I Qs

Gazing out of my London window on a rainy day, it strikes me like a brick: the only thing harder than organizing a milestone birthday, is organising the follow-up. While a 30th is all about celebrating the reigning reveller, 30-plus-1 is focussed on forgetting the fact you’ve handed your crown to fresher-faced milestoners. I have a flash of inspiration – what better distraction than a weekend in Venice? After all, it is on Mrs Smith’s short-list of dream destinations and I can impress her with secrets gleaned from my previous visits to this watery city.
 
A few weeks later and we’re in the Piazzale Roma, main gateway to the archipelago. Thanks to boarding the incorrect vaporetto, instead of gliding past the intended stunning scenery on the Grand Canale we're chugging along the Canale della Giudecca. It’s rather like entering Venice through the trademen’s entrance. Mrs Smith is not impressed. 
 
From ferry to terra firme, and I manage to win back some Venetian street (or should that be canal?) cred by swiftly navigating the maze of alleys to I Qs. Calling the property discreet would be an understatement – I Qs doesn't give any indication it’s a hotel. If you've managed to find your way to its iron gate, across the private bridge and through the heavy wooden doors, then you’ve definitely earned a place at the inn.
 
Dark-toned walls, drapes and furniture, and a very low-slung bed – our boudoir sets the mood for the weekend’s mischief. We’ve been treated to room number 4, a huge suite with an abundance of windows (even the walk-in closet has one). Every pane faces one of two intersecting canals that the hotel sits on, both of them blessed with the sounds of gondoliers singingly plying their trade throughout the day. Although for Venetians this is possibly the equivalent of a double-decker route pass your house.
 
Soon enough though we’re off to explore the city, winding through laneways that always seem crowded, only because they were never intended for more than two at a time. By 6pm we are at a no-name canalside bar where I’m briefing Mrs Smith on the joys of Italy’s dinner drinking ritual, the aperitivo. (My two-part lecture will conclude with the digestivo after a helping of seafood pasta later that evening.) Before heading back to I Qs we make our grand entrance into Piazza San Marco in all its nighttime glory. Mrs Smith is smitten and I am humbled – this calls for a round of grappa.
 
The banging headaches we wake up to the next morning come compliments of our digestivo antics. Luckily fresh espresso and breakfast is served in the room at I Qs. Between shopping, sightseeing, a dodgy concert and the best squid ink risotto in a 100-kilometre radius, day two of our Venetian escapade seems to glide right by.
 
The night, however, is just starting and I have the evening planned to perfection… At 11pm we’ll stroll down the backstreets finding our way to Venice’s landmark casino where I am to flex my betting prowess while Mrs Smith sips cocktails by my side. Once I’ve made enough money to pay for the trip three times over we’ll be whisked away 007 style on a luxury water taxi that will drop us off at the hotel’s private boat entrance where I’ll sweep Mrs Smith (tiddly by now) into my arms and lead her into our Venetian palazzo...

If you're imagining the sound of 'O Sole Mio' playing softly in the background, here comes the part where the needle scratches across the record... Plans don’t go quite as I’d envisioned. Mrs Smith is wearing heels and most of the Venetian alleyways are cobblestoned, which means that by the time we make it to the casino she’s in agony and I’m anxious about missing out on the action. The casino’s security system produces a much younger-looking picture of me (with a moustache – remnants of a prior visit) resulting in a further delay at check-in. The UK banks block my Italian cash withdrawals, and less than 45 minutes after I’ve finally negotiated some seed money from the ATM I am wiped clean by the house. At the €5 black jack table. By an 18-year-old card dealer. A 3am walk home awaits us.
 
Anyone who has walked through Venice in the wee small hours can attest to the silver lining in this story. If you want to have the city to yourself and catch a glimpse of the days of the Doges, then you should retrace our steps. No tourists, no noise, no souvenir shops, no loud restaurants or gondoliers… just the sound of your feet on the cobblestones, the night sky reflecting on the water and the soft lapping of the canals. That walk home was one of the best experiences of our lives.
 
On the last day I take Mrs Smith by the hand; crossing the Accademia Bridge we are soon strolling along the banks of the Giudecca Canal (the same one we entered the city on, but with a very different mindset). Around us Venice is carrying on its daily grind: some boys are fishing, parents are parading their infants, the sun is beaming in the sky and the crisp early autumn air is generous enough to let you get away with just a long sleeve shirt.
 
Eventually we pull up to Marcello’s waterside restaurant, where the menu is printed in Italian, the waiter happens to be the owner and every patron looks like an extra from a Fellini film. I grab a table next to the water and order a bottle of prosecco. As we are enjoying our last indulgent meal of the trip I turn to Mrs Smith and say, ‘What are the odds that I’ll be in the planning committee for your 32nd?’ She replies, ‘You do have a curious way of impressing a girl, Mr Smith... but I wouldn’t have it any other way.’