Italy - June 2023 (Part 1 of 2)

Venice, Italy The journey began with a sense of anticipation, arriving via Ljubljana, Slovenia to catch the train. It’s about a six-hour ride, one that promises scenic views and a hint of border intrigue. Though the ticket suggests a straightforward, direct route, don’t be fooled—it hides a little twist. At the border town of Villa Opicina, the adventure kicks in: you disembark, cross the tracks on foot, and board an entirely different train on the other side. It adds a touch of unexpected movement to an otherwise seamless ride.

The train itself is comfortable—air-conditioned, equipped with a bathroom, and offering decent legroom. There’s storage space by the entrance, overhead, and tucked between the seats. But for a seasoned traveler like me, shaped by a past run-in with a train thief between NYC and D.C., luggage placement is strategic. I never leave anything above my seat where it’s out of sight, nor by the doors where a swift snatch-and-dash is all too easy. That kind of experience leaves an impression. Instead, my luggage stays wedged safely between my legs, and my backpack—with camera and laptop—either occupies the seat beside me or rests securely on my lap if the train fills up. Call it caution, or call it part of the thrill—it's all part of the ride.

The first thing that grabs my attention as the train rolls through the countryside is the architecture—it shifts noticeably. The rural buildings scattered across the farmland have a distinctly Alpine charm. Steeply pitched roofs, ornate eaves, and an overall sense of care and upkeep hint at a place where resources and pride in home go hand in hand. There's something almost storybook-like in their appearance, a quiet contrast to what I’d seen before.

As I near the Venice region, the journey takes another unexpected turn. I switch trains again—this time from Trieste to Mestre, Italy. I had completely forgotten about the transfer at Trieste, and in the moment, I decided to step outside and ask for directions to the Grand Canal. The young man I asked blinked at me, confused. Then he smiled kindly and told me I was still far from it—that I’d need to catch another train to Mestre first. A small detour in the grander adventure.

There’s another twist no one really warns you about: when crossing from Slovenia into Italy and boarding an Italian train, you need to validate your ticket. It’s a subtle but crucial detail. I hadn’t done it—nor had most of the travelers making the same crossing. Thankfully, the conductor was generous in spirit. He explained that for all local trains in Italy, validation is essential. Since the tickets are valid for three days, they must be timestamped, or you risk a €35 fine. Lesson learned, and one more traveler’s tale to tuck away.

As we glide into Mestre, the energy shifts. You can feel Venice getting closer. The landscape starts to glisten with water, and small islands dot the coastline like scattered jewels. Seagulls wheel overhead, the air grows heavy with salt, and the taste of the sea clings to the wind. The mood on the train rises with each passing moment—tourists leaning into windows, cameras ready, voices lifting with excitement. Something magical is just ahead, and everyone can feel it coming. Stepping off the train and into the grand hall of Venezia Santa Lucia station feels like crossing into another world. Just beyond the doors, the Grand Canal greets you with its gentle sway and a line of waiting traghetti—ferries known locally as the Vaporetto. It’s not your typical city transit. Instead of buses or trams, these floating vessels are your ticket into the labyrinth of Venice and its surrounding islands.

Each Vaporetto line has its own designated port, leading to different corners of the city or out to places like Murano, Burano, or Lido. It’s not the kind of place where you want to “wing it”—end up on the wrong ferry and you could find yourself clear across the lagoon. My advice? Have that conversation with your hotel before you arrive. Know exactly which Vaporetto line to take and which stop to disembark. It’ll save you a lot of confusion—and possibly a second ferry ride back the other way.

Navigating Venice begins the moment you step off the train. The water is your road now, and it’s all part of the unfolding adventure.

Venice, Italy - Vaporetto

In Venice proper, I stayed somewhere truly special—a former palace turned Protestant church, now reborn as a cultural center and guesthouse called Foresteria Valdese. The layers of history in that place alone set the tone for the rest of my time there.

From the Santa Lucia station, I was instructed to board Vaporetto No. 2 and ride it down the Grand Canal to Rialto—a stop that already feels like stepping into a painting. From there, the real Venetian navigation begins, winding through alleyways and over bridges like a living treasure map.

