I’m just back from Italy, where I witnessed firsthand (up to my waist) the floods in Venice. We arrived on Tuesday and the water was already high, but the streets that afternoon were dry. The consensus was that we could make it until the tide went up around ten that night. 

Things seemed normal, there was even a certain sense of anticipation. I was there with writers and media types for an event arranged by the designer Stefano Ricci. It was a dinner beneath the Tintoretto paintings in the Scuola Grande di San Rocco, one of the world’s great settings. We arrived upstairs at the Scuola and the room was dark, the only light came from hundreds of candles set along a long table. We all took our seats and then from every corner of the room voices sang choral music and the lights rose illuminating the wonderful paintings on the ceiling. It was striking and dramatic, a truly extraordinary moment. 

Toward the end of the meal our host stood up and told us that the water was rising and it was time to bring the evening to a close. We had ten minutes to make our way to waiting water taxis. A very stylish crowd pulled their rubber boots on and we were shepherded into the rain. Stefano Ricci himself looked very regal as he smoked a cigarette before the trek to the boat. 

The water was already rising, it was calf-deep. We walked to one of the larger boat docks (the smaller ones were already submerged) and eight of us boarded a taxi. It took forty minutes to go a relatively short distance to the hotel. But the hotel’s landing was also breached. The swells kept the boat lurching from side to side. This was a serious tide. 

We continued past another flooded landing, and there was talk about whether we could dock at all. Finally a ferry landing was high and sturdy enough. But the taxi driver needed to maneuver the boat so the tide wouldn’t drive us right into dock itself. Two men were on the landing helping boats and the driver tossed them a rope, cut the engine and they pulled us the last few feet to the dock.

It was good to be on land. We were on Calle Vallaresso, the narrow street that ends at the water with Harry’s Bar. It was just after 10.30pm. This area, near St. Mark’s Square, is one of the lowest points in Venice. It quickly became clear just how serious things were. Buildings in Venice have a two-foot metal flood protector that they pull up over their door, like a little drawbridge. That’s usually high enough to keep normal flooding out. Not this time. 

The staff at Harry’s was trying to pump water from their basement and get furniture off the ground floor. We walked past storefronts that were already flooding, handbags floating in the water. Small stores, presumably with their owners living above them or nearby, were already trying to salvage what they could of their inventories. By now the water was up to our thighs. The metal walkways that typically offer higher ground were floating. Those who didn’t realize that and tried to step on them nearly capsized.

In the moment I have to admit there was something oddly exciting about being in the middle of this, it felt memorable and dramatic. I finally made it back to the Gritti Hotel. The lobby was dim, bare of furniture but full of people. A crowd of staff and guests stood and talked in the darkened rooms. The power on the ground floor was out. The furniture was cleared away, paintings removed from the walls. There were towels on the floor and buckets of mops, the water had come in but not too much. The elevators were out and I walked up to my room. 

Whatever streak of excitement had run through the evening evaporated the next morning. Below our hotel window were immense flower plantings that would take two people to lift, tipped over in the high water. Trash floated down the streets. Water was everywhere, with no clear division between the canals and the walkways. It was, as we now know, the highest water level since the devastating floods of 1966. Any surreal images of water in luxury stores gave way to the reality of countless residents and business owners clearing their way out of a true disaster. This was no adventure to them, they weren’t taking any photos. 

Venice exists in the public’s imagination, in paintings, novels and films. People are transfixed by it and dream about it. There can be an uneasy alliance between residents and those of us who visit, which is true anywhere there’s intense tourism. Too often, we enjoy the beauty and expect the city to function. Venice is like a stage and, in this version, we’re the stars. But for any city to thrive there has to be a balance between the needs of the residents, what’s sustainable and the economy itself. People are moving out of Venice and what happens when the population dwindles? There’s a good story in The Times about the problems the city faces.

The next day, remarkably, Harry’s was open. It seemed like a good time to have a martini. The staff was surprisingly stoic, they managed to make it to work and stride around in white jackets with ease. We were clearly more rattled than they were. The following day the fish market was open. There were spider crabs and mantis shrimp, branzino and inky squid. Radicchio was in season and crates of it propped beside deep purple artichokes and walnuts. Pairs of old ladies greeted shopkeepers and went about their business. It was great to see. It was a welcome reminder that the city goes on just fine without us and that, in the end, we need Venice more than Venice needs us.   

Photo: Getty Images.