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Europe > Italy > Veneto > Venice > Articles > Crime and Seduction in Venice

Crime and Seduction in Venice

by Julie Miller

Within five minutes of arriving in Venice, I had bruised my knee, dropped my laptop computer, broken the heel off my shoe and my mother had been robbed. It certainly wasn’t what I expected from a city known as "La Serenissima".

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Within five minutes of arriving in Venice, I had bruised my knee, dropped my laptop computer, broken the heel off my shoe and my mother had been robbed. It certainly wasn’t what I expected from a city known as ‘La Serenissima.’

Venice is a city which inflames passions. Over the centuries, this aging bella donna has been fought over, possessed and handed from power to power; she has also inspired countless artists and writers to grapple with their creativity, in the attempt to reproduce her timeless, unique beauty. Even the marauding Napoleon, as he marched his troops into the city, appreciatively commented that San Marco Square was "the most elegant dining room in Europe". A grand prize indeed.

Like countless visitors before me, I, too, had fallen under the spell of this watery wonderland years ago during a backpacking vacation. Nearly 20 years on, I was desperate to return and share my passion with my 8-year old daughter, who was travelling in Europe for the first time with myself and my mother. It was to be a flying visit - the last two days of our holiday - but hopefully long enough for all three of us to succumb to La Serenissima's countless charms.

Our arrival into the city should have been perfect. We'd found a parking space at Piazzale Roma without any trouble, rearranged our luggage, then boarded the vaporetto water bus which takes you along the Grand Canal into the city. This must be one of the most magnificent public transport rides in the world, cruising past magnificent palazzi, under the Rialto bridge and past gondolas rocking gently at their moorings. It was a perfect mid-summer's day, the sky was a cloudless blue, and tourists thronged the piazzas and canal-side trattorias.

All we had to do was get off at the stop after San Marco, and walk across two bridges to our hotel. No sweat.

Only there was sweat, plenty of it. The August temperature was soaring, and the crowds on the shore were oppressive. My mother and I struggled with our suitcases, trying to wheel them up and down the stairs on their dodgy little rollers and keep a watchful eye on my daughter in the meantime. Suddenly, my heel gave way on the edge of a step - and I, my suitcase and my laptop computer tumbled helter-skelter down the bridge. I dusted myself off, embarrassed rather than hurt - and we struggled on. Never has 200 metres seemed so far.

The hotel we had booked was absolutely magnificent, the most welome sight in the world. The Hotel Metropole is a former monastery located on Riva degli Schiavoni, the main drag running along the waterfront. Every item of furniture is an antique; our room had twin queen sized beds with carved mahogany bedheads and a matching dresser and bedside tables, a Murano glass chandelier and original art on the walls. The shuttered window opened to a view of the lagoon in one direction, and an atmospheric side canal in the other; you could hear the water slapping against ancient stone and marble, the buzz of water taxis, the rhymthic dip of gondola oars and the lyricism of the Italian language as the gondoliers shouted greetings to each other. I was in heaven, the nightmare 10-minute walk forgotten. Until my mother said, "Where are my watches?"

Somewhere between the vaporetto stop and the hotel, my mother had apparently fallen prey to the Genius Pickpocket from Hell. Somehow, he had managed to unzip her bag, slide his fingers in and steal five (count them!) watches that my mother had put in there for safe keeping (we had been travelling in Switzerland, after all!)

How and when this misdemeanour had taken place, we couldn't fathom - perhaps it had happened when I fell. We had obviously been targeted as tourists - two women and a little girl, travelling alone - and the criminal had just waited for an appropriate moment, when our attention was momentarily diverted.

Explaining this to the police was an interesting challenge. My Italian is rudimentary - I can count to ten, say thank you and please, and ask the time. I tried pointing at my watch, said "cinque" (meaning five), mimed the act of a robber opening a bag and used the universal gesture for 'vamoose' - the two-armed shrug. The handsome policeman looked at me blankly and handed me a report page, written in Italian. As I filled out the form, I asked him, "How do you say 'watch' in Italian?" I pointed at his wrist. "Seiko", he replied. But of course.

No-one wears a uniform quite like an Italian. Even at the airport, you see janitors in pristine orange overalls, looking magnificent - not to mention the security guards with their knee-high boots, Mussolini hats and shiny buttons. This particular policeman was no exception - he knew his role was to look fantastic, and to charm women. I was certainly up for a bit of Italian flirtation, but the daggers in my mother’s eyes soon cut me down. This was no time to be having fun.

