Caorle, Italy: Of Hungry Cats, Boats That Wait, and Fishing for Silence
Parked beside fishing boats and a feline mural, I fried sardines, followed quiet waters, and listened to a town that doesn’t advertise its presence.
Caorle came without fanfare.
I didn’t plan to stop, I just did—drawn by the kind of harbor where even the wind keeps its voice low.
The motorhome found a place along the canal. No check-in, no reception, just the sense that arriving wasn’t something that had to be declared. Everything here felt unhurried. Functional, but not indifferent.
There was a bike left beside one of the boats. It hadn’t been moved in a while. I didn’t ask questions. Places like this answer slowly, if at all.
The first surprise was the cat.
City Fish Market Caorle
Massive, silent, immortalized in paint above a café. It didn’t demand attention—it gave direction. The fish in its mouth was less food than symbol. A declaration: if you’ve made it here, you’d better know how to eat.
I did.
Later, I walked. There was nothing spectacular and no need for it. You could hear the quiet of things that still had a job to do. Ropes, engines, nets. The working rhythm of a town that isn’t trying to be quaint.
I cooked in the RV that night. Sardines. Garlic. Bread torn by hand. The kind of meal that tastes like you’re part of something—earned, not bought. I ate slowly, half-listening to water against wood, and thought about how certain places don’t want to be written about. They just want you to get it right.
Caorle didn’t welcome me.
It simply made room.
