Everyone loves a holiday, right? Sun, sea, sand, surf…
There is a brilliant moment in The Mystic Masseur, the debut novel of recently departed Nobel Laureate V. S. Naipaul. The main protagonist, Ganesh, is bettering himself in rural 1940s Trinidad, and his long suffering wife Leela begins to think out loud to her female acquaintances about taking a vacation.
Such airs and graces!
The reaction is swift. Who does she think she is? The social presumption of thinking yourself worthy of a holiday, or just taking off, forgetting the housework, and doing nothing for days on end but, what…?
It got me thinking.
Other than religious feast days, not so long ago a holiday was unheard of outside the ruling elite. Industrialisation gave birth to the idea of taking a day trip to the seaside, and later on, maybe even an extravagant week in a deckchair.
Foreign pleasure trips are even more recent – thanks to the power of the low cost airfare. Yet I know people – especially from poorer countries – who are still uncomfortable with the idea of the modern holiday.
For them, leaving the home to travel means visiting family members – however distant. They must trust strangers to drive the bus, fly the plane, make a meal on the way – but as soon as possible, a family member will be there to escort them.
To pass freely without let or hindrance…
The modern holiday is a construct of the era of the nation state. It requires stable infrastructure in which we trust strangers to service our needs, not rob, poison or otherwise injure us. It also requires that we have surplus wealth.
Which gets to the other essential element in the modern holiday – the display of status. The tan – despite all the health warnings – still has street cred in Western cultures. Every ex-school kid remembers the cache attached to a ski holiday.
Forget Disneyland. Venice really is the ultimate kids’ destination.
I arrived in Venice on the weekend that the city’s mayor, Luigi Brugnaro, had planned to put into action his new turnstiles, restricting access to certain main thoroughfares in order to deal with the crush of visitors in the early May weekend that is a bank holiday in the UK. A local residents’ activist group had already torn down turnstiles placed the week before in preparation for the weekend, and whether they were actually used or not, I’ve no idea, since I went nowhere near the main thoroughfares of the city in my week’s stay with my wife and two-year-old son.
I was in Venice — just like Robert Byron in the laconic opening to his The Road to Oxiana— as a ‘joy-hog’. It’s a phrase that perfectly captures the experience of Venice for me, someone who has now visited five times, with different combinations of people, since my first solitary trip at a 25-year-old in 2004. I realised afresh, as I stood aboard a vaporetto bus-boat passing San Marco Square, that Venice is still the most extraordinary idea for a city ever conceived. The very fact that it exists outside imagination makes it constantly revelatory. It is a sensation that doesn’t seem to dull with repetition.
It is also a relief. Time spent away from Venice denudes the memory. You begin to know it in caricature, just as we know anywhere that is so famous and so photographed. You forget, slowly, the real feeling of being present there. You talk to others about how it’s crushed by tourists, badly run, stinks in the summer. Venice is as far as it gets from being a newly discovered getaway — the untouched secret experience that excited veteran travellers can whisper about. It doesn’t avoid the day-trippers and the budget airline weekenders — it gets bombarded by them.
Of course, if you stay in the darker corners of Dorsoduro or Castello, or delve deeper into Venice’s real soul in the housing blocks of Sant’ Elena or La Giudecca, then you won’t feel the tourist crush like a San Marco day-tripper, but you will still hear the eternal paean of the Venetian: no one can live here anymore, the cruise ships are destroying the foundations, the supermarkets are killing the grocers, the place is a theme park. None of what they say is false. It is all painfully true. Yet despite it all, as you ride the vaporetto with the lagoon wind in your face, you feel giddy.
If Venice is now simply a theme park, then it must be the best theme park in the world. The idea stuck me as my vaporetto inched its way into San Zaccaria to dispense the masses into San Marco Square. All these willing tourists — Americans, Japanese, Chinese, Russian — all with camera phones in trigger positions, all waiting for their little moment to record history. If this is a theme park, where else in the world do you get a theme park built on such real, ancient foundations? They’ve tried to build theme park versions of Venice in Disneyland and Las Vegas, but this is a real city. It must bowl the tourists over.
