When I was little, the thing that impressed me most about Murano wasn’t the shop windows. It was the sound of the furnaces.

My uncle had a friend who worked as a glassmaker near Fondamenta dei Vetrai, and sometimes he would take us to visit him. As soon as the furnace door opened, you could immediately feel the heat, hear the sound of metal resting on the workbench, the tools, the glass slowly turning while taking shape.

Murano has always had a different atmosphere from the center of Venice. More practical, more connected to work. Early in the morning, the bars filled with glassmakers, the vaporetto schedules almost felt like factory shifts, and many families had lived around the furnaces for generations.

My grandmother used to say she could recognize glassmakers just by looking at their hands. Worn, incredibly fast, precise even in the smallest gestures. As a child it sounded strange to me, but growing up I started to understand exactly what she meant.

What I still love today is how Murano completely changes in the evening. When the groups leave, only the quiet canals remain, a few residents sitting outside their homes, and the reflections of the lights on the water. That’s when the island starts to feel like the Murano I remember from childhood.

If you really want to experience it, leave the main streets behind and listen to the island. It’s the best way to remember Murano: not only for the glass displayed in the shop windows, but for that atmosphere made of fire, water, skilled hands, and small everyday sounds that still belong to the life of the island.