Most people think the hardest part of photography is the shot. It isn’t.
It’s dragging yourself out of a warm van into wet air that smells like diesel and regret—half awake and already questioning what kind of idiot signs up for this. That’s the line between hobby and obsession, and I tripped over it years ago.
We left Garmisch in the van, somehow surviving Italy’s maze of tolls and turns, and landed at a campground outside Venice. On paper, the plan was flawless: ferry across, nail the shots, head home like pros. We even had a long week in a nice hotel and an even longer shot list. Totally doable.
It started out fine. Award-winning image after award-winning image in the bag. Finally, Venice was giving me what I wanted. Then it rained. For two straight days.
By the time the clouds gave up, the hotel was booked solid, and I was running on caffeine and zombie-power. Unwilling to go home empty-handed, we caught the last ferry back to the campground for a nap. I set alarms for stupid-o’clock. Three a.m. hit like a tax audit. We drove across the causeway—because ferries don’t run that early—and paid bus-lot prices that should’ve included biscotti and therapy.
Cole sat on my camera bag like a tiny Venetian doge, unimpressed. He gave me that look that says, You did this to yourself.
I told him we were chasing light.
He sighed, curled up, and went back to sleep. Smart dog. Total traitor.
The night water bus was nearly empty—just us, a few bleary faces, and the kind of silence that buzzes in your ears. Venice at that hour smells like sea air, wet brick, and ambition you can taste. It doesn’t sleep; it resets.
We got off near San Marco and trudged toward Accademia Bridge, my gear clanking like a one-woman marching band. I was sure we were late—we’re always late. My pulse was sprinting ahead, convinced I’d miss it again: the shot that had beaten me twice already.
Except we were first.
No crowd. No chatter. Just the slap of water against stone, ropes creaking, gondolas nudging each other awake. The air was heavy with salt and rain, that metallic tang of a city still bare-faced before it puts on perfume. Somewhere, a shutter clacked—an echo, or maybe a dare.
Venice stood balanced on centuries of stubborn engineering, still floating when physics says it shouldn’t. You can feel it—the hum of water under stone, the quiet defiance of people who refused to let it sink.
That’s where I set up. Cole beside me, silent judgment intact.
I’d failed this shot twice—wrong light, wrong sky, wrong hour. But not this time.
You know that feeling—you’ve burned the recipe twice, sworn you’re done cooking, then found yourself back in the kitchen because failure leaves a worse taste. That’s this.
When the sky started to shift, it wasn’t dramatic. No cinematic glow. Just a breath—the thin edge of blue sliding behind the black. The kind of moment that feels like peeking into your mom’s memory box and finding out she smoked weed and rode Harleys. Everything you thought you knew tilts. The veil’s still there, but the truth’s already showing through. Suddenly, all the quirks make sense.
That’s the script flip.
The universe rewrote my plan—just enough to make it better.
Most people will see the final image and think it came easy.
You and I know better.
If this hit you somewhere between nostalgia and caffeine withdrawal, stick around. There’s more coming—equal parts chaos, light, and coffee-fueled stubbornness.