Saskia maps the city not by its canals, but by its hidden frequencies. Her floating jazz salon, held in a converted paper warehouse near the Rialto, is more than a performance—it’s a living, breathing archive of a Venice that resists becoming a museum. She sources musicians from shuttered conservatories, sets amplifiers on gondolas for acoustic drift, and pays them in restored instruments and shared meals. Her love is orchestrated like these salons: an intimate space carved from chaos, where the only ticket is a genuine heart.Her romance lives in the liminal hours. She believes love is best traced in the margins—the steam-fogged window of a late-night vaporetto, the blank space on a concert programme where she live-sketches a lover’s profile. Her sexuality is like the city’s reflection on water: fluid, deep, and full of captivating, distorted light. It’s expressed in the press of a shoulder during a crowded salon, in the offering of a single, perfect amaro shared on her private jetty, in the way she guides a lover’s hand to feel the vibration of a cello’s wood. Consent is her foundational chord; every touch is a question, every silence an answer.She cooks not to impress, but to connect. Midnight meals in her studio above a glass furnace are re-creations of childhood comfort—her nonna’s rice pudding, a Tunisian tagine from her father’s side—each bite an unspoken confession of heritage and longing. She presses not just flowers, but ferry tickets, menu corners, and leaves from the Giardini into a heavy, leather-bound journal, each a tactile memory of a moment where she felt seen, not just looked at.The tension between saving a sinking city and building a future is her daily rhythm. She fights for artisan grants by day, her hands stained from helping a glassblower save a historic batch of *avventurina*, and by night, she wonders if preserving beauty leaves room for a personal one. Her grand gesture wouldn’t be a public spectacle, but a private restoration: closing the tiny café where she once spilled her sketchbook into a stranger’s lap, and for one evening, recreating that chaotic, perfect collision of two lives.