Aman Venice

‘So, how long have you been together?’, the words no son ever wants to hear when standing next to his mother. ‘Er, she's my mum, and I'm taking her to Venice for her 70th birthday.’ I quick-fire back at the Foreign Exchange teller with machine-gun rapidity, in a vain attempt to quash further embarrassment – after all, there’s a bored queue behind us, within hearing range. ‘Oh, sorry sir.’ the teller clumsily digs himself in deeper, ‘I mean, it's arguably the most romantic city on the planet, so I just assumed you must be a couple’.

My mum is in hysterics, loving the moment a little bit too much. She’s not going to let that one slide in a hurry; it’s just a matter of time before all my friends hear the story, via ‘mother’s grapevine’: still the most effective social-media network on the planet for circulating gossip.

My mum is unfortunately sans Mr Smith, so I thought a trip to Venice would be a lovely, thoughtful treat; she’s never been before, and I believe that everyone should see la Serenissima at least once in their lifetime. Of course, I’m expected to pull out all the stops: no Vaporettos, only private Riva boat water-taxis; but it’s all worth it – as we enter arguably the most beautiful city in the world, on arguably the world’s most beautiful boat, Mum beams so brightly she’s practically incandescent. This is a repeat visit for me, but Venice is even more spectacular than memory serves; although my opinion may be a little swayed by our imminent check-in at Venice's most talked-about stay, the – George Clooney-approved – Aman Venice.

On arrival, we’re left flabbergasted by the hotel’s grandeur – it overtakes my lofty expectations, like a motorboat going at a wholly unsafe speed through the Adriatic. We’re given a classic Aman welcome: a swift check-in actioned by highly polished staff. If I wasn’t allegedly courting my mother, I would definitely be feeling Don Clooney-esque by now. The palazzo the hotel’s housed in was built in the 16th century; untold millions must have been invested in bringing the building back to its former glory (although ‘glory’ barely begins to cover it) – it’s all terribly impressive, God bless the Renaissance. 

Even if the hotel was packed to the rafters – it sleeps 50, tops – a ballroom, library and numerous lounges to retire to ensure guests are only likely to cross paths in the lobby. This is luxury on another level. Communal rooms inspire a litany of superlatives (opulent, ornate, decadent, bling et al): the fireplaces are enormous, the pianos grand, the built-in bookcases look like the sort of thing Casanova might have organised in Dewey Decimal style in his later life. Aman have rubber-stamped the place with their signature elegance, evident in pristine white and taupe chairs, sofas and chaise-longues. My mother has never been anywhere quite like this, and the closest comparison she can conjure up is the one family trip we didn’t spend in Cornwall, at the – slightly less regal – Sheraton near Walt Disney World. I swear she’s welling up a bit; it’s lovely to see her so thrilled. 

Now, please allow me to gush about my room, the Alcova Tiepolo Suite; but, if my hotel-loving wife – who I’ve left at home – asks, tell her I said it was like ‘one of the nicer Best Westerns’. I’ll have to play down its lavish good looks when I call her, but Mrs Smith is out of earshot now, so let’s talk tall windows, fanciful marble fireplaces and angelic frescoes by Giovanni Battista, unfurling from the kind of complex cornicing the Italian nobility did oh-so well. The suite is simply breathtaking, and the astonishing detail throughout brings the words ‘cathedral-like’ to mind. My bed is enormous, and the changing area has space enough to unpack a wardrobe fit for several months – if only we were staying so long. The bathroom, tucked behind a lovingly hand-painted, ‘secret’ wooden door, would have elicited banshee-like yelps of excitement from Mrs Smith – but seriously, keep this on the DL.

After a couple of drinks and too many plump olives in the adjacent manicured garden, which overlooks the Grand Canal, we head out sightseeing. We see all the big ones, of course: St Mark’s Square, the Doge’s Palace and the Bridge of Sighs; but we enjoy the Peggy Guggenheim Collection the most and wandering through the charming Dorsoduro neighbourhood. Here we stumble on wonderful shops selling the famed Murano glass and Carnival masks, and have a few prosecco pit stops at cantinas we find along the way.

The next day we visit Murano to see one of the many glass-blowing factories; a word of warning – resistance is futile: each tour ends in a shop that looks the way I imagine Ivana Trump’s reception is decorated. There are some beautiful
pieces amid a lorry-load of kitsch, and – as long as you’re buying – glasses of champagne are handed out with abandon, which mum clearly appreciates. It’s all good fun, and after steering mum sharply out of the showroom, where price tags rise to heart-stopping highs, the gift-shop furnishes us with all the Venetian souvenirs needed for the family back home.

It’s true that Venetian food is nowhere near as good as the rest of Italy, the only negative in a trip filled with positives, but I highly recommend Ristorante Da Ivo, (1809 Calle dei Fuseri, www.ristorantedaivo.it), just off St Mark’s Square, where stopped for lunch. Small, intimate and – judging by the celebrity photos hung on the wall (like so many good old-school restaurateurs do) – a trusted favourite, and the pasta is excellent if a little overpriced; but hey, it’s Venice. 

Mum then, of course, wants to ride on a Gondola. I break out in a cold sweat as I flash back to that dreadful incident at the Foreign Exchange – what if, by some dreadful fluke, the teller happens to walk past and see us cosied up in an Italian love boat; I could take my chances in the canal. Through slightly gritted teeth, I say yes – if a singing man in a striped vest punting us through the water on his gondola is what my Mum wants, then that's what she gets. We pootle off in a procession of gaudy, pointy boats; it’s a little touristy, but our gondolier is very knowledgeable, regaling us with the provenance of each beautiful building, including Casanova’s former flat. As our gondola moors, I breath a sigh of relief – the tour was blissfully un-Oedipal. 

Dinner at the hotel is excellent, but the dining room lacks a lively trattoria buzz; it’s probably better suited to an intimate dinner with your loved one rather than your mother. We both get the giggles as we wonder who our fellow diners are; among vaguely famous-looking sorts (is that Clooney?), there are some pairs even more oddly suited than Mum and I.

Sadly, our stint in the Floating City soon comes to an end. The following day we ride our last water taxi back to the airport – how I'll miss having a boat. Venice really did delight, and the Aman is the most beautiful base from which to explore all her charms. While it may be unusual for a 45-year-old son to take his 70-year-old mum away (well, a certain teller seems to think so), next time we’ll go somewhere where an odd pairing is embraced rather than questioned – for her 75th, I’m thinking Berlin.