Interrailing 2013, Part 7: The Time Italy Completely Destroyed My Bank Account (Venice/Verona)

Part 1 (Brussels/Amsterdam), Part 2 (Berlin), Part 3 (Prague), Part 4 (Krakow), Part 5 (Budapest), Part 6 (Vienna), Part 8 (Munich/Salzburg)

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 18th September: Café Bazar, Salzburg, 11:15am

Since my last update, I have run out of money, been to a beach (at last!) and caught hypothermia. Ok, the last one is a slight exaggeration, but barely – since coming north from Venice to Munich and Salzburg, it has become bitterly cold. Not to mention it is currently raining on a scale that suggests a Biblical flood is nigh, and those treasuring their lives should find an acquaintance with an ark.

Not a sight you usually see when leaving your hostel.

Not a sight you usually see when leaving your hostel.

As ever with foreign trips lasting over a week, the closer we get to going home, the keener I am to get back. Living out of a backpack with 4 outfits on rotation is not a lifestyle I could lead for much longer. I long for a room to myself, solitude, my laptop, my lovely gerbil, my wardrobe and being able to ask for tap water in restaurants without causing offence. I especially long for being able to go a day without spending any money; Venice cleaned us out.
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The trip to Venice started well; we slept well on the night train, in a compartment we shared with a group of very friendly middle-aged Argentinians. Their English was very limited, and our Spanish virtually non-existent, so we communicated in single words and, when that failed, gestures – but even if we didn’t always understand them, we enjoyed their rowdy, excitable chatter. There’s something so aurally cheerful about the Spanish language. (Emily bumped into them again when wandering round Venice, and they greeted her with typical enthusiasm.)

Waterbus petrol station.

Waterbus petrol station.

But it was about to get worse. After trapesing the streets, churches and ferrybuses of Venice for 6 hours to fill the pre-check in time, we arrived at the hostel and I tried to pay my 60 Euro bill for the two nights… only to find my travel credit card rejected. Perhaps not a surprise – I had a rough estimate in my head of having around 100 Euros, but the mess of different currencies on the trip had ruined any plans for budgeting. It’s hard to keep track when you’re constantly trying to convert currencies in your head, especially when their conversion rates vary so wildly.

The face of someone who has slept on a night train and now must fill 6 hours of pre-check-in time. And is also broke.

The face of someone who has slept on a night train and now must fill 6 hours of pre-check-in time. And is also broke.

So I gave the woman at the desk 20 Euros and tried 40 on the card. When it was rejected again, I was taken aback. Less than 40 euros?? Christ. Time to borrow 20 off Emily, and try 20 on the card, before ringing home to get my finances supplemented….

Venezian mask/costume shop.

Venezian mask/costume shop.

Rejected again. SHIT. The woman on the desk glared at me as I flapped helplessly, completely unable to comprehend where all the money had gone, regretting the £18 bar crawls in Prague (especially the one that ended prematurely) and the overpriced Cream Coolers in Starbucks, before Emily nudged me aside to pay on my behalf while I frantically texted home and waited for reinforcements to my bank card. So this is what it’s like to have a card rejected, I thought.

Rialto Bridge.

Rialto Bridge.

It took a long and aggressive kerfuffle on the phone between father and bank to get more money on the card (we’d been misinformed when buying it – turns out you’re not allowed to get a third party to top it up), but it was eventually successful, while my search for notes in my bag was fruitful as I discovered a trove of 60 euros in one of the ‘safe’ pockets in my bag. 150 euros on my card, and 20 in my wallet, should have kept me going quite steadily on the fiscal front.

Overpriced but good for photo ops gondola ride.

Overpriced but good for photo ops gondola ride.

That is, until I reneged on my “let’s not go on a gondola, I can’t afford it” pledge the next day when Emily pleaded with me to go with her. Ah, the joys of tourist traps – the privilege of telling people I’ve done something entirely clichéd was worth 1 Euro per minute each. It was alright, but the cost made me feel pressured to enjoy it, which nullified what would otherwise have been a fairly relaxing experience. Now I’m down to my last 30 Euros (again), I have to say that I regret splashing out on it.
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We’d been to the museum in St Mark’s Basilica on the Sunday after arriving, while a service was occurring downstairs; the sound of the congregation singing had really added to the experience. Everywhere else, however, was ludicrously expensive and suffocated with tourists, so we went to the island of Lido in order to pay a visit to Santa Maria Elizabetta beach, the only one in Venice. After initial reluctance, I unbuttoned the bottom of my dress, tied it up like a sarong and went paddling up to my knees. Emily went for a proper swim and, while getting changed afterwards, accidentally flashed a granny, who judging by her grin enjoyed the view.

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We then got to the serious and mature business of drawing things in the sand with our toes. Having already paid tribute to DP on the night train with a biro-drawn heart tattoo encircling his name on my arm, we drew a heart in the sand and dedicated it to him. Emily wrote her name, while I strived for originality and artistic skill, opting to draw a sandy penis outline. (Some things never change.) We then moved on to writing ‘Interrail’ (Emily) and ‘952’ (me, in honour of my Countdown glory); on having the latter photographed, I thought it would be hilarious to spontaneously throw my dress up and give the camera a cheeky glimpse of my bikini bottoms. The granny who’d admired Emily’s errant cleavage grinned again at the sight of my swimwear-clad pudenda. At last, some sexual attention on this trip!

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Decamping to a restaurant soon after, I satisfied my craving for calzone on one the size of a very tall, thin baby. Although it hasn’t wiped out the memory of how glorious Zizzi’s calzones are back home, it was extremely nice. We planned to spend the evening on the canal, drinking wine. Yet it was not to be; the goodwill from both the calzone and a hysterical laughing fit on the ferrybus back to the hostel (caused by Emily taking a picture of me pulling the single most horrific face known to man) was ravaged by the fact we’d slightly overlooked the need for a corkscrew and had to slope off to bed early.

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The gondola expenses wouldn’t have totally unbalanced my bank account had it not been for us being royally fucked by the Italian train ticketing system the next day. It turns out that, for the privilege of SITTING ON AN ITALIAN TRAIN, we had to pay a surcharge for the first time (night trains aside). 7 euros for a 5-hour train from Verona (our stop-off point) to Munich was reasonable, but 18 euros for a 1-hour train from Venice to Verona?! Fuck RIGHT off.* [*NB: You can tell that the whole money issue has made me quite grumpy.]

Pizza breakfast!

Pizza breakfast!

Verona was fairly pretty, but the postcards were terribly tacky; covered in gaudy love hearts and single-minded in their quest to promote the city’s legacy as the setting of Romeo and Juliet. We eventually found ‘Juliet’s house’ with its balcony, statue of Juliet and trails of ivy growing up the walls. It was nearly as busy as St Mark’s Square in this little courtyard, stuffed with people queuing to have a picture of themselves groping Juliet’s metal tit and grinning lecherously. We decided to forgo this classy and mature tradition and instead have pizza for breakfast instead – “When in Verona”, etc. It was all going so smoothly until a mysterious 4 euro charge for ‘coperto’ appeared on the bill. Fearing we’d been charged 4 euros for the breadsticks we hadn’t asked for or eaten, we asked the waiter who’d ignored us for ages what it meant. Shouting “Coperto, coperto!” and looking exceptionally moody, he gestured at the small print in the menu declaring a 2-euro service charge per person. If Italians could charge you money to breathe their air, they would do.

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