On the plane ride from Germany, there was a bit of turbulence while we descended. I smiled at Megan mischievously. "What?" she said. I gestured my chin slightly toward the window still smirking, "If you got to go..." She laughed, caught off guard. Landing in Venice with my wife for our honeymoon, not a bad way to go.
The plane landed smoothly. "Oh, well," I said.
There was a 550 Mercedes waiting to take us to Venice Proper. My wife neglected to tell me we had a private car. She's gangster like that. On the drive there were trees and apartments, but for the most part I was unimpressed. There's a two-mile bridge connecting the historic district of Venice to the mainland. Our driver's name was Daniel, but when he said it, it took about a minute to say "Daannniiiieeellle" with his Italian swagger.
Across the bridge there are garages, motorbike parking areas. There are no vehicles allowed in the city. Not even bicycles. Just boats and your feet, which brings me to the cool bit. The driver parked, took our bags down the dock where there was a boat limo waiting for us. A private boat is great. On a private boat limo in Venice you feel like a Mafia Don. I mean, "I'm on a boat muthafucka!"
Our honeymoon suite was decorated in classic Venetian fashion; brocade fabrics covered the walls with intricate shiny gold patterns over rich dark cloth. There was dark chocolate and a bottle of champaign on ice waiting for us. We were starving after a day of airport food and Think Thin bars from Whole Foods. The concierge had already secured us reservations at a restaurant just down the street...or canal.
I'd never had champaign, I don't drink and have never been tempted to try it. But if there was ever a time, first night in Venice, honeymoon, my sexy wife, my sexy wife -- sorry. I drift sometimes. I told her we have to have a glass. She also doesn't drink and didn't believe I was serious about it. But she said with a smile, "I''ll do whatever you want, baby." So I awkwardly popped the cork over the sink and waited for it to fizz out and overflow like in the movies, which of course it did not. I poured and we drank.
We walked along the canals following Megan's map. Megan is sick with a map. I had no idea. She's like MapQuest but with a better body. The narrow walkway opens up into a square -- or plaza. This was right out of an old movie. There were two outdoor cafés, a few children playing at the fountains (it's 11 at night, but it's Europe. Don't hate), there were these Pakistani guys shooting little blue and purple helicopter things up in the air. The different colors would spin quickly then float slowly to the ground. The buildings were old. They looked like backdrops to me. I'm from Hollywood and the only way buildings look that vintage is on set, but these were the real thing.
As we were seated, it began to rain, but since we were under an awning and it was humid and warm, it just added ambiance. Our waiter was the typical Italian man, which is...well, I'll explain Italian men and women later, but for now just know that Italian men are always playfully up to no good, which made me feel at home right away. The accent helps, but not the way you think. You can never tell if they understand what you're saying or if they're having fun pretending not to understand what you're saying. The waiters cracked dry, suggestive, and flirtatious jokes every few seconds. It was like a non-stop comedy sketch. It almost seemed rehearsed, which would have been annoying except for one thing: every joke was delivered as though it was a completely serious statement and they had no idea why you were laughing. They killed, destroyed-effortlessly. Needless to say, I took notes.
A waiter asked us, as he set our table:"Wine?"
"No," we said.
"Well, something harder. Whisky?"
"Oh, no. Just water."
"Just water? Okay. it's raining." He points to the fact, we look, saw the rain, laughed out loud, and by the time we turned back, he was gone to get the water. His timing was perfect. I looked around and all the waiters were just as charming as the next. And if they were "trying," I could tell.
"Ahh, okay," I said. Meg smiled and we took a shot. He smiled and patted me like we were brothers now. He waited until I reached for a glass of water to get the burning flames out of my throat and he quickly poured another glass. No, I thought. I'm not taking another shot. It was me versus his Italian charm. I'm Rob Sinclair. I invented charm. No way this guy gets me to do another shot. So we did another shot and he skillfully left the bottle like it was our job to finish it. We did not. But surprisingly, the alcohol had no effect on either of us -- or we were both too drunk to notice. We'll never know, I guess.
Venice had our number right away.
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