From Africa To Russia

Take my shower in the morning, air-dry on the walk back. Take the boat into Venice again, walk around a bit, see the Arsenal (a military building of some sort, I believe naval – there are fellows in white caps and outfits milling about) and the public garden. It is hot and I am tired. I was going to head across to the other island to go to the beach but I don’t think I’ll make it. I stop for lunch, and with the cost I just about give up on the idea of saving money on this trip, at least in Venice. The beverages in particular, any ingestible liquid is three euros minimum (and usually a lot higher). I order a beer and a wine anyway. A group of three from New York sit down at the table next to me, a nice bunch, we chat for a while. It is nice just to talk with someone for a while who is not looking at you like you are a turd. One of the women is from the town next to mine where I live in New Jersey, small world. I ask the guy how his trip is going. “I’m sick of churches,” he says. Head on back to the boat, after having dallied too long at lunch and having to jog it in to make it in time. Take a nap, lounge around, no World Cup at three on the TV, sad for me. The Italian chapter, and thus the southern leg of the journey is drawing to a close, soon to head north. At night I go over and watch France tie Switzerland, and hang out with Luis, Manfred from Germany, Toby from Poland, an English guy and an Australian originally from Macedonia. Truly an international cast.

Wake up, catch the boat to Venice, ticket is twenty euros for three days, unlimited trips. Families take pictures on the ferry, every little child has his own digital camera. We disembark. Venice is wonderful, it is all canals and alleyways, it is like time travel back three hundred years. But what is best is that there are no cars, just people ambling around on foot. Saint this, Saint that, the Catholics certainly were prolific. Churches, monuments, basilicas, soupy green water, canal-side palaces, shops, cafes, and of course the obligatory hordes of tourists with their cameras and tour guides. I see St. Mark’s square (where the pigeons almost outnumber the tourists) and Rialto bridge, then wander over to the train station to pick up my ticket for the next leg of the journey (where a nervy Italian tries to muscle his way in on the line – I stand my ground and decline him). Venice is a maze of narrow alleyways and squares, and without the helpful signs pointing you in a general direction would be a nightmare to navigate. I am walking around at one point, I pass by a restaurant in front of which a little man in a mustache is standing. “Prego, no servizo,” he says to me without any prompting, spotting an obvious tourist. A well-dressed Italian couple is following me. “Bonjourno,” he says with open arms, trying to draw them in to eat. I guess you just have to laugh. The irony is that without tourists, a place like Venice would be a third world island – that’s all they have, an endless succession of jewelry stores, trinket hawkers, cafes, clothes stores etc. I see a sign for World Cup and since I am tired I go in. Australia is playing and the place is full of Aussies in their early twenties on a tour, getting drunk and whooping it up. I chat with a Mexican girl and a girl from Chicago, both also on the tour, as well as a wacky kid from Los Angeles named Matt, who has multiple earrings and crazy hair and sweat bands on his arms, who is going to be an actor some day and talks exactly like Quentin Tarantino. The girl from Chicago is going to be a television producer. “It’s who ya know,” she tells me. I’ll bet. The whole world has gone completely mad. Where are the house builders, the pipe layers. I outlast the tour children, who go off for a pre-planned gondola ride, and get silly drunk watching the US lose to Czechoslavakia. I don’t really give much of a shit about soccer, but I find myself strangely upset at the result. I want the Americans to beat these pompous Europeans at their own game. When I go to pay the bill, the treacherous little cunts try to charge me for an extra beer (which are a full 14 euros a piece, extra large size). I call them on it and they relent. After, I wander back to the boat, traverse in blinding dying sunlight, find my cabin and collapse.

Take the train to Venice via Bologna. A hot Italian broad in the seat next to me, tossing and turning and talking to herself, vaguely agitated. Another guy reading a book and talking to himself, teaching himself Chinese. A Chinese ... [Continue reading this entry]

I wake up at 8, less than refreshed. Get up, take a walk around on Michaelangelo, find out that the road actually makes a full circle back, which saves me some backtracking. Back down and into the city, I ... [Continue reading this entry]

I walk down a hill on a cobblestone street in the morning and across a bridge into Florence. It is an old city, steeped in history. The buildings look ancient and stylish. There are the expected hordes of tourists hungry ... [Continue reading this entry]

Needless to say I get no sleep and arise, tired as usual at 8 am. Go down to reception, the door and window are closed, there is a sign on the window, "went out to eat, will return". I wait ... [Continue reading this entry]

In the morning, jump on the train to Milan, chat with a couple of Scottish lads down on holiday. Big soccer (futbol) fans, as everyone in Europe seems to be. Later on the train I chat with two pleasant Dutch ... [Continue reading this entry]

The next morning, we grab some food at another sidewalk cafe. The waiter will not even look at us, we are beneath him. Jean-Francois and Isabel tell me that the people in Nice refuse to speak French with them, even ... [Continue reading this entry]

In the morning, back on the metro to see Vieux Port. Marseille is a port city, working class, a bit dirty and rough around the edges, but not really as bad as say, Detroit or Newark or something. Along ... [Continue reading this entry]

In the morning the alarm goes off early, I almost kill myself getting out of the top bunk and shut it off. Stumble blearily to the station, catch the train to Marseille. It transfers in Montpelier, a little place in ... [Continue reading this entry]