I made my way to Campo S. Bartolomeo, then slipped beneath the archway of Sottoportego de la Bissa, continuing along Salizada S. Lio. At the very end, a left turn led me over a bridge and into Campo S. Maria Formosa, a broad, lively square echoing with footsteps and laughter. I crossed the piazza, found Calle Lunga S. Maria Formosa tucked between Hotel Scandinavia and the Bar dell’Orologio, and followed it to its end. One last bridge—Cavagnis—and just beyond it stood the hostel, quiet and tucked away like a well-kept secret.

Finding your way in Venice isn’t just about maps or directions—it’s about discovering the rhythm of the city. Each turn feels like part of a puzzle, each bridge like a rite of passage. And when you finally arrive, it feels earned—like you've unlocked a hidden chapter of the city’s story.

Venice, Italy Of course, this was all simpler said than done. As fate would have it, the moment I crossed the Slovenian border, my phone GPS gave out. Suddenly, the winding alleys and bridges of Venice weren’t just romantic—they were a full-blown maze. If you’ve ever set foot in Venice, you know the feeling: no real sense of north or south, narrow lanes that twist unexpectedly, and canals that seem to appear from nowhere. What looked simple on paper quickly dissolved into beautiful, chaotic disorientation.

Luckily, adventure has a way of rewarding those who ask for help. I stopped at a street market and asked a vendor for directions. He turned out to be from Dhaka, Bangladesh, and we shared a brief but warm moment over my past time living there. That connection sparked something—he offered to help and even pulled up the directions on his phone using a web link. Just like that, I was back on track, navigating the city's labyrinth with newfound clarity. Once again, I was blessed by a stranger.

The reward waiting at the end of my journey was more than a place to rest—it was a step back through time. The former palace where I would stay had noble roots. Its earliest known owners were from the Morosini family, a name long woven into the fabric of Venetian history. In 1711, Antonio Francesco Cavagnis—a wealthy artisan from Bergamo who ran a golden lace and embroidery shop in Campo San Bartolomeo—purchased the property from Lucrezia Morosini in Savorgnan. Not content to leave it as it was, Cavagnis commissioned architect Domenico Rossi to redesign it entirely.

In 1810, the palace's grandeur was further elevated when Carlo Bevilacqua painted a ceiling in the first-floor salon, depicting the myth of Bacchus and Ariadne. Other rooms had already been adorned by Venetian artists during the 1700s, their frescoes echoing the elegance of the era. The palace, now known as Cavagnis, connects to Calle Lunga Santa Maria Formosa via a private bridge. Its legacy even bears the scars of war—a bomb dropped during an air raid on February 26, 1918, destroyed the nearby landing stage and damaged one of the frescoed ceilings in the dining room.

To sleep beneath that same roof—after a day of wandering, wondering, and the kindness of strangers—was to truly feel a part of Venice's living history.

Foresteria Valdese Venezia - Canal Entrance

Foresteria Valdese Venezia - Canal Entrance

Foresteria Valdese Venezia - Canal Entrance

The story of the Palazzo Cavagnis didn’t end with aristocrats or artists. In 1868, the palace entered a new chapter when it was purchased by the Waldensian Church, thanks to the support and solidarity of Protestant communities abroad. From that moment on, the building carried not just the weight of Venetian nobility but also the quiet resilience and progressive mission of a religious minority. Today, Palazzo Cavagnis is recognized as an Italian national monument, a living testament to the many layers of history housed within its walls.

In 1925, Pastor Giovanni Bertinatti was the first to envision the space as more than a place of worship or administration—he opened a family-style boarding house on the first floor, welcoming guests into the spirit of community and hospitality. This vision was revived and expanded in 1969, when Pastor Giovanni Scuderi officially opened the Foresteria in its present form. The rooms still echo with that intention—a place to stay, to reflect, and to feel at home within a city that can so often feel like a dream.

By the 1990s, time and the salt-laden Venetian air had taken their toll on the building. The palace needed serious attention—from the rooftop tiles to the worn foundations. Rising to the challenge, the Waldensian Board launched an ambitious, multi-year restoration and refurbishment project. The goal wasn’t just preservation, but transformation: to expand the building’s capacity to welcome more travelers, and in doing so, ensure its future by letting it pay for itself, one guest at a time.

As I stood there—having arrived by way of broken GPS, labyrinthine alleys, and the generosity of a stranger—I couldn’t help but feel like I was stepping into something far greater than just a hostel. It was a home built on centuries of stories, reclaimed and repurposed by those who believed in making history feel like hospitality.

