The imposing church of Santa Maria della Salute marks the entrance to the Grand Canal. It was built in 1687. [Photo by Mark Graham/China Daily]

Compare a Canaletto canvas painted during the mid-18th century with the view of today and there will only be a few changed elements; examine centuries-old paintings, created during the Renaissance era and before, and the major churches and landmarks will be recognizably the same, the view unblemished by contemporary architectural experiments.

And all these marvelous city highlights are within easy strolling distance. Nowhere is far away in Venice, a place that can be traversed entirely by foot in an hour or so, always assuming the walker does not become hopelessly lost in the lookalike alleys and streets that snake around and over the subsidiary canals.

But surprise discoveries invariably come from aimless ambling, relying on street-sign pointers for general directions: Almost every pedestrian junction has an arrow pointing toward St. Mark's Square, at the bottom of the city proper, or Rialto Bridge, near the top.

Both landmarks live up to the advance billing. St. Mark's Square in particular, backing onto the Basilica and Doge's Palace, justifies the praise conquering emperor Napoleon heaped on it, deeming it the best drawing room in the whole of Europe.

Over the centuries, other famous people have agreed with the diminutive French general's view. Novelist Charles Dickens came to Venice to take the air and admire the views; poet Robert Browning spent long months pottering around; the artist Canaletto went in the other direction, to London, where some of his 18th-century Venetian works hang in the National Gallery.

Louche barflies such as the sparse-style American writer Ernest Hemingway ventured to Venice to drink a lot and carouse. Favored hangouts were the genteel coffee shops of the square, where bands still strike up jaunty classical tunes every afternoon, and the waterside Harry's Bar, famed for its bellini cocktails, steep prices and close-together tables.

Such is the worldwide fame and magnetic lure of St. Mark's Square that even on a gray autumn day the square is full. The bold chatter from tourists is drowned out hourly by earshattering peals from cast-iron bells far above.

The square's bell-tower fell to pieces at one point, crumbling into a sad heap after long centuries of service. It was carefully rebuilt and—to the outrage of the purists—a lift installed, saving the infirm, disabled or merely lazy a tough pant to the top.