I knew there was a reason I always avoided the gondolas in Venice. Part of it was the cost, part of it was my disinclination to respond to anyone yelling at me to do something, but perhaps there was a deeper part of me that knew it was just not meant to be. Still, after several trips to the floating city, I was finally tempted to forego my usual vaporetto down the Grand Canal in favor of a gondola ride with my parents.
So, your Duchess and her parents followed a stripey-shirted ragazzo down an alley, visions of red velvet cushions and serenades of “O Sole Mio” dancing touristically in their heads. Having already visited Peggy Guggenheim’s museum and sought out towered buildings shaped like seashells, we were ready to indulge in the Disney-esque cheese of a gondola ride. After all, it was late November, there was hardly anyone around, so no one would tell on us back at the palace.
An important detail to the next part of the story is that I tend to carry all of the local currency when I travel with my parents, and they don’t use ATM cards. Therefore, my wallet contained all of our Euros and the easiest way to obtain more cash. We agreed on a price and reached the gondola, tucked away off the main waterway. The craft appeared seaworthy, and I prepared to step lightly on board and arrange myself in a suitably regal position for the ride.
Alas, it was not to be. As any traveler to Venice knows, the water level in the city can fluctuate rather quickly. Apparently, the water level had recently dropped off during that visit, leaving the steps down to the gondola rather slick and wet.
I gracefully took the hand of the gondolier waiting inside the boat and managed to get one foot on board before the other one slid out from under me and plunged rather inelegantly into the canal. The other hand managed to maintain hold of my wallet while catching me on the step, so that I was crouched somewhat like a drowning spider, with one knee in my shoulder and the other leg immersed up to my groin in the less-than-fragrant waters of Venice.
Once the gondolier and I both recovered from our surprise, I was able to lift myself up and back onto dry land. Luckily, I had foregone more regal garb for a pair of black leather pants that day, but neither the pants nor my boots would ever recover from their unplanned dip. My parents and I decided the gondola ride was not meant to be, and I limped wetly back to the hotel to change my clothes and disinfect.
I later learned that Lord Byron, one of my heroes, also fell into the canal while fleeing the angry husband of one of his lovers. While that was some comfort, I’m guessing the water was slightly cleaner in his day than in mine, as he was also fond of the occasional intentional swim out to the Lido. Still, I like to think that he would be proud that I managed not to drop my wallet.