Ah… Venice, La Serenissima, Queen of the Sea. Upon arrival in the city, the celebrated American humorist Robert Benchley, is reported to have wired home: “Streets full of water. Please advise.”
They say one should only approach Venice from the sea. Arriving at the airport, our small party discovered we didn’t have a choice. A fleet of water-taxis vied for our custom. At this point I ought to mention that I don’t ‘do’ water. It took two handsome young Italian men to wrestle me aboard. Water-taxis are basically speedboats and we’d chosen the Jeremy Clarkson of drivers, who set off at an alarming pace across the choppy lagoon on a tooth-jarring, stomach-churning journey that cost us 120 euros. And that was only the start.
To say Venice is beautiful is an understatement. It’s the quality of the light that strikes one – everything in high definition, every vista on a Canaletto painting made real. Domes and towers, great palazzi, grand houses; marble and stucco and weathered brick, terracotta and ochre and white; faded grandeur with its feet in a maze of canals – and everywhere the slap and gloop of jade-green water and the sound of bells. Our hotel overlooked the Grand Canal, two bridges up from the Rialto and from its roof-terrace one could watch the ebb and flow of traffic which appeared to observe no discernible rules. All sizes and classes of engine or man-powered craft (including the bin boat and the Amazon delivery boat) zigzag perilously across the channel, missing each other by inches. The noisy ‘vaporetti’ (water buses) churn up and down, always dangerously overcrowded. Italians are strangers to the principle of the queue. When one comes to a shuddering halt, there’s a concerted rush aboard from the floating pontoon to the bobbing craft, to stand crammed together with nothing to hold on to. As for the famous funereal black and faintly sinister looking gondolas, eggshell frail and low in the water, you couldn’t have persuaded me into one for any money, let alone the 80 euros they charge for a 30 minute trip.
Health and safety? The Venetians have never heard of it. For a city built on water there are few railings, no bollards, chains or barriers. Nor do they deface their tourist attractions with warning signs, but presume people have enough savvy to look where they’re going. Much is accessible on foot, in stout shoes with a good map, but it’s easy to get lost in the many tempting little alleyways which open out suddenly into a sunlit piazza where one can stop for a sit-down and a coffee.
It’s dangerous and expensive to sit down in Venice. This we discovered on our first day when we were caught in a torrential downpour in St Mark’s Square and made the mistake of taking refuge in one of its many arcade cafés. One coffee, one tea, one medium beer, beautifully presented – 30 euros. Menus are near identical, prices varying depending where you eat. There’s a 16½ per cent service charge and everybody expects a tip.
Though technically off-season, the city was thronged with tourists – obedient crocodiles of orientals, some with umbrellas up against the sun, others wearing medical masks in case they caught something; plump Germans in terrible shorts and loud Americans off cruise ships ‘doing Venice’ in a single day. “You’re here for a WEEK?!” they cried disbelievingly. “Whadda you guys gonna do for a WEEK?”
Well – visit famous landmarks, riotously decorated churches, breathtakingly beautiful palaces, world-class galleries, museums and exhibitions. We ‘did Venice’ properly and it was sublime.
What was the most exciting discovery we made? After buying bananas from a street-vendor at roughly a pound a piece, we found (of all things) a SPAR supermarket. Never was such a welcome sight!
And what did I enjoy most about Venice? They don’t use an optic when serving spirits. They just up-end the bottle over a glass and deliver you half a tumbler-full of gin.
Now I’m home and poverty-stricken. As the old adage puts it: “Them as goes to the big city deserves all they gets.”
