In a ruling that has sent shockwaves through the international community and caused a noticeable spike in the sale of portable water filters, the Italian Supreme Court has decreed that hotels may lawfully refuse to provide guests with tap water. Yes, you read that correctly. In the land of aqueducts, fountains, and the very birthplace of the public water supply, the highest legal authority has decided that the simple act of asking for a glass of the wet stuff is now an act of economic terrorism against the hospitality industry.
Let us savour the sheer, magnificent absurdity. A tourist, parched after a day of marvelling at the Colosseum or being pickpocketed near the Trevi Fountain, stumbles into their hotel lobby. They approach the front desk, their throat a dry husk, and utter the fateful words: 'May I have a glass of water?' The concierge, powered by this juridical thunderbolt, fixes them with a steely gaze and intones: 'That will be €8.50, signore. Still or sparkling?' The tourist, confused and now also broke, must choose between financial ruin and the slow, dusty death of a man in a suit on a Roman holiday.
The court, in their infinite wisdom, has argued that hotels are not public utilities. They are businesses. Water, that most basic of human needs, is now a commodity like any other. Why, one might ask, should a hotel be expected to provide free tap water when they could instead flog you a miniature bottle of San Pellegrino for the price of a small car? It's about respecting the free market, you see. The market for hydration. The market for not dying of dehydration on holiday.
This ruling, of course, is a beautiful metaphor for everything that is wrong with the modern world. We have monetised air. We have privatised rain. And now, we have outsourced thirst to the highest bidder. What next? Will Starbucks start charging for the oxygen in their coffee shops? Will the National Health Service introduce a 'breathing fee'? The mind boggles and the throat closes up in protest.
One can only imagine the scene in the courtroom. The judges, presumably, are hydrated. They sit there, in their flowing robes, sipping from crystal goblets of chilled, purified, legally-sanctioned tap water, as they deliver their verdict. 'We find,' they intone, 'that the thirst of tourists is a minor inconvenience. Let them buy water. Let them weep. Let them learn the value of a good, overpriced bottle of Acqua Panna.'
The only silver lining is that this decision is so monumentally stupid that it will surely be overturned. Or perhaps not. Perhaps this is the beginning of a new era. A glorious, capitalist utopia where every request, no matter how basic, comes with a price tag. 'Would you like a pillow? That's €5.' 'May I have a map of the city? €12.' 'I need to use the toilet. That'll be €20, and we'll need to see your credit card first.'
In the meantime, I have a suggestion for the intrepid traveller. Pack a reusable bottle. Fill it with tap water from the airport. Hoard it like a precious gem. Guard it with your life. And when the concierge refuses you, look them in the eye, take a long, deliberate swig from your bottle, and whisper: 'Grazie, but I've already paid my dues to the aqueduct.' Then walk away, a free man, hydrated and righteous.
The only thing more ridiculous than this ruling is the fact that we are expected to accept it. But for now, the law is the law. And the law says: you may be thirsty, but you will not be thirsty for free. Not in Italy. Not anymore. So raise a glass of tap water, if you can find one, and toast to the end of civilisation as we know it. It's been a good run, but the vending machines have won.
