An earthy rainbow of suede belts hung from open air market stalls, iron railings groaned under the weight of plush leather jackets. Wallets were fanned out on display: classic black, brown ostrich leather, warm beige, all tagged with the outline of a splayed cow’s hide, “Genuine Leather” stamped in gold on each.

Tourists stroked potential purchases, humming and haring to impartial companions. Faces solemnly examined the goods, a few pairs of eyes glinted like kids’ in a sweet shop. The scent of leather wafted pleasantly between the shoppers and I recalled the words of a tour guide from my first visit to the city. “Don’t be fooled by the soft, supple feel of imitation leather, or the leather mark they copy onto fakes,” he warned. “And, whatever you do, when the salesperson assures you that genuine leather has leather’s genuine smell, don’t be fooled by the can of spray on leather that the thing’s been hosed down with either.” (Read on …)

I sat in Hotel Caneva’s small reception area, chatting to Stephano, the night time receptionist. Water, displaced by passing boats, lapped up against a rudimentary wooden barricade, erected to keep guests from the slimed over steps leading down to a small canal. Gondoliers, standing stiff above tourists, shouted echoing “Hoys!” as they twisted blind past the building’s dark exterior.

Stephano had worked in London, which he explained his easy, if imperfect, use of English. “I remember,” he told me, “when I arrive, I tell the owner of the hotel that I will be staying two years. He did not believe me,” he laughed, “but I stay two years. Exactly!” (Read on …)