It was then that I thought of the gondolas in Venice. I remember how expensive they were, how the old Italian mamas shook their heads at me from their balconies, how wrinkled old men laughed at the horrendous deal I managed to negotiate. I remember looking down at the immaculate black paint, at the pink, red, purple frilly cushions—meant for lovers looking for the ‘quintessential Venice holiday’.
I stood into the long, black narrow boat, precariously helped by my gondolier. He was young, and he winked at me. I remember blushing as he asked my name. “Nicola,” I said, and I was grateful that he didn’t make fun of me. Nicola is a male name in Italian, you see. I laughed when he said his name was Mario, and felt awkward in the silence that followed. “Do you want me to sing?” he asked, in fluent English. I stammered a negative. “Thank god,” he sighed. “I even hate singing for pretty ladies, you know?” I laughed, not sure who he was talking about.
So he took me around Venice in that gondola. He took me to the Grand Canal and laughed when I squealed, as motorboats wizzed by. He showed me the historical buildings, and even took me through and around his favourite cafe, that he hung out in his spare time. I paid for the full hour—he took me around for two and a half. When I stood out the boat, ready to wander back to my hotel to see my parents (who would be back from their dinner date at Saint Mark’s Basilica), he took my hand and kissed my cheek. “It was a pleasure to meet you,” he whispered. “Let me know when you’re back in Venice.”
I want to go back now, I want to find Mario again. All I have to go on is Mario, the gondola, and a kiss on the cheek—but perhaps that happens every day in Venice. Perhaps I’m not that special.
