[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
The transition from the deep sleep to the waking world happened with a shift in cabin pressure and the soft chiming of the intercom above our heads.
I slowly opened my eyes. The cabin of our First Class suite was still dim, the artificial starlight embedded in the ceiling glowing softly.
But the real warmth was pressed entirely against my right side.
Wanda had cocooned herself against me during the night. Her leg was thrown over mine, her face buried into the crook of my neck, her breathing a slow rhythm against my collarbone. The lavender scented duvet was pulled all the way up to our shoulders.
I lay there, listening to the low hum of the jet engines, feeling the vibrations through the mattress.
"Good morning, passengers," the captain's voice filtered through the speakers. "We are beginning our initial descent into Marco Polo International Airport. The local time in Venice is 8:15 AM and the weather is a clear sixty five degrees. Flight attendants, please prepare the cabin for arrival."
Wanda stirred against me. A protesting groan vibrated against my skin.
"Five more minutes," she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep, her arm tightening around my torso as if she could physically hold the airplane in the sky just to keep us in this bed.
"I would gladly bribe the pilot to circle the airport for another hour," I whispered, turning my head to press a kiss into her messy auburn hair. "But I think the Italian air traffic controllers might have an issue with that. And besides, we have a city built on water waiting for us."
She let out a long sigh, finally tilting her head back to look at me. Her green eyes were heavy lidded, blinking against the ambient light. A soft smile touched her lips.
"We are really in Italy?" she asked, her voice filled with a childlike wonder.
"We are hovering slightly above Italy," I corrected, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair from her cheek. "But yes. We made it."
There was a gentle knock on the sliding wooden doors of our suite.
"Dr. Spencer? Miss Maximoff?" Thomas's muffled voice called out. "I apologize for the intrusion, but I must ask you to return your seats to the upright position for landing. May I enter to assist with the bedding?"
"Give us one minute, Thomas!" I called back.
I looked down at Wanda. "Up we go, Lemon Queen. Time to rejoin the vertical world."
We reluctantly untangled ourselves from the warm sheets.
Wanda slipped her sneakers back on, smoothing out the wrinkles in her cream sweater.
I stood up, stretching my back and pressed the button on the wall panel. The heavy wooden doors slid open.
Thomas entered with a professional smile, swiftly stripping the memory foam mattress and commanding the motorized seats to fold back into two massive leather armchairs.
I sat down in my seat, buckling the heavy metal clasp of the seatbelt across my lap.
Wanda did the same, pressing her face against the mechanized window as I raised the blinds.
Golden morning sunlight flooded the cabin.
"Look," I said, leaning over the center console to point out her window.
Below us, the world was a breathtaking canvas of deep blue water and terracotta roofed islands.
The Venetian lagoon glittered like shattered glass under the morning sun. Tiny white wakes trailed behind boats navigating the waterways, cutting through the azure expanse.
Wanda pressed her hands against the glass, her breath fogging the pane slightly. "It looks like a painting. It does not look real."
"Wait until we get on the ground," I promised.
The landing was a masterpiece of aviation. The heavy thrust reversers roared to life, pushing us forward into our restraints as the wheels touched down on the tarmac with a solid jolt.
We taxied to the gate, the excitement buzzing in the small space between us.
Stepping off the plane, we bypassed the massive crowds, utilizing the priority lanes. The airport smelled of strong espresso and polished linoleum. We walked hand in hand down the wide corridors toward passport control.
"Aryan," Wanda said, glancing at the long lines forming at the immigration booths. She squeezed my fingers, looking up at me with a sudden frown of concern. "I just realized... do we not need a visa? I did not fill out any paperwork. They are going to stop us."
I laughed, pulling her into the expedited line for international arrivals.
"We don't need a visa," I assured her, handing her the small blue booklet of her passport. "US citizens have a ninety day visa free entry into the Schengen Zone. We are tourists, here to stimulate their economy with gelato purchases. We just need a stamp."
"Are you certain?" she asked, looking at the stern faced Italian border officer ahead of us.
"I am certain," I said, stepping up to the yellow line. "Though, if you want to get technical, there's some new bureaucratic nightmare coming up soon called ETIAS. The European Union is getting tired of us just waltzing in, so they are implementing a new rule where every US citizen will have to apply online and pay a fee just to prove we aren't international spies."
"A fee to prove we are not spies?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Exactly," I grinned. "It's brilliant extortion. 'Pay us seven Euros or we assume you're James Bond.' Good thing we sneaked in before the paperwork got heavy."
We approached the booth together. The officer barely glanced at us, stamping the pages with a loud thwack and waved us through.
"See?" I whispered as we walked toward the baggage claim. "Piece of cake."
We grabbed the two incredibly heavy suitcases off the carousel… my shoulders protesting the weight once again… and headed toward the rental car pavilions.
"Wait," Wanda said, stopping in the middle of the terminal, her hands on her hips. "You are renting a car?"
"I am," I said, walking up to the sleek counter of the luxury rental agency.
"Aryan, Venice is an island," she pointed out, looking at me as if I had lost my medical degree. "There are no roads. It is a city of canals. You cannot drive a car on the water."
"I am well aware of the geographical layout of the Veneto region, my love," I said smoothly, handing my black card to the agent behind the desk. "We are picking up a self driving Audi sedan."
She crossed her arms, waiting for the punchline.
"We take the Audi," I explained, accepting the keys from the agent with a polite nod, "and we drive across the Ponte della Libertà… the bridge of Liberty. It connects the mainland to the edge of Venice. We park the car in an obscenely expensive parking garage at Piazzale Roma for the duration of our stay."
"If we are parking it immediately, why rent it at all?" she asked, thoroughly perplexed. "Why not just take a taxi from the airport?"
I leaned in, kissing the tip of her nose. "Because taking a private water taxi from the airport is chaotic and driving across the causeway with the windows down, looking at the city rise out of the ocean, is cinematic. And second, because if we decide we want to drive to Tuscany next week, we have wheels. Flexibility is the ultimate luxury."
"You are quite informed," she teased, taking the handle of her suitcase and following me out into the bright Italian sunshine.
"Of course I am," I replied, opening the trunk of the polished black Audi waiting in the VIP lane. I hoisted the bags inside, letting out a groan of exertion. "To give the absolute best tour to my Queen, I have extensively educated myself on local transit laws. I am basically a Venetian gondolier at this point. Just without the striped shirt. Though I could pull one off."
"You could pull anything off," she laughed, sliding into the passenger seat.
I got behind the wheel. The car was smelling of expensive leather.
I connected my phone to the dashboard, finding an Italian radio station that was playing upbeat pop music.
"Alright," I said, putting the car in drive.
We drove across the long bridge. The water sparkled on both sides of the highway, the floating city of Venice growing larger and more magnificent with every passing mile. Domes, bell towers and terracotta roofs rose from the sea like a mirage.
We reached Piazzale Roma, navigating the winding concrete ramps of the parking garage until we found a secure spot.
Leaving the car behind, we dragged our luggage down to the water's edge. I hailed a sleek mahogany water taxi.
"Hotel Danieli," I told the driver, handing him a fifty euro note.
The wooden boat roared to life, cutting through the blue green water of the Grand Canal.
Wanda stood at the back of the boat, the wind whipping her auburn hair around her face, her eyes wide as she took in the crumbling palaces lining the waterway.
I stood right beside her, wrapping my arms around her waist from behind to keep her steady against the rocking of the waves.
"It is beautiful," she breathed, leaning her head back against my shoulder.
"It's sinking," I joked, kissing her temple. "But yes, it is very beautiful while it lasts."