FOUND: Marco Polo

To leave Venice is a small tragedy in and of itself, to fly out early in the morning is another animal.

A city made of water has no roads. ferries dominate the water as taxis and cars, deliveries are made on foot with handcarts battling stairs and tourists alike. It’s a whirlwind of movement, a dance of summer heat and salty determination. It’s enthralling to witness. While beautiful, it has its consequences. We understood the canals meant walking, we were excited to explore ancient dimly lit alleyways and bridges cracking under the water’s pressure. What we didn’t consider going into it was that that meant no way out. Once the water ferries stopped, the private boats docked and the men went to bed, you were in Venice for the night. Even if you were willing to traverse the bridges with luggage in hand it would only get you so far. Turn a corner, and you meet the final building that seems adrift in the water, alone at the corner of land and sea.

This made catching our 5 am flight interesting - when the ferrymen were still in bed and the water taxis didn’t resume until daybreak. So, in the night, we fled Venice. Like prisoners we snuck out past the Bridge of Sighs, sliding over canals and worn marble steps to meet the water taxi where the sidewalk ends. While the entire affair takes minutes, the preparation takes hours. Navigating Italian websites with poor translations and ticket machines logged with water damage. The protective screens pocked with salt, shrouding the accented Italian instructions below.

An engine whirls in the distance, cutting out as the sound of lapping water closes in on us. The cabbie throws the engine into reverse, then forwards as he pulls up to the dock at a good speed. The water churns white and a man leaps from the front of the boat as it careens towards the island. Planting his feet on the ay island, he pulls on the line as the engine pushes back. “Andiamo,” the man says as he leverages his body against the pull of the boat. He won’t be tying it off, he doesn’t need to. This is a quick transaction that he’s done a thousand times before.

Stepping onto the water taxi is much like a train, stay behind the yellow until it’s time and watch your step. The undocked boat wobbles slightly with the added weight before righting itself. The cabbie is nowhere to be found, tucked away at the wheel as I scramble to ‘stow’ my luggage and return to the deck. Much like a whaler, the majority of the boat is open to the sky and the water. The deck is worn but true, and as our anchor leaps back aboard just as the engine propels us forward, I grab a railing and lean back over the side. Venetian water rushes up the sides towards me, her fingertips brushing the ends of my hair. Heat lightning crashes across the skyline with the thundering of the lapping waves a fitting accompaniment.

We are the last taxi of the night, skating across the water towards the airport waiting on the mainland. The stars are watching us, peaking out from behind the old stone buildings, hiding behind the lightning that brings this night to morning. The muttered sounds of the ocean kissing the old Venice buildings fade away as we near our destination. The Murano glass adorning my ears clinks together like a closing toast to our time in Venice as the anchor man prepares himself to make the jump yet again. He winds up like a cat before leaping over what is no longer a canal, but simply the end of the ocean. He leans back, and we step out onto ground that feels less solid than the archipelago. “Buona Notte” and he’s off, the cabbie throws the engine forward before slinking back to the famed bridges and streets stained with water and history.

We trudge to the tram, accompanied by muttered greetings between fellow Americans as we enter the airport, still wired from the trip that is Venice. Deciding space to be a luxury, we stake our claim of seats against a wall with chargers and room galore. The girls from the tram join us, and conversation alights with laughs and shared memories of 20-year-olds trekking through Europe with little more than a pocket full of ideas and tenacity. The giggles from that Venetian High wears off soon when we realize this airport is no LaGuardia or LAX. Everything is closed. Of the 2 stores that exist outside of the security checkpoint, neither seem promised to open anytime soon. Neither does security. Even the vending machines are being fussy. It seems we traded one type of Venetian island for another.

So we camp out, on miserable airport seats and a marble countertop that makes up for its lack of comfort in its plentiful legroom. We ignore the dripping ceiling, pass our passports over to the police officer when he comes over to inspect the gaggle of stranded Americans, and band together to sleep and try the vending machines in turns.

Eventually, we sleep, time passes, and security finally opens. Tired laughing gas giggles emerge as we realize our tram Americans are staying not far from us on our new island, and we board the plane, leaving the bridges and canals behind, for now.