Our first trip to Venice was momentous in more than the usual “what a fabulous trip” sense. It was Christmas Day, 2004. Remember, we had spent Christmas Eve with the Florentines, of Florence and surrounding Tuscany. (By all means, don’t miss the “Christmas Eve in Tuscany” blog.)
So after the fabulously unconventional experience of a Florentine Christmas Eve, we headed off intrepid-traveler-style around 10 AM for Venice, a four hour drive through the hilly sun-soaked Tuscan countryside, imbued with vineyards and grand, sprawling Tuscan-style tile-roofed plantation homes. That exquisite drive to Venice on that exquisite Christmas Day was a memory worthy of “grey matter etching” to say the least. Little did we know what was in store for us on this our first trip to Venice, Christmas Day, 2004, a day that would go down in travel infamy.
Approaching Venice, the terrain changed dramatically as we crossed non-stop bridges, in much the fashion of the area near New Orleans and Lake Pontchartrain. Our excitement was palpable as we approached the parking garage at Venice’s Marco Polo International airport. This would be our very first time to traverse these canals of this great city. Again, remember it is Christmas Day. Perhaps other travelers should have expected things not to be a “normal business operations day” (if there is such a thing in Venice). Bob and I talked excitedly as we drove past the airport and train station and headed into the covered parking garage. We eagerly anticipated our very first sight of the Grand Canal.
Suddenly in the parking garage appeared three men wearing standard-issue orange reflective vests (looking much like official parking garage attendants/security). They made dramatic motions with their arms, firmly and deliberately directing us towards a parking space. One escorted us (literally) to a parking spot and without so much as waiting for us to stop the engine went immediately to the trunk banging on the car yelling, “Hurry, boat.” He signaled he wanted Bob to open the trunk so he could get to our luggage.
Being what could only be labeled as “Venetian novices” at that point, we acquiesced. Bob quickly and meekly opened the trunk. One of the men in the orange reflective vests motioned a hurried gesture as he grabbed bags and waved his arms pointing and yelling perhaps the only two English words he knew, “Hurry, boat!!” The other would-be kidnapper chimed the words as well. Our well laid plans had been carefully mapped, including peacefully riding the water taxi down the Grand Canal to our Bed and Breakfast located near the “Academy Bridge” landmark. It was a grand plan, all mapped out and solidified in our minds.
Again our would-be kidnapper continued his frantic mantra, “Hurry, boat!” He made dramatically bold gestures indicating we should quickly follow him. The dizzying pace gave us no time for discernment. Our gait morphed to a run as we headed for the boat. OK. The water taxi was nothing similar to what we had seen in photos nor was it as we had envisioned. We had studied vaporetto fares and schedules, and this was not what we expected of the infamous Venice water taxis. We had no time to think. Perhaps these were the new high speed versions, a stretch for the Italian government transportation systems but none the less we complied. Our bags carelessly thrown into the high speed boat, we followed like lambs to the slaughter. Before securely seated, the boat lurched from the dock and went warp speed away from the parking garage dock.
No-one spoke (except for the two “mates” manning the boat in hushed Italian.) They did not even acknowledge us. Suddenly in the middle of what we assumed was the lagoon (far from land), the boat stopped. Our two pirates demanded payment (which we realized from “Water Taxies for Dummies” was five times the normal fare. Bob humorlessly paid the pirates in Euros (the currency they demanded in broken English.) Then in equally broken English the other abductor asked “What bridge?” Bob, thinking on his feet (well albeit “sea-legs”) enunciated in carefully articulated syllables “A-cad-e-mie”. They took our money, nodded and the boat lurched again to warp speed.
Ah, we both exhaled a simultaneous sigh of relief, assuming our new heading was for the Grand Canal so we thought. Soon our tandem sigh of relief morphed into groans of riveting fear. We passed up the large Grand Canal portal, still traveling at warp velocity away from everything familiarly Venice back into the other side of the lagoon.
Surrealism gripped us as our speed seemed to grind into slow motion. Was the boat slowing? The wind still stung as though the air blowing past our faces clocked us still at high velocity. The air settled thick and rarefied in our lungs. Fear is a funny thing.
Suddenly it dawned apparent that the boat was indeed slowing, but why? There was nothing here. We were again in the middle of the lagoon. To add to our trepidation, dark clouds had rolled in, giving the “back-side” of Venice a particularly dismal and sinister look.
The “mates” scanned the distant dock carefully to make sure there was no one in sight. The dilapidated old dock a quarter of a kilometer to our port side rose out of the water with crumbling, creaky shards of decaying wood. As if an afterthought, the “captain” of our little “ship” hung an unexpected left and headed leeward in one fell swoop heading for the disheveled moldering dock.
The next thing we knew we were being handily disembarked, bags thrown with us onto the decaying dock. No time for niceties, the boat sped away. Bob and I looked at each other in disbelief and terror. Where were we? This was 2004 mind you and yes, we should have been in possession of a GPS, but that would be our very next purchase for our very next trip. So here we were, in Venice, without a clue where we were.
If you have any knowledge of Venice, you know it is easy to get lost there on a good day. Yes, we were decidedly lost. Suddenly, as if Jupiter and Zeus and Thor got together to have a good laugh on us, thunder and lightning struck the nearby island to our south. The clouds began to dump their torrents.
We made it to the cobblestone part of the dock and stood under an overhang for protection. Bob had that all familiar look of frustration and calculation, “This way,” he grumbled. I being the dutiful wife complied.
FYI, if you are planning a Venetian holiday, take this on good authority: Rolling luggage is not a good option. Every fifty feet there is an elevated bridge, small bridges, short bridges, long bridges, tall bridges, wide bridges, narrow bridges. You get the picture. Oh and no Virginia, there are no ramps!
But alas, my fearless wanderer of a husband led and led and led and I followed. We huffed and puffed up and down what seemed a million steps, luggage in tow. Suddenly as if Heaven opened up and poured out a total blessing, there it was. Angels sang a glorious chorus as we stood in disbelief. It was the Academie Bridge overlooking the Grand Canal. Down the street we saw our B&B. Suddenly everything Venetian displayed its beauty, truly exotic, musical and magical, just what we expected. We had arrived and oh what a story to tell.
