I don't think I fully understand what I'm peddling here. I don’t even know if I endorse it. No. No—don't get me wrong. I have a very precise idea of what the gondola ride is like. And I enjoy it very much. Like, a whole lot. I just sometimes don't know what your idea of what the gondola ride is like. And sometimes those two ideas get embarrassed by each other. As if one opened the door while the other one was going to the bathroom. (Who in the bathroom door situation is supposed to be more weirded out? Who?!!).
There is a complex psychology to the intentions of gondola-romanceers. I can spot you from 80 miles away, Mr. "Gonna get laid tonight cause I'm taking my girl OUTT." But what are you thinking? I mean, don't you know there's going to be another dude on the boat? And don't you know he knows you're thinking about getting laid? No idea what these guys are thinking. The artifice is all there--cue the red Christmas lights, and "When the moon hits your eye." I know an excellent Italian restaurant in the Lower East Side. For whatever masochistic reasons, I probably enjoy these gondola rides the most. At least after they're done.
I really do enjoy the rides where the girl takes the guy along. For his birthday, or whatever excuse she has. I like getting lost imagining the extents of her private romance. Does she expect it to inspire a heart in him? Expect him to be bathed in an Italian splendor after riding in this water chariot, dragging behind it some kind of kicking ghost Hector? Little does she realize that the ghost Hector is the one pushing their boat. Meanwhile, I keep my heart to the invisible wall behind her seat cushion. I suppose this is an even weirder instance to have another dude on the boat.
Then there are the cruises I don’t even know are supposed to be romantic. I had a cruise with two women once, where I dropped into part of the shtick (another theme to be touched on) that I usually reserved for bachelorette parties, families and friends riding together. I say "I know this isn't necessarily a romantic gondola ride, but I have some Italian Love songs for you..." It was automatic at this point. Just said it, without thinking. How was I supposed to know!? I thought one of the ladies hit on me at the dock. I was confused. The response went something like this: "How do you know it's not a romantic gondola ride?" I followed with several "Oh... ums," reconsiderations, and many apologies. I had to stop myself before my mistake became anemic. Everything was smoothed out—the ladies were way cool about it. I explained the drag of the shtick, and I tried my best not to screw up on my singing that ride.
The impulse cruise. I tell the people riding that these are my favorite cruises. You are people I just picked up from the dock! You decided to go along for a wild and spontaneous gesture of romance! A lot of the time, they are my favorites; I am not just telling them that. I picked up a couple that had just been engaged, who lost their reservation at the restaurant and were about to leave. They seemed very nice, and I felt bad and took them out. The guy kept yelling to people on the shore, "I'm not high; I'm crying. Something beautiful just happened!" It was the kind of situation where a gondola ride would have been in the mix for months. But this was the perfect combination of special occasion mixed with last-second decisionry. Impulse cruises are wonderful. But then again, impulse cruises can bring about belligerent Wall Street goons. Their tips consist of Goldman on margin, and maybe a couple of drink straws for a bonus. No one is happy, save trickle-down economists.
Then there’s the irony cruise. There a lot of overlap between the impulse cruise and the irony cruise. I enjoy these. I get them. This gondola, as a gesture, is told in bombastic language. We're riding a pleasure cruise; we are drawing attention to ourselves and we’re going to eat it up; we’ll wear our hearts on our sleeves like an oversized shield for our more-precious real-hearts. Seeing as how I spend half my time dropping subtle hints to passengers that I understand how ridiculous my job is, you’d think I’d get along with people who tapped into the ridiculous. I used to. Until one irony cruise.
It was with a French couple. And you’ll have to excuse me in the future for tagging passengers by nationality, sexual orientation, highway exit in New Jersey—these kinds of things make for unfortunately convenient mnemonics. But in this particular case, their Frenchness played a key role. I picked them up at the dock; it was a late cruise, and everything was dark—especially their clothing (again: they are French). They had champagne, and seemed like they had been drinking for a good bit beforehand. She carried herself elegantly, sliding on to the boat in two ladylike strides. And he was kind of nerdy, short, and choked a bit on the step. I was mesmerized by her. But then again, attraction instincts often draw you to the wrong person. (Heterosexuality does too.) Pushing off the dock, I wasn’t quite sure what was going on at first. But it became clear after a couple of leans to the oar that this was a first date. His idea. And regardless of the intention behind the cruise, the woman started to override his gesture.
“Listen, we’re not taking this seriously. It’s a big joke to us,” she said to me with high nasal. She had a perfect American accent—had been in New York for seven years. “We are very French, and very cynical, so this is absurd to us.” I agreed (half my job is agreeing with things I half believe in), and started to play along. “No, I completely understand. I like pushing the boat around, but I’d never take a date on one,” said I. This was a lie. My high school prom date can definitely testify.
She continued, “I mean, look at us with this champagne! This is so cheesy.” Our nerdy friend next to her started to shrink away, and stopped contributing to the conversation. She went on, not paying him any attention, “I mean, you must just go home at night and laugh and laugh. You have to have a good sense of humor to have this job. How did you even get this?” Alright, lady. This boat is small enough that there are only a few lines to cross, and I think you hit all of them.
I forgot how easy it is to be better than something. You can spend a whole life like this French woman, observing everything from above. But a life in a helicopter is invariably spent in a tiny box away from everything else. I’m certainly not better than what I do, or what I have to offer. Who am I to prescribe irony to the people on my boat? This gondola is the shit. This is my livelihood she’s attacking. How dare she insult the gondola! It is a ferry of romance. We have a lake to ourselves in the center of the biggest city in the world! It is night time. You can’t even hear cars. I don’t care if the boat beats romance into you with a heavy stick. It’s something that you’re experiencing, and what you’re experiencing is nothing to be taken for granted.
I guess I spent too much time worrying about what the gondola means as a gesture. Too much time lamenting the universal romantic significance it accrued over the 1,000 years of its tradition. I ignore that the gondola’s placement in Central Park sets it apart. Because each ride is the opposite of a universal experience. It’s completely personal, and entirely variable. Contrary to what the French lady thought, that gondola ride wasn’t a floating irony. It was exactly what it was, and what it had unfortunately become: an awkward first date, doubled over in a vomiting self-consciousness. I let them off the boat—she glided off in her two graceful steps, and he nearly tripped—and I secretly hoped that I would see this guy again. With another woman who appreciated his gesture. And I wouldn’t even mind if he was spent the entire gondola ride thinking about getting laid.
Ain't she swell? We circled around by the fountain, waiting for the bridal party to show up. Meanwhile, Beth kept telling me stories about different marriages over which she officiated. (We both occupy different ends of a vertical monopoly on love; me at the proposal end, she at the marriage.) She told me that she once did a wedding on The Lake before. There were rain clouds threatening the entire time, and nothing came down until the very second the bride said 'I do.'
