In January 1999, with our luggage in tow, we walked through the gleaming, light-filled Santa Lucia station toward the exit. As we strode forward, there was nothing to indicate what awaited us; then, we opened the glass doors, and Venice was literally at our feet. I looked down the wide stone steps to see Venice in all of its glory.

Before us, the crystal-clear morning sunlight lit the Grand Canal in such a way that it seemed as if everything was etched in my mind. The facades of the centuries-old buildings across the canal were decorated with all types of unfamiliar designs and details to which I would later grow accustomed. But, at this moment, it was as if I was dreaming.

The Grand Canal was full of water taxis and vaporettos with passengers. There were barges laden with goods from all over the world and, together with gondolas and smaller crafts, they combined to form a chaotic scene that I’ll never forget. The architecture and its reflections, the water, the incredibly busy traffic and the sounds coming from the various boats and workers shouting all formed a tableau that I couldn’t have possibly captured in one photograph.

Luckily, we boarded the correct vaporetto, which headed toward Piazza San Marco; the journey was just astonishing for me. I hadn’t been to Venice for 20 years or so and had forgotten its charm, allure, beauty and mystery.

Every moment brought a new, fascinating form, a reflection or a distinctive composition to my eyes. The whole experience was so overwhelming that Cindy and I communicated by smiling, pointing and exclaiming.

The vaporetto trip was over too soon; we disembarked at Piazza San Marco with our luggage in tow. As we walked through the Piazza, I felt as if we were walking through history. I had finally returned to Venice after all of these years.

We had one large bridge that crossed a small canal on the Riva degli Schiavoni to conquer. We trundled and hauled the bags up one side, and when we got to the top, we were rewarded with a view of the iconic Bridge of Sighs. We looked at the view of the bridge on one side and to our right we saw the large ships docked along the Riva degli Schiavoni and all of the water traffic that was to become so familiar to us as time went by in Venice.

Descending the stone steps was much easier; soon we were walking down the Riva degli Schiavoni to the narrow street where we would turn left — on Calle de la Pietà to find the Hotel Bisanzio. The trip had begun at the Gare de l’Est in Paris and ended at this unique, small hotel on a quiet street where Antonio Vivaldi used to teach, compose and play his timeless music at Chiesa di Santa Maria della Pieta.

That visually rich vaporetto ride would begin my new Venetian winter experiences, which would come to encompass many days during three winter visits to La Serenissima, this serene, enchanting city.

More than anything, it’s the light in Venice that attracts me as a photographer. The light in Venice is as important to me as the architecture, variety of boats, water and figures in motion.

The light, in combination with the moisture in the air, gives each object it touches a luminous, often shimmering quality. During the winter fog, the light subtly casts itself upon objects and figures, lending an air of mystery to Venice.

In my experience, no other city in the world combines light and water in the same unique way as Venice.

Water is always a presence in Venice, constantly moving and changing its appearance with the tide, the wind and especially the light.

The light plays upon the water, continually changing forms, colors and patterns on its surface. The color of the water is fleeting and in constant motion. It takes on the blues, whites and grays of the sky and the clouds and buildings nearby. These hues and patterns continually change with each passing vaporetto, gondola or cloud.

Venice in the winter can be gray, bitterly cold, damp and often foggy — with the wind blowing from the sea. It can be utterly miserable! And yet, it’s my favorite time to be in Venice. At times, in January or February, Venice seems almost deserted and is usually quiet; the fog muffles much of what sound there is.

I often found my way to Piazza San Marco early on a winter morning, preferably in the rain or fog, where I sometimes find solitary figures to capture on film as they hurry to work or school.

Gondolas are certainly the iconic motifs of Venice. The Piazzetta San Marco during the winter is a favorite location for me to find a wealth of gondolas all lined up — often with colorful protective coverings, which add a splash of color to the lacquered black gondolas.

Even though it’s cold and damp in Venice then, I enjoy the quiet, often empty streets and quays and the opportunity to photograph the city in its moody light and romantic atmosphere.

In searching for compositions, I frequently walk over to have a look at the Rialto Bridge, completed in 1591, one of the most recognizable bridges in the world, especially if it’s a foggy winter morning.

Don’t let this description of Venice in the winter discourage you from a winter visit; just bring an extra coat, scarf, hat and warm boots. You can have many successful photographs and wonderful Venetian experiences in a quieter and slower-paced Venice.

The light is just as exceptional on clear winter days as it is in the fog or mist.

After all, it’s Venice.