I crane my neck to see the plastic sign mapping out the boat’s destinations as it pulls up to the dock. Circular markers dot stops marching along a primary color, like a linear road. It takes me a day to realize the N line only runs at night, the 5.1 and 5.2 don’t always drop me off at the stop closest to my hotel.
I climb aboard, daypack pulled snugly to my side, and finesse my way to the opposite railing. There is seating down below, past the nook reserved for large suitcases, for strollers. But I prefer to stand above, let the wind whip my face, my wide brimmed straw hat. Down below the sticky air suffocates, bare legs adhere to the plastic seafoam green seats. Summer vacation is no time to confine oneself to the bowels of a water bus.
Tourists on the deck lean over to capture a selfie, to catch a glimpse of the picturesque narrow canals, balconies brimming with wisteria, with dangling vines. It’s a dying, decaying city, a vestige of extravagances past. The city is sinking, its permanent inhabitants driven out by high costs and impracticalities. There’s beauty and sadness in the grandeur, in the loss, in the transformation into a spectacle for outsiders.
The more helpful attendants announce the stop as we arrive, shouting “Zattere!” “Ferrovia,” maybe even a helpful “San Marco” or “Piazzale Roma – Bus Station!” for the tourists. Usually, though, you simply have to scan your way through the crowd to find the bright yellow banners, black lettering painted on each stop, indicating the location. Much in Italy is charmingly lackadaisical. This is both refreshing and irritating to high strung Americans.
I read in a guidebook that in the evenings the vaporettos thin out: less people, less tourists as visitors return to their massive cruise ships in the harbor. But I found crowds at almost all times of day and night, the sticky sardine feeling of being packed in with weary travelers, shimmer of sweat trickling down their backs, each odor distinct but difficult to pinpoint. The evening breezes at least provide relief from the glaring sun, from the thick air. The lights of the baroque buildings bounce off the Grand Canal, reflections disrupted by gliding vaporettos.