Armed with the police report for insurance purposes, we then skulked back to the safety of our hotel to recover. It was by now late afternoon - we had lost half a day, five watches, and my mother's joie de vivre. With just a day and a half of our holiday remaining, she had nothing to show for hours of consumerism in Switzerland, and nothing to present to her grandchildren when she returned home. The wind had been taken out of her sails. She was miserable.

Trying to lift someone's spirits under those circumstances is very difficult. "Come on," I said, "we're in Venice! Look how beautiful it is! We can buy other souvenirs for the girls. Let's go shopping!" "Ha", she replied. "Venice. Home of thieves." She didn't want a bar of it. I had to drag her out into the afternoon sun, kicking and screaming.

We headed back over the bridges where the drama had first begun, past souvenir stalls and shops beckoning with merchandise. I prodded and prompted - how about a mask, what about some jewellery? The choice was overwheming - everything that glitters or glistens finds its way into Venice's shops, most of it is hideous - imagine huge twin glass toucans sitting atop a palm tree - and hideously expensive. My mother stared blankly at the unenticing displays, her eyes glazed with disinterest. I began to fear that even the universal cure for depression - shopping - would fail to penetrate her consciousness. In other words, the holiday was over.

Venice, however, is a seductive lover. She crooks her finger, begs you to follow, leads you a merry chase, then totally and utterly wins you over. Away from the throbbing crowds of the main squares and thoroughfares, the ambience changes dramatically. You suddenly find yourself in a narrow, dark alleyway, your footsteps echoing in the urban quietude. You might pick up strains of a conversation from an upstairs window; shopkeepers discussing the weather; or someone warbling an operatic aria, as one does in Venice. You can be alone with your thoughts, soaking up the atmosphere, turn left and suddenly find yourself swept back in the tide of pedestrians heading for San Marco or the Rialto, where all streets seem to lead. Winding your way through the maze, getting lost, then found, then lost again is half the fun. Somehow, following your nose is more reliable than any map.

Once we were away from the crowds and the heat, crossing romantic little bridges, watching gondolas glide silently underneath and gazing at the increasingly impressive window displays, I could feel my mother's spirits lift. She released the iron grip on her handbag, started to note what was on offer, and began to see the potential for spending up big. Her pessimism was overtaken with the urge to replace the watches with better, more exciting gifts...and let the shopping begin in earnest. She'd show that bastard thief he couldn't ruin her holiday!

It started with glassware - pretty glass bead earrings and cute little animal families, perfect for the youngest granddaughter. Mum decided on a set of four pigs with curly tails, but made the mistake of not buying the first set she saw, continuing on in search of a cuter, cheaper family. Pigs were soon usurped by elephants, elephants by penguins. I could see the frustration of choice become more and more overwhelming.

The other omnipresent Venetian souvenirs are Carnival masks, ranging from the cheap and tacky to incredible works of art. Just west of San Marco Piazza, there's a pocket of streets hiding the most exquisite shops imaginable, filled with Cinderella fancy-dress costumes, porcelain puppets and papier mache masks decorated with gold, beads and feathers. Each item is a masterpiece; each shop a fantasy paradise with other-worldly prices to match. My daughter entered these dimly-lit shops agape, rushing from corner to corner, admiring traditional black and white Harlequin faces, gilded Comedy and Tragedy masks, cats with diamante whiskers, elaborate hand-held eye pieces lavished with ostrich feathers and silk, and intricate, hand-stitched capes for the costume-ball dandy. In some of these shops you can see the artists at work, hand-painting the paper-mache masks or practicing the art of decoupage, preparing for the annual onslaught of Carnival and its festivities.

It was getting late. The smaller shops were starting to close up for the night, the trattorias coming to life. Just when we thought we'd never find our way through the maze, we stumbled across the massive awnings surrounding Piazza San Marco. Before us loomed the sumptuous Basicila, the beautiful pink and white Doge's Palace and the towering Campanile, casting shadows across the pavement in the late afternoon haze. The crowds had waned, the cafe orchestra played Vivaldi and the whole space was filled with an incredible soft pink light. I watched my family walk through the square - my daughter scattering the pigeons, my mother laden with shopping bags, a satisfied smile upon her face once again. La Serenissima had cast her spell.