Foresteria Valdese Venezia - Staircase

Foresteria Valdese Venezia - Door Lock

Foresteria Valdese Venezia - Canal Foyer

Foresteria Valdese Venezia - Canal Foyer

Foresteria Valdese Venezia - Rafters Palazzo Cavagnis isn’t just a place to stay—it’s a living, breathing cultural hub in the heart of Venice. As part of its ongoing mission, the Cultural Centre of Palazzo Cavagnis regularly hosts concerts, film screenings, theatrical performances, exhibitions, and conferences, often in partnership with both public and private institutions across the city. It’s a space where the past and present meet, not just in architecture and history, but in dialogue, creativity, and community.

Most events are held in the elegant Busetto Hall, located on the Piano Nobile—the first floor of the Palazzo, which also houses the Waldensian and Methodist Church as well as the Foresteria Valdese. Some programs, especially larger collaborations with local or national organizations, take place in venues throughout the city. Still, the Palazzo remains the beating heart of the operation.

Wednesdays at 6 p.m. are when the magic usually happens—and, to my luck, I happened to be there at just the right time. That evening, the local university's opera program offered a free concert in the hall, and it turned out to be one of the absolute highlights of my stay. Sitting beneath frescoed ceilings, surrounded by the faded elegance of centuries, I listened as voices filled the space with music, weaving yet another layer into the story of the Palazzo—and my own journey through Venice.

If Venice has one flaw, it’s not the canals, or the price of a coffee, or even the ever-present threat of acqua alta. No, it’s the tourists—and I say that knowing full well that I am one. But there’s something about the sheer volume of them that transforms the city into a kind of chaotic theme park by late morning. Navigating the narrow streets takes the patience of a saint. The crowds move in thick, oblivious throngs, blissfully unaware of things like walking on the right, letting others pass, or the basic art of spatial awareness.

How the locals manage this day after day is a mystery worthy of its own documentary—or at least a very spirited coffee chat. I imagine they’ve developed the kind of emotional endurance only centuries of tourism could forge.

The saving grace for me? I’m an early riser. Partially by habit, partially by strategy. I like to be out before the heat rises, before the crush of the crowd descends, and when Venice still feels like it belongs to its past rather than its selfie-sticks. The light is gentler then, the streets are calm, and the views of bridges, canals, and peeling facades are unobstructed. By 11 a.m., especially in high season, it becomes a zoo—beautiful, yes, but loud, packed, and relentless. So I take my moments early, in the hush of morning, when Venice whispers instead of shouts.

Foresteria Valdese Venezia - Rooftop View

Foresteria Valdese Venezia - Rooftop View

Foresteria Valdese Venezia - Rooftop View

Foresteria Valdese Venezia - My Private Room God bless the locals. They at least have a special entrance on the vaporetto so they can get to where they need to go in a more timely manner. I think if I lived here I would have to leave during the high season.

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Venice, Italy

Venice is, of course, famous for its Grand Canal and its countless bridges—but few people realize just how many there actually are. The city boasts exactly 391 bridges (or 403, if you count Giudecca), gracefully arching over 177 canals. In the city's early days, bridges were flat and made of wood, practical for horses and carriages that once wound their way through the narrow calli. But as maritime trade took precedence—and boats became the true lifeblood of the city—arched stone bridges began to dominate the landscape starting around the 16th century, allowing vessels to pass effortlessly beneath them. Horses lost out to gondolas, and thus the stone arches won the day.

Interestingly, the first stone bridge wasn’t built until long after the wooden ones had become fixtures of Venetian life. According to the historical text Philipicus, it wasn’t until June 10, 1337, that the first stone bridge was constructed—near San Barnaba square. Yet the oldest surviving bridge in Venice today is not even stone, but a private wooden bridge linking the Rialto Fish Market (Pescaria) to the restaurant Poste Vecie—a rare survivor from another time.

But Venice isn’t just about numbers and dates. It’s also about names—and Venice does not shy away from the colorful or the provocative. Take, for instance, the delightfully blunt Ponte delle Tette—literally, the “Bridge of the Tits.” The name is no metaphor. In the 15th century, Venice faced what it considered a “problem” of too many prostitutes operating freely across the city. The government, ever the pragmatist, relocated many of them to state-owned housing in a specific district, formerly owned by the Rampani family. From the windows facing the canal and bridge, women were allowed—encouraged, even—to display themselves to attract clients.

