Nobody knows when Venice was first christened “The End of the World”. But the name stuck.
The town, or what remains of it, squats at the tip of a marshy tendril at the bottom of Louisiana, which is itself at the bottom of almost every state ranking, from crime to the economy. Drive any further and the asphalt gives way to a swamp thick with snakes and gators. Survive that, and you’ll drift into the Gulf of Mexico. This is the end of the line for America. After Venice, it runs out of road.
In spirit at least, the town has seceded from the rest of the country. Once a fortnight, its 250 or so residents might drive the 90 minutes north to New Orleans to stock up at the supermarket — but they don’t stay long. When I visit their outpost, a dead alligator greets me from the side of the road. A few yards on, a billboard advertises “Cajun Hookers”. At least the end of the world will start with a bang.
Venice isn’t really used to passing travellers. A few shops and bars serve the occasional tourist or oilman waiting for a helicopter to his rig. A handful of “escorts” work out of the town’s trailer parks, advertising in English and, for reasons unknown, Bulgarian. Unlike her namesakes in Italy and California, this Venice has no pretensions to glamour.
Become a free member to read this article.