The Void Between Hearts ~~ongoing~~

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ℬᎾℳᎯ

"IN 1885, there was trouble in Venice. Betrayals, friendships, panic, pretense and love. Bassanio, asks his friend Antonio, for a loan because he wants to marry Portia the daughter of a wealthy man in Belmont. . ."

My yawn interrupts Pierro's story. I'm exhausted from hours of flying. Private jet or not, Nigeria to Kenya, and Tanzania to Italy are very different types of exhausting distances. I just want to make it to the hotel and get in bed, but our boat captain, Pierro, is hell-bent on telling us what happened in Shakespeare's head and how it is supposed to make our time here better. 

By the way, I discovered shortly after we landed at the airport that cars are strictly banned in Venice, the principal mode of transportation is by boat: water taxi's, ferry, Gondolas and something called Vaporetto which is a water bus. Ivan knew and he didn't tell me. That was something, I palmed his back until I almost choked on my laughter. 

So, at 10pm, two teenage tourists; one of whom, Ivan, is slightly experienced in Italian culture, the other, me, knows nothing and is now further convinced that Europe is hard, waited by the dock for their water taxi, under cold and damp air. My flimsy tee-shirt did nothing to help as I barely made it past shivering. 

When the taxi arrived, it was unlike what I expected in my head, which was maybe a glorified canoe or a speed boat. This one was beautiful, emphasis on beauty. Made of polished wood, the really expensive smooth and glossy kind, a slim design with a raised roof, also made of polished wood. Inside, had me surprised further, it looked like a Limousine in that it can probably carry twenty people, but with purple vinyl leather couches facing each other, a floor covered in a fancy gothic rug and above, circular bright lights dotting the canvas of a painting, probably of a sixteenth century plump white woman with curly brown hair, half covered with a red silk shawl, and a quizzical gaze, the boat feels more luxurious than a Limousine. 

Five minutes since boarding, I'm still trying to decipher what the expression on the painted woman's face means. Maybe she's the Portia from Merchant of Venice Pierro was telling us about, she looks rich and sought after. 

I curl up into Ivan's lap, he pulls my hair out of my face and runs his warm hands over my arm. I get goosebumps from the warmth.

"I feel local," I whisper.

He laughs. "The cold?"

I nod. "And the winter is supposed to be worse right?""

There's a first time for everything, you'll be fine."

"What's the name of our hotel?" I ask.

"Splendid Venice Star Hotels."

"Si!" Pierro exclaims. He is a proud Italian. It shines in his voice, thick and flavoured. Flavoured in the way his words carry weight and excitement, like tomato paste. 

"Uhm, Mi scusi ma. . .non parlo bene I'taliano?" Ivan says. It sounds like gibberish to me but Pierro laughs a beefy laugh, peeking at us through the rear mirror.

"Capsico benissino," he says to Ivan. 

"I'm obviously lost."

"I told him that we don't speak Italian, he said he understands perfectly."

I roll my eyes. "So in your mind you're experienced?"

He laughs. "I've been to Italy as a child. We stayed in Rome though and my Father made us learn a few things. Plus Google translate is great to sharpen up the skills."

I laugh. "Ah. Right. Remind me to consult The Oracle so I can learn some Greek for Santorini." 

He nods and tells Pierro to carry on with the story.