Everyone knows the postcard version: gondolas bobbing on turquoise canals, marble palaces rising like a dream from the water. But Venice has always worn two faces—the liquid magic of San Marco and Dorsoduro on one side, and the grounded, breathing Venice of Mestre and Marghera on the other.

In the historic center, time moves differently. Alleyways curve like question marks, leading you past cafés where espresso costs €3 and comes with a free side of lagoon breeze. Gigia navigates these streets with the confidence of a cat who knows she would have been worshipped here in the 18th century—perhaps as a muse in some gold-leafed palazzo, or better yet, as the official mouser of the Doge’s kitchens.

But cross the water, and Venice exhales. In Mestre, Parco San Giuliano offers what the islands cannot: space. Acres of grass where Gigia could stage her own personal Palio (leash-free, because here, the only motorcycles are distant rumors). Dogs vanish into the horizon like mirages, and the biggest threat is an overenthusiastic picnic blanket.

This is the Venice where real life happens:
• Forte Marghera’s abandoned barracks now host art exhibits between crumbling brick arches—Gigia approves of this recycling effort (though she’d turn the moat into a giant litter box).
• The Feline Rescue Centre in the fortress, where local cats hold court like furry ambassadors.
• Piazza Ferretto’s spritz-sipping crowds, where an Aperol costs less than a gelato on the Rialto.

Gigia’s verdict? The islands are for postcards. But Mestre—Mestre is where you’ll find Venice’s pulse, beating under a layer of dust and diesel fumes. And really, isn’t a city always more interesting when it lets its hair down?