Our elegant, mustachioed water taxi driver found the Castello neighborhood for our little hotel, Ca’ Bauta, but from there — nothing. He called out to strangers on land for help, but was answered only with furrowed brows and regretful smiles. As though literally gliding back into the Renaissance, our cell phones refused to work.
Idling underneath bridge after bridge, Adam and I turned our faces up to a warm October breeze and marveled at intricate carved-stone buildings that seemed to float on both water and hope.
Bursting our reverie, the driver gave up and deposited us, halfheartedly, back at the first dock we’d tried. He shrugged and said:
“Benvenuto a Venezia…Is a maze, yes?”