The Bridge of Fists
It was a hot and humid day, the type where the clammy air sticks to you and weighs at your temples. I strolled through an alley barely wider than my shoulders, blinked as I entered the Venetian sunlight and turned right. I was looking for the Bridge of Fists, so I headed north-west from the charming apartment I had found on the southern end of Dorsoduro.