Hence, the bridge and canal were officially renamed the Ponte e Rio delle Tette. Today, while the trade has mostly moved on, the name stubbornly remains. It’s one of those reminders that behind every ornate column and frescoed ceiling, Venice has always had a wild side.

History, after all, is never just about the noble and the grand. Sometimes, it’s about clever city planning, shifting priorities... and yes, a little skin.

Venice, Italy

And then, of course, there are bridges that wear a veneer of romance, masking the weight of a much darker past—none more famous than the Bridge of Sighs.

To the casual visitor, the Ponte dei Sospiri might appear to be the perfect symbol of Venetian charm. Elegant, iconic, spanning a narrow canal between two ancient buildings, it’s become a popular backdrop for photographs—and even one of the most kissed-over spots in the city, with couples gliding beneath it in gondolas, sealing their love under the white limestone arch.

But its name tells another story entirely.

This small, enclosed footbridge connects the Doge’s Palace to the Prigioni, the city’s notorious prison complex. For the prisoners of the Venetian Republic, this was their final view of the outside world—a fleeting glimpse of the lagoon, the sky, and the rooftops of the city before they were locked away. Some would face harsh sentences, others torture or execution. The “sighs” the bridge refers to were not of lovers—but of men resigned to their fate, breathing in freedom for the last time.

It's this collision of beauty and tragedy, of illusion and truth, that gives Venice so much of its power. Behind the ornate facades and postcard-perfect views, the city holds centuries of stories—many of them painful, many forgotten or reimagined, all layered like peeling paint over old plaster. The Bridge of Sighs is a perfect symbol of that—where the romance is real, but the reality is deeper. *************************************

Basilica Madonna Della Salute The Basilica Madonna Della Salute—commonly known simply as Salute—was undergoing renovations when I visited, but even in its scaffolding, it was impossible to miss. Situated at the tip of Punta della Dogana, where the Grand Canal and Giudecca Canal meet at the Bacino di San Marco, the church stands as a striking focal point when arriving in Piazza San Marco by water.

Salute isn’t just another beautiful church; it holds a sacred place in Venice’s history. It’s part of the group of churches that locals call the “plague churches.” In 1630, Venice was ravaged by an unusually brutal outbreak of the Black Plague, claiming nearly a third of the city's population. In their desperation, the Venetians made a vow: if they were spared from further suffering, they would build a church dedicated to Our Lady of Health. Construction began in 1631, and the church became a symbol of both their suffering and deliverance.

The art and architecture inside Salute bear quiet witness to that dark chapter in history, with many of its artworks carrying references to the Black Death—memorials to those lost, as well as to the city’s resilience in the face of unimaginable grief. Visiting the church today, it’s impossible not to feel the weight of that history, especially in such a city where beauty and tragedy are always intertwined.

Basilica Madonna Della Salute - Basilica Floor

As part of their vow, it was decreed that the Venetian Senate would visit the Basilica Madonna Della Salute every year. On November 21, the Feast of the Presentation of the Virgin—known locally as the Festa della Madonna della Salute—officials from Venice’s government parade from Piazza San Marco to the church in a solemn display of gratitude for their deliverance from the plague. This annual tradition includes crossing the Grand Canal on a specially constructed pontoon bridge, and it remains one of the city’s most cherished events.

Architecturally, the Salute stands apart from many other churches in Venice. Inside, it features an octagonal design, with eight radiating chapels arranged around the central space. This unique layout is both striking and symbolic, evoking a sense of divine symmetry and completeness. It’s a design that captures the spirit of both Venice’s resilience in the face of disaster and its devotion to the Madonna, offering a sacred space that is as beautiful as it is meaningful.

Basilica Madonna Della Salute - Octagonal Interior

Basilica Madonna Della Salute

Basilica Madonna Della Salute

Basilica Madonna Della Salute - Exterior

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Ca' Pesaro - palace ceiling

Ca' Pesaro is a stunning Baroque marble palace, perched right on the Grand Canal and now housing an exceptional art museum. It's one of the 11 museums operated by the Fondazione Musei Civici di Venezia, and if you’re planning to visit, I highly recommend getting the museum pass. It’s not only a great value, but it also saves you the hassle of waiting in long lines (though, thankfully, I didn’t have to wait here).

