Page 43 of The Slug Crystal
Luca gestures expansively, nearly knocking an ice cream cone from a passing child's hand. "This is Venice as it should be experienced! Not the sanitized tourist version, but alive, pulsing!"
Jake eyes the crowded waterway with visible apprehension. "How are we supposed to get anywhere? Every inch of these canals is jammed with boats."
"That's exactly why we need a gondola," Ben says, already pushing his way toward a man in the traditional striped shirt and straw hat. "When in Venice, right?"
Before I can protest, Ben is negotiating with animated hand gestures, and Marco has stepped in to translate. The gondolier nods enthusiastically, pointing to his narrow black vessel bobbing between two larger tourist boats.
"He says he can take us through the smaller canals," Marco explains. "Less crowded, more authentic. A scenic route."
Jake gives me a look that screams "this is a terrible idea," but I find myself nodding. The streets are as packed as the canals, but at least in a boat we might catch a breeze to cut through the sticky heat of the afternoon.
"Just keep the snail safe," Jake mutters as he helps me step into the wobbling gondola. His hand on my elbow is steady and warm.
I settle onto the narrow bench, placing Alex's terrarium on my lap. The blue snail has pressed himself against the glass, as if trying to absorb the sensory overload of Venice. I know exactly how he feels.
Ben hops in with far less grace, causing the entire boat to rock precariously. I shriek, clutching Alex even tighter.
"Sorry, sorry! Sea legs still finding their equilibrium,” he says with a grin.
Luca slides in with the ease of someone born on the water, while Marco and Jake take the remaining seats with careful, measured movements. Our gondolier, a wiry man with sun-weathered skin and an impressive mustache,pushes off from the dock with a single powerful thrust of his oar.
For a few glorious minutes, it's exactly the Venice experience I've always imagined. We glide beneath stone bridges where people lean over to wave and take photos. The afternoon sun casts golden light across ancient facades, their colors intensified by the reflection in the water. Views of salmon pinks, ochre yellows, faded terracottas. I find myself relaxing into the gentle rocking motion, even as Alex slides from one side of his terrarium to the other.
"This isn't so bad," I say to Jake, who's begun to unclench his jaw.
Then we turn a corner into a wider canal, and everything changes.
The channel ahead is packed tight with boats again, crowded with gondolas, water taxis, even a few tiny motorboats, all trying to navigate the same space. Lanterns hang from poles attached to the gondolas, creating sensory overload as they dance and multiply in the rippling water, calling my attention everywhere, even though the sun is still out. Beautiful, yes, but also chaotic beyond description.
"Perhaps we should have walked," Marco observes mildly as our gondolier shouts something that doesn't need translation to understand his frustration.
"Too late now," Ben says cheerfully. "We're committed to the authentic experience!"
Our gondolier begins an intricate dance of nudging and maneuvering, using his oar to gently push other boats aside, calling out greetings and what I assume are good-natured insults to his fellow boatmen. We inch forward through the floating traffic jam, the hull of our gondola occasionally bumping against others with hollow wooden thuds.
A group in a nearby boat starts singing, their voices rising over the general din. The song is in Italian, but the melody is infectious. Luca joins in, his voice surprisingly rich, whileBen attempts to harmonize despite not knowing a single word.
I'm just starting to enjoy this unexpected concert when worst-case scenario happens. A motorboat cuts across our path too quickly, sending a small wake toward us. Our gondola rocks sharply, and before our gondolier can correct, another gondola drifts into us from the side, the collision jerking us sideways.
The terrarium slides across my lap. I grab for it, fingers scrabbling against the glass, but it's slipping, tipping?—
"Emma!" Jake lunges forward, one hand grabbing the back of my shirt to keep me from overbalancing, the other catching the edge of the terrarium.
For one heart-stopping moment, we're both leaning precariously, the gondola tipping with our shifted weight. Water laps at the rim, just inches from spilling in. I can feel cold sweat breaking out across my back as I imagine Alex tumbling into the canal, lost forever in the murky Venetian waters.
"Easy there!" Ben calls, scrambling to the opposite side to counterbalance us. "Snail overboard is not on today's itinerary!"
The gondola rights itself with a stomach-lurching wobble. Jake clutches the terrarium so tightly I can see his knuckles turn white. Meanwhile, I scan inside the cage frantically, looking for Alex. He's retreated into his shell, the blue spiral pressed against the bottom corner. Safe, for now.
"Perhaps we should take an alternate route," Marco suggests, speaking rapidly to our gondolier, who nods and begins steering us toward a narrower channel branching off to the left.
"You okay?" Jake asks quietly, his hand still on my back.
I nod, not trusting my voice. My heart is still racing, but the immediate danger has passed. We glide into the smaller canal, leaving the worst of the congestion behind. The buildingsrise higher here, casting deep shadows across the water. Fewer boats, fewer people, but still the essence of Venice surrounds us.
Just as I'm starting to relax again, a passing gondola creates a small wave that splashes over our side. Cold water hits my bare legs, and I shriek, then glance at Jake, still holding Alex.
"Alex is fine," Ben laughs, wiping water from his face. "Though I can't say the same for my feet."
