Page 23 of The Slug Crystal

"Is it always this packed?" I ask, narrowly avoiding a collision with a man selling carnival masks from a tray strapped to his neck.

"Only during festivals," Marco replies, his scholarly demeanor somehow unruffled despite the chaos. "This is the Festival of the Gondoliers. It is a local celebration that lasts about a week. The gondoliers compete in races and demonstrations of skill. It's quite a spectacle."

I've never heard of the festival, but it seems to have drawn half of Italy into these narrow waterways. I clutch Alex's terrarium tighter to my chest as our group steps onto the crowded stone embankment. I’m wondering how we'll ever find one woman in this floating circus .

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, while Ben 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 buildings rise 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."

I glance down at his feet and grimace in sympathy at his waterlogged shoes.

The rich aroma of fried calamari and sweet wine drifts down from a bridge above us, where vendors have set up small carts to serve the festival-goers. My stomach growls, reminding me we haven't eaten since the plane.

"We should stop soon," I say, accepting the terrarium from Jake and lowering it carefully back to my lap. "For food, and to figure out our next steps."

Marco points ahead. "There's a small dock just beyond that bridge. We can disembark there and find somewhere to eat."

Our gondolier steers us toward the indicated spot, but the crowded waterway makes precision difficult. As we bump against the wooden dock, the gondola shifts unexpectedly. Luca jumps out first, landing lightly on the weathered planks.

"Hand me the snail," he says, reaching back.

I pass Alex's terrarium to Luca, then accept Ben's steadying hand as I step from the rocking boat onto solid ground, with Ben following right after me. But as Jake and Marco try to follow, another gondola slides in beside ours, forcing our gondolier to push off prematurely.

"We'll meet you at the dock ahead!" Marco calls as their gondola drifts back into the canal traffic.

Just like that, our group is split. Luca, Ben, and I on the dock with Alex, while Jake and Marco float away, quickly swallowed by the festival crowd and the fading light of evening.

Wednesday, 1:53PM. "We've lost Ben too," I mutter, scanning the crowd that flows around us like water around stones.

The festival has transformed Venice into a labyrinth of noise and color, every narrow street packed with revelers, every corner offering a new path to get lost down.

I hold Alex's terrarium close, grateful that at least I haven't lost him in this chaos.

Luca stands beside me, his height giving him a better vantage point as he searches for any sign of the others.

"This way," he says finally, placing a hand lightly at the small of my back to guide me through a gap in the crowd.

"There's a bridge up ahead where we can get a better view. "

I follow him, threading through pockets of tourists and locals until we emerge onto a narrow stone archway that curves over a quiet side canal.

It's a relief to step away from the press of bodies, to find a space where I can breathe without someone's elbow in my ribs.

The bridge is slick with a light layer of water, the stone worn smooth by centuries of footsteps.

Lanterns strung between buildings cast buttery light across the water below, their reflections stretching and compressing with each gentle ripple.

A few couples linger on the bridge, speaking in low voices, their silhouettes merging in the half-light of the shaded sun.

The distant sounds of the festival, echoes of laughter, music, and shouting, blend with the closer notes of an accordion playing somewhere down an alleyway, the melody sweet and melancholy.

"Do you think we'll find them?" I ask, leaning against the stone railing. The cool dampness seeps through my shirt, but it feels good after the sticky heat of the crowd.