to see countless pianos, because at that time, when she bought the house and the piano, there were many houses for sale with their pianos.