JEFF IN VENICE
Jeffrey Bernard had never been there before. He found, among other pleasures, the best cocktail he'd ever had VENICE is wetter than I thought it would be. I didn't realise that you had to get a water taxi to the hotel, but then the near- est I've ever been to Italy before was shift- ing the scenery in The Merchant of Venice and The Two Gentlemen of Verona. I had been booked into the Cipriani Hotel — at a cost I don't want to think about and, thank God, don't need to — but I must say that it was just about the best hotel I've ever stayed in: on a par with the Oriental Hotel in Bangkok. I took Sister Sally from the Middlesex Hospital with me. She's the nurse who looked after me when I had my hip reinforced with titanium.
Of course, I knew that Venice in a wheelchair was going to be a bit more than just difficult; and so it proved, since I wasn't even able to cross a bridge when I came to one, never mind before. Every time I had to get in or out of a water taxi — the Cipriani has its own — I had to be lifted and carried, since there weren't any gangplanks to be seen, and if there had been they would have been at too steep an angle. It was at those seemingly horribly perilous transfers from quay to boat and vice versa, suspended and dangling over the murky waters, that I kept pausing for split seconds to question in my mind the Italian temperament. Nearly every day in Soho for years now, I have seen the wild gesticulations of two Italians who haven't seen each other for five minutes, bumping into each other like long-lost friends, and on occasions it has looked to be as dramatic as an excerpt from Aida. One could be dropped like a hot cake. The Cipriani welcomed us with red roses and champagne and they had even put fresh flowers in my bathroom. You might say so they should at those prices, but that's missing the point, which is surely to make you feel that they care a bit, which no one here seems to. I was too whacked to go out that first evening, so Sally wheeled me to the bar and the first of the ubiquitous cocktail pianists, playing `Over The Rainbow', theme music from Love Story, etc.
Apart from being too tired to venture out — even being pushed about in a chair can be tiring — we ate in the hotel restau- rant, since my brother had warned me that Venetian food is not up to much. More to the point, my godfather, Joe Links, a world authority on Venice, had also issued the same warning in his book, Venice for Pleasure. I had pasta, at Nigella prices, to see if it was much better done than in London — it was excellent without being remarkable.
The waiters busied themselves, much in the way that good Italian waiters do, which makes you think that they have been trained not to bump into each other; but I wish the wine waiters wouldn't fuss over Valpolicella as though they themselves had transformed it from water into wine. The staff wherever we went were fearfully good, since they actually like the job as opposed to resenting it as the British do.
The tea in the morning was quite drink- able. After that, we started our Grand Tour at the obvious spot — St Mark's Square. The Café Florian was our first stop, and by its fading and ageing glass-cov- ered murals I drank hot chocolate as thick as old muddy Mississippi. If all else fails, there will be plenty of money to be made in becoming a Venetian chocolate importer.
We set out for the back streets and the steps up and down to get to them, and I was a little disappointed to find that nearly every shop was a very expensive tourist shop boutique may be the word — that somehow reminded me of that plant, the fly-trap. At not even too far a distance, the narrow streets looked to hold the promise of some congenial low life in the way of bars, but all they were selling, mostly anyway, were ham rolls and sandwiches. In one shop window I saw a shirt I fancied at the equivalent of £100. I told Sally to drive on.
Back in the Square and at the Quadri, a café opposite the Florian, I had my first drink of the day — a screwdriver made with the juice of blood oranges. If this Conservative Government has its way and I am not ever allowed to die, I shall remember it forever as being the best cocktail I have ever had. It had to be fol- lowed and it was chased to Harry's Bar, and if ever I hear anyone again recom- mending it because Ernest Hemingway or anyone else with a name of sorts used to use it I shall scream. I don't actually give a damn where Ernest Hemingway drank, ate or brought it all up, whether on the floor or blank sheets of writing paper, but I do strongly recommend Harry's Bar because of its ambience, its atmosphere, its good food and the fact that the staff allowed me to finish chasing that first screwdriver until I stopped for want of breath. The acidity of the orange juice is not good.
Early that evening, I somewhat reluc- tantly telephoned a man called Geoffrey Humphries who had left a message for me at the Cipriani, suggesting that we meet for a drink or something. I say somewhat reluctantly because just as I like to avoid unsolicited conversations with strangers in pubs so I am loath to be trapped by ex-pats in foreign climes. Anyway, we arranged to meet in the bar of the Cipriani, and Geof- frey Humphries, accompanied by his girl- friend Holly, turned out to be a very wel- come surprise — and we know how rare nice people are beyond Calais.
They suggested dinner and very unadven- turously I opted to return to Harry's Bar. It is definitely the sort of place that attracts that awful species called 'regulars', partly because of the overrated bellinis. It is possi- bly addictive in its way. What made it even more special than the crêpes Suzettes that ended the meal was a handful of women who were generous enough to say that they had wanted to meet me, and for a couple of blissful minutes two of them waited at the bar to be introduced to me. That situation was a knockout, never mind the screw- drivers. Anyone who could sit through that happening to them without smiling at the absurdity of it all should be shot.
Geoffrey Humphries turned out to be a member of the Chelsea Arts Club too, although I'm sure he didn't learn how to be such a good host there. He also runs a private art school in Venice, as well as being a portrait artist himself. Holly slight- ly disconcerted me, reminding me as she did all the time of Lee Remick, whom I had seen two days before in a murder movie in which a pair of her knickers was produced in the courtroom scene dénoue- ment. But now I remember them both as simply being the providers of a jolly evening in Venice.
It is impossible — for me anyway — not to be constantly aware of just how smart and smooth Italian men can look. They struck me as being better-looking in their way and more urbane than even the French at their poshest at Longchamps races on a Sunday afternoon. They may not be, as I previously thought, a nation of waiters and operatic tenors, or even droppers of the disabled into canals.
It is a pity that Geoffrey Humphries and Holly live at the top of a lot of stairs; on the other hand, that may be why they kindly invited me to go back and stay with them some time. If ever I do go back, I shall cer- tainly take some sunglasses with me, although I dislike wearing them. The light in Venice was blindingly white and bright and it may suit painters but I was bedazzled all day as the sunshine bounced off the water. I saw very few gondolas and what I did see of them struck me as extremely uncomfortable, not a vehicle in which to try to persuade a lady to play mouse to your cat. I don't know if anyone has ever written a Rough Guide to Venice, but if they do, they should warn the reader to take about £100 a day — and that would be for staying in a fairly ordinary hotel. Perhaps it is appropri- ate that one should spend money like water in Venice. It would also be a good idea if travel writers in upmarket newspapers were obliged to mention what facilities, if any, there are for the disabled in the places they write about. I guessed Venice would be dif- ficult, but it is nigh impossible. There must be such people as disabled Venetians. I wonder where they go. Down the drain?
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