Published on 23/01/18 in In travel
The beach of the Lido was bursting with the most beautiful women that would be found in the resorts of the Mediterranean. Shapely and sun-bronze bodies as was imposed by the fashion of that era. Ten years had passed after the Great War and Venice was living its glorious days.
The crème de la crème of Americans, who were now the most loveable customers for the gondoliers and the Venetian antiquarians, enjoyed their summer baths, here, on the golden sandy beach of the Hôtel Excelsior, imitating the Europeans of the Belle Époque who spent their time in the neighbouring Hôtel des Bains.
Years ago though, the Lido exercised its unique charm, even when the hotels were not built yet.
It was when Goethe was walking on the deserted beach picking shells, while his gaze, ecstatic, was lost in the blue horizon. They say that it was the first time he saw the sea. It was when Byron, after leaving the noisy Mocenigo palace, built at the turn of the Grand Canal, galloped with his white horse from one edge to the other on the dunes of fine golden sand. His frenetic gallop lasted for hours. Sometimes he was accompanied by his friend, Shelley.
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