The real challenge, though, was finding the entrance amidst the labyrinthine streets of Venice. The alleyways twist and turn unexpectedly, and every bridge seems to lead you in a new direction. But don’t worry—take a deep breath, trust the process, and eventually, you’ll find your way. My saving grace, of course, was the GPS on my phone, which guided me through the winding streets and helped me discover this gem.

Ca' Pesaro - interior patio

The Ca' Pesaro building, originally constructed in the mid-17th century, was completed by Gian Antonio Gaspari in 1710. It was designed by the renowned Venetian architect Baldassare Longhena, the same genius behind the Salute Church. The palace was commissioned by the wealthy Pesaro family, and by 1679, the façade facing the Grand Canal had already reached the second floor. However, Longhena passed away just three years later, leaving the building unfinished. Another architect took over the project, adhering to Longhena's original plans, and the palace eventually reached its stunning completion.

The Pesaro family’s art collection was legendary, featuring works by artists such as Titian and other famous Venetian painters of the 17th and 18th centuries. Sadly, by 1830, with the death of the last family member, the collection was dispersed, much of it sold at auction in London.

The palace changed hands over the years, first passing to the Gradenigo family, then to the Armenian Mechitarist Fathers, who used it as a college. Eventually, it was acquired by the Bevilacqua family, and in 1898, Duchess Felicita Bevilacqua La Masa bequeathed it to the city of Venice. In 1902, the city decided to use the palace to house the municipal collection of modern art, which had been started in 1897, coinciding with the second Venice Biennale.

Today, the museum is home to an impressive collection of modern art, with the upper floors dedicated to Asian works. While these are interesting, I found myself drawn more to the lower galleries, where I stumbled upon a piece that really tickled me—Rodin's "The Thinker". It was an unexpected and delightful moment in an already captivating visit.

The Thinker by Rodin

Brillo Boxes by Andy Warhol

Lari Pittman - Untitled

Ahmed Alsoudani - Untitled

Francesco Clemente - Untitled ****************************************

House Chandelier

Costume Detail

Lace Detail from Costume

Puppets in the Collection

Puppets in the Collection

Puppets in the Collection *********************************************************************** Chiesa di

Chiesa di San Alvise

Chiesa di San Alvise - ceiling

Chiesa di San Alvise - interior

Chiesa di San Alvise - interior ************************************************

Chiesa di San Giovanni in Oriorio (also known as San Giamo dall'Orio) is one of those places where the passage of time seems to slip into the very fabric of the building itself. The origin of its name is a mystery, with a few theories floating around. It might be named after a laurel tree that once grew nearby (lauro), or perhaps from a variation of dal Rio, meaning "of the river." Another possibility suggests the name refers to the church once standing on a dried-up swamp (luprio).

Founded in the 9th century, it was rebuilt in 1225 and has undergone several renovations since, including a major restoration in 1532. The roof, as I've heard, dates back to the 14th century—a striking feature that adds to the church's timeless charm. What really stood out for me, though, are two columns inside the church—**brought back from the Fourth Crusade after the conquest of Constantinople. It’s hard to imagine the stories those columns could tell after surviving such a tumultuous history.

Chiesa di San Giamo dall'Orio - ceiling

Chiesa di San Giamo dall'Orio - handmade Lace on the Altar

Chiesa di San Giamo dall'Orio - ceiling

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Chiesa di San Giobbe Chiesa di San Giobbe is one of the five churches built in Venice during the time of the plague in the 15th century, a period marked by both devastation and resilience. It was constructed to honor Job from the Bible, and stands as a symbol of faith and endurance. As one of the first churches built in the Renaissance style, it’s an important example of that era's evolving architectural influence.

From the outside, the church might seem unremarkable, almost like a large box, but once you step inside, you are enchanted by the intricate details that adorn the interior. It’s one of those places where the simplicity of the exterior gives way to a hidden beauty, making the experience all the more rewarding.

Chiesa di San Giobbe - interior side room

Chiesa di San Giobbe - ceiling

The lacework in churches, often overlooked, really does tell a story of craftsmanship and tradition. Each piece represents generations of skill passed down through time, with intricate patterns that not only add beauty to the altars but also carry a sense of history and devotion. It’s incredible how something as delicate as lace can be a lasting testament to a culture’s artistry and faith.

