I bought this book to read because I'm hoping to go to Venice later this year. At the end of it I (a) wondered if I really wanted to go at all, and (b) actively disliked the author. It's full of turgid prose, a great many excrutiating details (included, I suspect, to pad out the length of the book) and some very dull descriptions of one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Her treatment of Venice is only slightly less objectionable than her treatment of the people she met there. The book is full of complaints about named individuals who, no matter how awful they actually were, cannot possibly have deserved this treatment. Was it written for revenge? If so, the only person she belittles is herself. I kept reading in the hope it would get better but in vain. It's a brilliant example of how not to write a travel book.