City Expectation Reversal # 1

So Rome is everything I thought New York would be and vice versa. Rome is the dirty, intimidating, frightening city, with filth and graffiti in the streets, dodgy looking characters, and mysterious dead bodies outside the Termini. Frightening, but broken up with extremely beautiful architecture. Meanwhile New York was the safe, fun, beautiful place, that seemed like some kind of magic.

Venice Part 3 – Matt's life becomes a bizarre, surrealist drama

So having seen pretty much all there is to see in Venice in about 2 hours, I had to figure out things to do that weren’t going to kill the budget. This can be challenging in a city like this, totally geared towards the tourist industry. It’s crazy the variation in prices you see. I’ve been going pretty well so far though.

So a couple of American girls showed up and I took them around, being the tour guide. I got a real kick out of it, because it was only a day ago that I was hopeless, lost, depressed and wet-socked. Now I was the master, weaving through the streets, teaching them what to look out for, and how to navigate. Taught them a few Italian words. Took them to the Piazza and took more photos there, because the weather was a million times more beautiful. We walked for hours, just hanging out.

During the walk I thought a lot about Australian-American relations. I just don’t feel like I can fit in with Americans. I don't really know why, but I really struggle. It's not like it's hard to find things in common, but I just feel like somehow I don't belong. I don't know, maybe I'm nuts.
I thought that one of the girls, Kimberly was particularly good-looking, so I was thinking a lot about her but I soon stopped that. I think I've finally given resigned myself to solidarity. Even if it wasn't for my impossible situation as a tourist, I don't think I fit in anywhere anyway.

We returned to the hostel and the girls went somewhere on their own for awhile. I drank a 2 euro bottle of wine and made a sandwich from the groceries I had to re-buy thanks to mystery food-stealing jerk. The Canadian girls from the night before showed up. Their food had been stolen too so we related. We hung out for a bit and made plans for a piss-up that night. They left to get wine. I was drunk already (it was maybe 5 o’clock) so I figured I’d better make the trek to the supermarket to resupply the wine cabinet.

On the way I decided to get my first gelato. Now I’ve heard so many people sing the praises of gelato that I assumed it would be overrated. After all, I’m the kind of guy who finds that mostly, things taste the same wherever you are. Oh boy was I wrong. I don’t use the words ‘food orgasm’ often, but wow. Wow. I don’t even know what else to tell you. I’m going back for more tonight. I need to experience it sober so I can describe it better.

Anyway I got stocked up, came back, fucked around for a while waiting for everyone to show up. Soon the party was going. The French Canadians, the Norwegians, me, the Turk, the Americans. All was going well. Drinks all round. We decided to go to a “bar” around the corner so the Norwegians could watch the soccer. There really are no bars in Venice. Don’t expect a nightlife if you ever come here.

Anyway we made all kinds of new friends. Some French, some English, some Spanish. Facebook exchanges all round. I can’ speak for everyone, but I’d say we pretty drunk. At some point things got weird, but I didn’t realize this, or fully comprehend it until the next day. You see, at some point, a masked and costumed Venetian was incorporated into the group. He had a bottle of Champagne that he wanted to share with everyone. It was his 50th birthday and he needed friends. Join the party!

So I’m talking to this guy, not at all finding it weird to have a mysterious masked man with us. He wouldn’t take it off. Looking at him, I got the impression he might have been horribly scarred beneath it all. It never occurred to me that he could be trying to rob us or anthing. Anyway, I spoke to him at length. He told me he was from Geneva and he had just decided to do something different for his birthday, so he came to Venice, got a costume and a mask and played a Venetian for tips in the street. We laughed uproariously at the idea of the tourists paying an authentic non-Italian. We drank some more.

So all sorts of things were going on. More drinks, more friends, more fun. At some point, the masked man says to me, whispers in my ear: “she is very beautiful”, nodding in the direction of Kim, the American. I wholeheartedly agree with him, and then he starts telling me that I have ‘the power’ and that I should ‘take her’. I laughed and asked him why he thought that. He said, “Look at you! You are the Casanova, I can see.” I was in hysterics.

I said, what about that guy? (She was talking to Espen, one of the Norwegians). The masked man laughed. “No, look at him. He has no chance. You. You are the beautiful one. Just take her.” I was losing it. I can’t remember if I started telling anyone else about the conversation. I do recall somebody saying that Kim had a boyfriend. The masked man said, “It doesn’t matter. You have the power. Just make her laugh and you will have her. That’s all you have to do. Just make them laugh. Always works."
"That easy, eh?" I laughed. "Why don’t you do it?"
"No," he said. "I am 50 today. My time is passed. Now it’s your time."

