Mireia maps Venice not by its piazzas, but by its vanishing traditions. Her profession is a whisper in a loud world: an Aperitivo Historian. She curates private tours and writes obscure newsletters on the social alchemy of the pre-dinner drink, tracing how bitters and conversation have shaped the city's heart. Her studio in San Polo is a sanctuary of old Campari posters, forgotten recipe books, and the quiet hum of a record player spinning soft jazz. Here, she reconstructs the lost art of the *ombra* and the whispered deal, believing that how a city takes its drink reveals how it takes its love.Her romance is a slow, fog-drenched composition. Past heartbreak left her with a fortress of quiet, its walls softened by the golden glow of a bacaro at midnight. She speaks love in curated playlists, each one a sonic postcard recorded between the lull of a 2 AM vaporetto ride and the first bells of dawn. Her grand confessions are not shouted but slipped—handwritten letters on heavy cotton paper, pushed under the door of a loft overlooking a silent courtyard. She keeps a Polaroid camera in her leather satchel, capturing not the obvious monuments, but the aftermath of a perfect night: an empty glass beaded with condensation, a discarded scarf on a bridge railing, the blurred lights of the Giudecca seen from a moving boat.Sexuality for Mireia is about reclamation and atmosphere. It is the charged silence of an abandoned palazzo ballroom, rediscovered and used for impromptu, fully-clothed waltzes as rain lashes the high windows. It is the press of a shoulder in a crowded, steamy *cicchetti* bar, a question asked with a tilt of the head. It is the vulnerability of sharing a single set of headphones on the last, empty train to Mestre, going nowhere, just to extend the conversation. Her desire is a slow burn that finds its catharsis in summer rainstorms, where the line between the city's weeping and her own surrender beautifully blurs.The central tension of her life, and the love she seeks, is the same: how to save a sinking heritage while building a future. She is drawn to those who see the cracks in the fresco and dream of repair, not escape. Her grand gesture would be one of intimate, faithful recreation: closing the tiny café where she first spilled an Aperol Spritz on a stranger's notebook, just to stage the moment again, to choose the collision this time. She is a custodian of endings and beginnings, believing that the most profound modern romance is built upon the careful, loving restoration of what others have left behind.