Congestion on the Grand Canal has prompted Venice to introduce restrictions on water taxis, particularly of the pirate variety
IT IS a typical morning on the Canale Grande: gridlock. Lumbering vaporettos wallow, line astern, waiting to pull into their next stop. Water taxis rock in their wake, their well-heeled customers seething and looking at their watches (the Mafia does not take kindly to being held up — forget all that stuff about revenge being a dish best served cold). There is a great deal of shouting going on.
A couple of tourists, desperate to savour every moment of La Serenissima and willing to pay any price short of walking (for they are, indeed, American tourists) hail a gondola. Its operator is, peculiarly, dressed as a pirate, with a patch over one eye and a scarf on his head rather than a straw hat. He speaks, too, with a pronounced London accent — but then, is not Venice the city of romance, if not downright fantasy? “Right. All in and comfy, then?” he says, as the couple settle against the red satin cushions. “Then we’ll be off.”
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The gondolier, with an expert flourish of his oar, propels his vessel into the bank. “Whoops,” he says. “Just can’t get the hang of this ‘push one way, turn the other’ thing.”
The couple, alarmed by the proximity of a vaporetto bent on their destruction, cling to each other in fear. “That’s right,” says the gondolier. “You have a little cuddle. Do you want me to sing? No? Oh. All right if I put on the radio? “Now where is it you’re headed? Rialto? Sorry, mate, don’t know that one, not my area, can you direct me? Go straight on until I see something that looks like this picture in your guide book? Right you are.
“The pirate gear? Well, it’s a sort of uniform, really, to distinguish us from the official blokes. We prefer to call ourselves mini gondoliers. Incidentally, do you think you could pay me now? I’m sure you’d never do it, but I’ve had people swim for it before. Ta. Sorry, got anything smaller? Don’t carry change, you see.
“Blimey!” The gondolier manoeuvres away from the path of a speeding jet ski. “Bloody kids. Just got their licence and think they own the water. You all right there, love? There’s a bucket if you need it. Only not on the seats, OK? Just had ‘em cleaned.
“I tell you, Venice is going to the Doges. Rush hour’s diabolical. Congestion charge will be next, although I don’t see how they’re going to get a dirty great C to stay in one place. Before you know, it’ll be off out in the lagoon wrapped around a channel marker. At least, it will if my mate Giuseppe has anything to do with it.
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“If I had the money, know what I’d do? Jack in the gondolier and get a submarine. Someone told me there are already people scuba-diving to work. Why not do it properly? Like having your own bus lane. Yes, you miss out on the scenery, but you get that with Tube, don’t you, and you don’t get many people complaining about that.
“Anyway, we’re coming up to something that looks like a bridge. That do you? Here you go, then. And take my card for next time. One thing, though – I don’t do south of the river.”