Gazing across from St. Mark’s square to the Isola di Saint Georgio, through a line of bobbing gondolas bedded down in their royal blue coverlets, the distant island seems to float on the very air like some ancient Xanadu from the demented mind of a drug addled poet, and you can hear the damp winter air of Venice come alive with ancient whispers and sweet rasping violins. In Venice, one gives in easily to seduction, without the faintest whiff of struggle…