Absolutely nuts. And I didn’t even think it was weird until the next day. I ended up going back to the room and having a good laugh about the conversation with Kim, who it turns out doesn’t really have a boyfriend.

I had some strange dreams that night.

Venice Part 2 - Matt gains confidence from language

But once again, everything can change in an instant. At the hostel my keen ears picked up Australian accents in a nearby room, so I marched in and introduced myself. Four young Melbournians, exactly what I needed at the time. They really helped me out. They showed me the ropes of Venice, taught me how to get to the supermarket, the train station and told me what they knew of the places to avoid, flood wise. Most importantly they were company that I could relate to. They were good fun, and best of all I should be seeing them again in Rome. They’re at the same hostel as me for the same amount of time. Awesome.

They were uni students and were on a budget that might even be tighter than mine, so it was hilarious and cool to hang out with them. We went to Billa, the supermarket, for cheap wine. It’s a funny thing to be in a place like Venice. The most basic meal you can find is going to cost you between 15 and 20 Aus dollars, but you can get a bottle of wine for as cheap as two Australian dollars. Madness. We polished off god knows how much wine from the region, reds and whites. We made friends with a whole bunch of people from the hostel, French Canadians, Norwegians, a Turk and a Japanese guy. Hostel parties are the greatest, especially when you’re united by the fact that you’re staying in a dive.

Now let’s talk about language for a little while. You see I have a problem. Whenever I first arrive in a country I’m typically starving, exhausted and hung-over, and my brain isn’t at it’s sharpest. I usually try to practice basic language stuff on the trains and prepare myself as best I can but I almost always get a bad case of the blanks, and I often feel so overwhelmed that I might not even try (see Amsterdam and even Germany to an extent.)

Coming into Italy though, I thought: “Surely this time I’m gonna get it.” But for whatever reason, I just couldn’t bring myself to try. I know all the basics like the back of my hand, but each time I would go to buy some food I would chicken out. “What the fuck is wrong with me?” I thought. I tried harder to get my nerve up but I just couldn’t.

Here’s where it gets interesting. Now some of you might know that I’ve been thinking a lot about getting into performance of some sort when I get home. Maybe acting, maybe stand-up comedy, I don’t know yet. Now, I had been feeling like crap being too nervous to attempt to speak Italian, and then me and the Melbournians went to a restaurant. I was the last person to order, and of the four, 3 just flat out went English, and one made a slight attempt in Italian. When it came to me, I seemingly effortlessly ordered in Italian, impressing every one else, and possibly shaming them as well. I also went to the supermarket for more wine with the two guys, and got through that fine as well. I find it really interesting that if you put me in front of some random people I suddenly have more confidence.

Anyway, from that point on I’ve been flying. I’m ordering all my food in Italian. I reserved my place on the train to Rome largely in Italian (only switching to English to double check that I hadn’t booked the wrong time or day) I’m teaching people in the hostel some basic words and expressions. I even have a little bit of nerve. Today I had lunch in Padova, and after a brief moment of confusion when I came in, the waiter brought me the English menu, so I turned the tables on him and ordered it in Italian. I guess it isn’t really all that impressive to be able to figure out that sandwich = panini, that mushrooms = funghi, and stuff like that, but at the time I felt like a pretty cool cat.

All that being said, I wouldn’t at all say I know what I’m doing. I still have all kinds of embarrassing moments. And, you guessed it, people keep approaching me thinking I’m Italian. I must have the ultimate chameleon appearance. Every country I go people think I look like I’m from there. Here’s an interesting fact though. Most English speakers that I’ve met tell me that when they try to speak another language to somebody, that every time they just get spoken back to in English. This has NEVER happened to me. Not once. Not even in Paris. The only time it turns to English is when I have to ask them because I don’t understand what they’ve said to me. I think that’s pretty weird. I can’t imagine that I’m even half decent at speaking other languages. Maybe they just appreciate the effort.

So after the shaky start, now I’m loving Italy. The weather’s been beautiful, and since that first day I haven’t seen any flooding. I finally feel okay about speaking to people, and it makes everything a million times easier. I’m loving just strolling through fruit markets and bakeries. I’m really looking forward to Rome tomorrow. Padova today was really awesome. It must be such a great place to live. Friendly people, lots of young students. Good vibes. Hilarious graffiti on the streets. Beautiful. It really gave me an idea of just how much of a rip-off Venice is, and it should all be becoming cheaper from here on. Excitement building… Nothing is going to bring me down now. Even the fact that somebody stole my 6 Euros worth of bread, cheese and salami that was going to be my breakfast wasn’t going to bring me down.

