The rain has been hot on our heels since the 100-degree days and narrow streets of Florence. I feel like I'm in my room when I was 12, except everything is in Flemish, I'm in a Belgian suburb, and I've acquired a nappy growth on my face. After the fantasy city of Venice, camping out in Austria, and most recently tearing through Germany drunk and shower less, It's nice to find some hospitality here with Verle and Danny, friends of Derek's Mom, and their son Tom, 11. I'm sitting in Tom's room now, hunched into a desk with 800g of goulash, and about a kilo and a half of granola next to my left foot. My last pair of pants finally made it out of my pack and onto my body. I feel clean, but I didn't feel that dirty before. Being welcomed into this home makes me feel like someone being taken out off the street. The amount of thank you's out of my mouth have been smothering, most likely making Verle uncomfortable. My beard itches. This unexpected stay in Belgium will be nice, no doubt, but I'm not throwing away my cereal anytime soon.
As for the recap, from Florence we headed northeast to Venice, a tourist magnet for over 200 years. We arrived via a reserved train that we knowingly didn't pay for (due to some absurd charge just for the reservation) but hit a streak of luck sitting with an American group that had reserved 8 seats for 6 people (two had left the country, unimpressed). We were marveling at our luck when caught sight of the city. Four massive white cruise ships stood out boldly against the sea, crowding the docks, unleashing massive amounts of tourists to cog the narrow arteries of Venice from 9-5p.
The hostel was a good ways outside of Venice, equipped with an ice tray, bunk beds, and a complimentary breakfast consisting of chocolate snacks. I bought a can of peas and a can of corn from the supermarket across the street for under a euro. This was a stark contrast in price to what we paid at the famous Harry's bar later that evening.
When we had dropped of our packs at the hostel and caught a bus to the city. I didn't know much about Venice, except that boats took the place of cars, and they wore, or used to wear silly masks to scare off the plague or something. When I actually saw boat-buses, crew traffic, and endless bridges I thought I was in a fairy tale. Another shocking sight was the amount of fanny packs and Bermuda shorts. Double that of Cinque Terra, easily.
It wasn't until later that evening when the cruisers had all retired for the night, and a light drizzle shooed away the rest, that we got the streets to ourselves. It was then that a mysterious air fell over us. The natural, relaxed state of the city seemed to unveil itself, as if it felt it had a moment to unwind. I still can't quite put words to this feeling, but it was certainly different that night. Traipsing through the haphazard streets and bridges we occasionally asking locals (in our non-existent Italian) for direction to a place called Harry's Bar. Half an hour later we were standing outside one of Ernest Hemmingway's famed drinking dens. The place where Hemmingway (according to the Swedish playboys in Cap D'ail, who tuned us into the bar) invented the Bloody Mary, along with the house original Belini (peach juice and champagne). Expecting the bar to be somewhat of a hole in the wall, I was surprised to see such a nicely dressed crowd. I'd be willing to bet the surprise on the other end was greater though, as they all cocked their heads at the pair of filthy, damp teenagers who had obviously stumbled in by mistake. Just past the threshold I made eye contact with a waiter, who quickly looked me up and down and moved toward Derek, informing him that shorts were not permitted, and asked us both to leave. We probably saved him from inventing some other pretext for getting us the hell out.
Stepping out of the bar we found the streets glistening in a soft mist, and the sky overcast. Walking slowly down the glimmering street I turned and gave Derek an empty scowl. A glint caught my eye, though, and drew my eye toward the gold plating of an old church at the far end of San Marco square. It shone not bright, but dull and strong against the sky. It reminded me of Paris. Taking a seat under a stone awning, I moved my eyes from the church to Derek's shorts, which I knew didn't help matters, so I fixed my eyes on the mass amount of pigeons in the square crawling all over people. After a brief silence Derek said something about finding a pair of pants before everything closed. My eyes had gone out of focus but I drew them back, and we were off. It was a mad dash, now through a steady rain, finding only high-end designer stores. Somewhere along the way Derek made a crack about thrifty britches, and suddenly I was in an uncontrollable laugh, slipping along the street out of breath. When I regained myself Derek had found a toned down designer store with pants around 30 euros. I lost my composure again when Derek came out of the dressing room with a pair of trendy white see-through pants. 32 Euros later Derek's carrying his shorts in a bag form the store, wearing his now soaking white pants.
We made it into Harry's Bar without further incident, and managed to find an empty table, then unfortunately a glance at the menu. 15 euros for a Belini. 15 Euros for a Bloody Mary. Even though I knew I only had a damp 5-euro note in my pocket I stuck my hand down in to feel it, hoping it had multiplied. Derek didn't have any money either. When the waiter came back to take our order I stuttered an American Express query as casually as my voice would allow. After receiving a nod I slid back into my chair, feigning modesty, but with genuine relief.
When our tiny drinks came we toasted to Ernest Hemmingway, thrifty britches, and the playboy duo in France for the tip. I was happy that we hadn't given up. The drinks were great, and we sipped them slowly in order to buy as much time as we could in this bar where we clearly didn't belong. When we finally sucked the last bit from our drinks we paid the hunk of flesh, and walked out without so much as a nod from anyone. Lying in bed that night I couldn't help but think how our room for the night was cheaper than the two drinks we had.
In the morning we rode to Villach, Austria.
1 comment:
Great job, Max! Keep it up.
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