Aluredian
42
The
Floating
City
by Hennie
Thomson, 61T
he biting night air brought
with it a pungent odour, a
harsh amalgam of stagnant
water and petrol fumes. With
it came a faint whiff of
crustaceans that, having been
rejected by their captors, lay putrid and
discarded in ageing rope nets.
The gentle purr of an engine broke the deathly
still of the lagoon; growing into increasingly
threatening growls as the mechanical creature
drew nearer. As it pulled up, we gratefully
escaped the merciless chill of the howling wind
and boarded the rocking water taxi. The master
of this steed gave a toothless leer, and our initial
hopes rapidly fading, we lurched forth from the
harbour into the depths of the mysterious lagoon.
Clinging to our seats and with our hearts in our
mouths we snaked our way across the watery
expanse. The twinkling lights of the passing
buildings rushed past, glowing lozenges of
amber that merged into one gleaming streak.
The iconic cityscape long imprinted in my
mind's eye finally lay stretched out before me.
No longer a mere picture in a glossy brochure,
it had become a reality - mine to touch, taste,
see, hear, experience.
A resounding 'clunk' indicated the completion
of our journey, and with the starry lights still
spiralling in our heads, clumsily we stumbled
back into reality and the safety of solid ground.
Awoken from our reverie by the bitter breeze
we negotiated our way to the hotel. Our
echoing footsteps broke the silence of the city,
and the tumultuous rumbling of our wheeled
suitcases, which had seemed so convenient
before, now seemed inappropriate for
interrupting the serenity of the night.
Drowsy with fatigue and barely noticing
whether we turned right or left, we ignored the
fabulous architecture of medieval churches and
the quaint charm of cobbled streets. Like a
pack of hounds keenly pursuing a scent, we
made our way to our welcome lodgings, where
a sleepy porter greeted us with a stifled yawn.
I remember nothing more of our
accommodation that night; however it must
have been comfortable as I slept like a log,
awoken by sunshine streaming through the
cracks of the shutters. On throwing them
open, I was greeted by the eagerly anticipated
'canal view' of which the hotel was so proud.
Despite discovering only a mere trickle of
murky green water, no more than a metre wide,
the crisp air and the tantalising aroma of fresh
coffee made up for the brief disappointment.
Peering out at the hustle and bustle below,
I looked forward with optimism to discovering
the magic of Venice.
Sam Nixon-Eckersall AS