Venice Part 1 - Matt gets wet feet

After the best time of the trip so far in Munich, I hit the rails and prepared for the 6ish hour journey to Venice totally physically destroyed, more alcohol in my blood than platelets. I didn’t expect to be able to sleep on the train, so I wasn’t disappointed. Truth is I didn’t want to sleep. I just couldn’t get enough of the view, crossing through the mountains. It was incredible, the kind of beauty that makes you just ache. It’s too perfect. Makes you think you might have died.

I did nothing but stare out the windows the whole way through Germany, Austria and into Italy. At one point a little cynicism crept in and I thought to myself, gee I really thought the Alps would be a lot bigger than this. About a minute later the train rounded a bend and then I was looking at a mountain that had a layer of clouds less than halfway up the thing. I was blown away. Then I saw a mountain that was higher than two layers of cloud. Unbelievable.

So I was in fairly good spirits as I left Germany. Along the way though, I started to get into my usual nervous / intimidated mood. It seems each new country brings me down a peg because I’ve just gotten used to one language and culture, and suddenly the music starts playing and I have to get off the chair again. And who knows if I’ll get a chair the next time the music stops?

Things weren’t helped by the speed with which the staff on the train spoke at me. Italian or English, they were spitting out words as fast as . So I got to Venice in darkness, a hung-over, hungry mess, and it’s always when I’m in this state that I feel really intimidated by the world around me. Following my directions to the hostel, I took the water bus to San Polo, costing me some 6.5 Euro (if you have bags they massively charge you) and was so pissed off when I discovered days later how easy it would have been to walk. I also got screwed another 2 Euro buying a map, which in Venice is about as useful as car.

So I got to the hostel and discovered it was the biggest dive imaginable. Despite being a Bed and Breakfast I was told I couldn’t have breakfast because I’m in a dorm room. Right. The shower alternates between trying to shrink my testes to the size of peas and trying to scald my skin off, and boy is it filthy. The shower curtain is less a fabric and more of a fish-print mould tapestry. I took some photos of this so that I can show them to Grazia later and teach her a thing or two about travelling.

So I hit the hay for an early start. I woke up to fairly miserable weather and no breakfast. I wandered around looking for somewhere cheap to eat and was bemused at how many of the Italian restaurants are run by Asians. The food is pretty amazing though. No more bullshit fast food for me. Though still not as good as Nonna’s, (Jimmy if you’re reading this, that’s Nonna, not Nando’s.)

So I went off to check out the Piazza St Marco and take in the tourist sights. As I walked I noticed the water was lapping over into the streets in some places and thought that was pretty cool. I got to the square to find it totally submerged. Huh. That’s awkward. Now all the wooden boardwalks that had got in my way on the way to the hostel on the first night made sense. So I took some snaps and was getting too hungry to think so I left to finally get a breakfast. I turned back the way I had come to find the streets flooded. This wasn’t good.

The Venetians in their gumboots were out in force. Some of those gumboots are total thigh-highs that go right up to your arse. Nuts, but essential it would seem. I was starting to panic. Trying to find an alternate route was useless. So many dead-ends, so many flooded streets. A mad, senseless, labyrinthine city. It shouldn’t be habitable. What will they do in a few years when it all crumbles? Already there’s leaning, crooked towers and buildings. Maybe they could put the whole place on giant stilts. That’d be cool. Or maybe do an under-the-sea type of thing.

So I was trapped, hungry and frustrated. All the places around the Piazza are way more expensive and anyway I just wanted to go home, so I had to do it, I had to wade through the water. I managed it on tippy toes. Thank God I didn’t throw out my boots yet, or I’d have been a goner. As I’m crossing a particularly deep part, the liquid finally penetrating my socks, a gum-booted, crotchety old Italian man walks past, splashing me, and mocking me in Italian. Great. I already had a nemesis.

And I do mean this. I have encountered this guy again. I was taking a photo of a statue, a typical thing that everybody does, and he starts walking past. I was waiting for him to walk out of my shot and as he passed me he muttered something quite loudly in Italian. What an arsehole.
Anyway, I made it back to the hostel, got some pizza and then returned to the hostel to mope around. I was starting to hate Italy already. Great.