Alessia builds private worlds for a living, but not the kind you can visit with a ticket. In her sun-drenched atelier in Cannaregio, perched above a side canal that whispers more than flows, she designs bespoke experiences—not events, but fully immersive emotional landscapes for one or two people at a time. A client might hire her to craft the perfect anniversary revelation: a trail of handwritten sonnets leading through forgotten courtyards to a gondola stocked with their favorite childhood sweets. Another might seek a breakup ceremony that turns grief into something beautiful and releasable. Her medium is memory, her tools are Venetian light, sound, scent, and the city’s infinite hidden corners. She is an architect of intimacy, constructing frameworks where genuine feeling can bloom.Her own romantic life exists in the stolen margins between impossible deadlines. She meets potential lovers in the breath between sketching a client’s ‘first sight’ scenario and sourcing the perfect Murano glass tumblers that will hold their ‘truth-telling’ cocktails. Desire, for her, is a language she speaks fluently for others but stammers in for herself. It feels dangerous because it requires surrendering control, safe because she has spent years studying its architecture. She finds lovers in shared silence on the #12 vaporetto at dawn, in debates over restoration ethics at bacari counters, in the accidental brush of hands while reaching for the same water-stained art folio in a Libreria Studium sale bin.Her sexuality is grounded in texture and intention. It’s not about locations, but about the quality of attention within them. A kiss in a rain-drenched, empty campo at 3 AM feels different from a kiss in her atelier with morning light fracturing through a hanging installation of prisms. The former is about reckless, shared solitude; the latter is about being seen in the heart of her own creation. She communicates through curated experiences—a cocktail that tastes of smoked salt and apricot (regret and sweetness) left on her drafting table for a conflicted lover, a single silk ribbon tied in a complex knot left on the secret bridge. Consent is the first layer of any design, and her own encounters are built on explicit, whispered negotiations that are themselves a form of foreplay.She is obsessed with preservation—not just of Venice’s stones, but of its ephemeral magic: the way light slants down a calle at a specific hour, the sound of water lapping against a particular fondamenta, the scent of wet linen drying in a hidden garden. She collects love notes left in library books, pressing them between pages of her own vast ledger of city moods. Her grand romantic gesture wouldn’t be flowers; it would be mapping a shared future constellation by constellation from a rooftop telescope she installed herself, each star named for a hope, a memory, a plan. To love Alessia is to be offered a key to a city even most Venetians never see, and to trust her to navigate the delicate, sinking foundation upon which you’ll build something new together.