Chiesa di San Giobbe - Lace

Chiesa di San Giobbe - Lace

Chiesa di San Giobbe - Lace

Chiesa di San Giobbe - Lace

********************************* Chiesa di San Polo, dedicated to the Apostle Paul, dates back to the 15th century, though a church has stood on this spot since the 9th century. After visiting so many churches on the island, I’m grateful I took photos of the location—whether it's a church sign, marker, or program—so I can easily track where I’ve been when reviewing my notes. I can totally understand why people sometimes say they get “churched out” after a while. I can only imagine how overwhelming it must be to explore all the churches in Rome!

Chiesa di San Polo

Chiesa di San Polo

Chiesa di San Polo

Chiesa di San Polo

Chiesa di San Polo

Chiesa di San Polo

Chiesa di San Polo

Chiesa di San Polo

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Even before stepping inside Chiesa di San Sebastiano, I knew I would be captivated by the interior. The door hinge, worn by time, seemed to beckon me to enter, and as I did, I felt layers of history unfolding. Built in the 16th century, the church’s walls are adorned with glorious paintings, with a particularly notable work by Titian. As part of the Chorus of Churches, I didn’t have to pay an additional fee to enter, as it was included in my pass—a great bonus.

Situated close to the Giudecca Canal, the church is a hidden gem, much like many others in Venice, where a new surprise awaits around every corner. This church is one of the five built after the Great Plague, which devastated the island, and it was dedicated to St. Sebastian, the patron saint associated with the disease.

Chiesa di San Sebastiano

Chiesa di San Sebastiano - Ceiling

Chiesa di San Sebastiano

Chiesa di San Sebastiano

Chiesa di San Sebastiano

Chiesa di San Sebastiano

Chiesa di San Sebastiano

Chiesa di San Sebastiano

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Chiesa di Santa Maria dei Miracoli - exterior

Chiesa di Santa Maria dei Miracoli, known as the "marble church," is a stunning example of early Venetian Renaissance architecture. As you step inside, fifty-two wooden panels depicting saints and prophets gaze down from the ceiling, each one a testament to the immense time and energy that went into creating this masterpiece. The church underwent a monumental restoration by Restore Venice, which spent seven years carefully restoring it to life and preserving it from collapse due to the salt accumulation in the marble over centuries.

Originally built in the 15th century, the restoration was initially projected to cost 1 million dollars, but the final cost ended up being 4 million dollars—a reflection of the complexity and scale of the project. Hopefully, this special place of worship will stand strong for another 1,000 years, allowing future generations to appreciate its beauty and history.

Chiesa di Santa Maria dei Miracoli - interior

Chiesa di Santa Maria dei Miracoli - pews

Chiesa di Santa Maria dei Miracoli - ceiling

Chiesa di Santa Maria dei Miracoli - marble relief

Chiesa di Santa Maria dei Miracoli - Madonna

Chiesa di Santa Maria dei Miracoli - alter

Chiesa di Santa Maria dei Miracoli - lace **************************************************

Chiesa di Santa Maria del Giglio was built in the 10th century originally. The church was rebuilt after two major fires in 966 and 1105. Still glorious and part of the Chorus Pass, she reigns in full glory.

Chiesa di Santa Maria del Giglio - front of church

Chiesa di Santa Maria del Giglio - front of church

Chiesa di Santa Maria del Giglio - alter

Chiesa di Santa Maria del Giglio - front of church interior

Chiesa di Santa Maria del Giglio - alter niche

Chiesa di Santa Maria del Giglio - front of church ******************************************** Chiesa di Santa Maria del Rosario, more commonly known as Gesuati, is an 18th-century Dominican church perched on an island along the Grand Canal. This classical-style church has a well-lit interior that stands out for its exceptional preservation of its original layout and Rococo decorations over the centuries. The church, along with almost all of its sculptures and paintings, was created within a remarkable thirty-year span: construction began in 1725, it was consecrated in 1743, and the last sculptural decoration was completed by 1755.

To support the weight of its facade, 270 piles were driven into the soil. The imposing Corinthian pilasters hold up a heavy triangular pediment. The main entrance door, crowned with a curved pediment and an inscription above, is flanked by four niches, each housing a statue representing the four cardinal virtues: Prudence, Justice, Fortitude, and Temperance.

On the day I visited, I was fortunate to witness a wedding ceremony—a rare occurrence during the middle of the week. The couple stood with their family, surrounded by a few friends, before the altar, adding an extra layer of charm to the peaceful atmosphere of this remarkable church. They stood in front of the alter as the priest administered the marriage vows. It went very quickly ( less than 1/2 an hour).