A city for all ages
I could continue to wax lyrical about timeless Venice. It is an easy place to wallow in Lord Byron’s athletic swims, sink into Von Aschenbach’s deckchair on the Lido, or conjure Calvino’s elusive city among the canals. But this was not my focus on this trip. This time Venice was about boats — speedboats, yellow boats, red boats, dustbin boats, taxi boats, bus boats, huge boats, tug boats — wow! It was about gelato — Fior di Latte, Crema di Limone, Stracciatella, Fragola y Anguria! And it was about the beach (Yes, Venice has a beach). My reason? A two-year-old.
Believe it or not (and most of the romancing English couples we met did not), Venice is a fantastic city for kids. Now, on the face of it, that just can’t be true. It’s one of the most tightly compact urban spaces in Europe, hemmed in as it is by lagoon water on all sides. Having been created in the Middle Ages, Venice never really did public space off water until Napoleon knocked down a section of the city to make way for the Public Gardens that are a notable green spot today. Despite there being a lot of squares, there are precious few playgrounds and you’d assume that a boathook would come in handy to fish the toddler out of the brine every five minutes.
Despite these drawbacks, Venice is a kiddie revelation. My son met his first Italian playmate on the public vaporetto from the airport. She was on her way home from a family trip to the mainland and while her parents escorted us across the city from the Fondamente Nove to our flat in Dorsoduro, they both flitting, screaming in unison, down every blind alley they could find. There are a few. It was nighttime. We were crossing a city. Yet two toddlers were able to run, unaccompanied, ahead of us. They could disappear around sharp corners, to return a moment later, faces alight.
This is the first and most obvious charm of Venice — the one everyone, of every age, screams about. No cars! An entire modern city without an automobile in sight. I mused that maybe, just maybe, this is what all cities will feel like in a hundred years? But for now, Venice alone is car-free, and it makes for toddler freedom. Fortunately, my toddler was just old enough to understand that water is water, and he can’t walk on it, quite. He might find lots of interesting things to prod on the edge of it, but he won’t hightail it straight off the nearest fondamente.
With that established, Venice suddenly becomes a huge, adult-sized maze of winding streets and waterways, with gondolas and speedboats endlessly appearing and disappearing. My son was entertained one evening for about half an hour simply by standing on a small bridge and waving to each and every gondola as it came through on what was obviously a well-oared tourist route. The romancing couples sometimes responded. The gondoliers always did. Toddlers might get a lukewarm reception from couples on their big bonding excursion, but Italian men are utterly, totally besotted.
This put the icing on the cake for my little one. Everywhere he went he was hailed, tickled, cajoled and fed by a panoply of actors eager to get a laugh, a smile, a cheeky grin — just something that told them they had his approval. He loved it. He loved the gelato man who gave him massive, discount portions. He loved the cicchettibar where his snack came free, plus free chocolate eggs. Hell, it even began with Luigi, our Easyjet air host, before we even took off from the UK, when he was showered with free stickers and pantomime faces.
Plus, that beach. Okay, so most people don’t come to Venice for the beach anymore. Robert Byron may have dismissed the bathing, on a calm day, as “the worst in Europe”. But a walk down the Granviale Santa Maria Elisabetta on a sunny afternoon is not a chore, a beach is a beach, and when a toddler hits sand, nobody cares whether a digger has had to haul it off a barge onto this thin strip of littoral or not. In fact, we-hey! Look over there! A big yellow digger — digging sand!
In a nutshell, it turns out Venice rocks. It rocks even more than I had thought it did in the first place. It rocks as a real, 21st century city for real 21st century kids who couldn’t give a flying Fragola gelato whether it contained a single museum, grand master, architectural highlight or arts extravaganza. It’s a city with water instead of roads, for Pete’s sake.